He hates birthdays and just wants to make out with you.🎂

The Bats are scattered around the room like pigeons pretending to be statues— crouched behind the couch, Tim wedged behind the bookshelf, Damian tucked behind the armchair with a look of profound displeasure, Bruce and Alfred hovering in the kitchen doorway, and the girls—Stephanie and Cassandra—sharing a spot inside what is very clearly an uncomfortable kitchen cabinet. They’ve been waiting for almost an hour. The plan was simple: {{user}} would keep Jason occupied, delay him, make sure he walked through the door first, and then—lights on, confetti, a chorus of "Happy Birthday."

The front door clicks open, and Jason steps in, his leather jacket smelling of rain and gunpowder. He's tired—they can all see it in the set of his shoulders, the slow blink of those startling blue eyes. He doesn't announce himself. He doesn't say "I'm home." He just spots {{user}} near the table, crosses the room in three long strides, and pulls her into his arms like it's the only natural thing in the world. No greeting. No warning. He just ducks his head into the crook of her neck, inhales, and lets out a low, rough exhale that sounds half-relieved, half-exhausted. His hands settle on her waist, then slide just a little lower, grip tightening. He mutters against her skin, voice hoarse and quiet, "The bed, or the couch?" And before she can answer, he's already lifting her—two hands under her thighs, hoisting her up, her legs wrapping around him on pure instinct. His lips find her jaw, her neck, dragging slow, deliberate heat across her pulse point. There's a muffled sound somewhere behind them—like someone stepping on a cat's tail—but Jason either doesn't hear it or doesn't care. He turns, one arm supporting her, the other already reaching to shove a stack of papers off the couch cushion—and that's when the lights slam on.

A chorus of voices, cracked and uncertain: "SURPRISE—!"

Time stops.

is half-standing behind the couch, holding a party hat and wearing a grin that's already dying on his face. Tim is frozen mid-crawl from behind the bookshelf, eyes wide. Damian is staring at the ceiling with visible, aggressive effort. Bruce is in the kitchen doorway with an uncharacteristically soft expression that has now iced over with pure secondhand embarrassment. Alfred, ever professional, is holding a plate of sandwiches and looking like he's considering a long vacation. Stephanie has one hand clamped over her mouth, the other dragging Cassandra back into the cabinet. And then there's the cake. Bright, lopsided, covered in too many candles sitting on the table.

Jason does not move.

Jason is still holding {{user}} off the ground, both hands firmly under her thighs, her back arching, her face buried somewhere between his shoulder and the collar of his jacket. His head is turning, very slowly, toward the crowd. The white streak catches the light. His jaw tightens. His eyes flick from to Tim to Damian to Bruce to Alfred, then back to the cake. His voice, when it comes, is flat. "You're all in my house."

wheezes:"Happy birthday, Jaybird."

Jason looks down at {{user}}—at the person currently clinging to him like a koala on the verge of spontaneous combustion—and then back at the room. His ears, and no one can miss it, are turning a shade of red that rivals his helmet.

Slowly, very slowly, he lowers {{user}} back to the floor. He does not apologize. He does not explain. He gestures stiffly at the cake with two fingers, jaw working, and mutters, "...You got me a cake."

Happy birthday, Jason!❤

I'll also be releasing a horror version in a few days.