#chapter 35

She could hear the dull thump of him flipping a cushion over and resettling. Y/N shook her head and capped the pen before turning, leaning her hip against the counter to get a better look at him. 

He was sprawled on the couch, hoodie slightly askew, curls crushed on one side from a nap he definitely took while she was in the shower. He was watching her lazily now, like she was some interesting artwork he still hadn’t decided the interpretation of yet.

He raised a brow at her, unbothered. “I’ve been busy.”

“Uh-huh.” She jotted something else down. “With my fridge.”

“Your fridge is elite. It feeds me. It listens when I talk. It’s never judgmental.”

“It’s empty,” she replied, dry. “Because you keep eating all my stuff!”

“That’s on you, really. For buyin’ food that tastes good.”

Even though he couldn’t see her, she rolled her eyes on principle. “So, again. Anything you want?”

He yawned, blinking the leftover sleep from his eyes. She tried not to stare at them too long.

“Don’t fuss, I’ll live,” he waved her off.

She looked at him over the top of her list, unimpressed. “Look, either you tell me what you want, or you come with me and pick it out yourself.”

That certainly got his attention. He blinked, propping himself a bit more upright against the back of the couch.

“You want me to come… grocery shoppin’?”

“No, I want you to stay here and text me cryptic things like ‘grab snacks’ and then complain when I don’t buy the right ones.”

He grined. “Hey, that was one time.”

“Three times,” she insisted. “And I still don’t know how you made that much of a fuss over cheerios. Cheerios!”

“They were sad circles,” he muttered.

“You’re a sad circle.”

He smirked. She narrowed her eyes, thinking.

“Fine. Come with me then. Pick out your own stupid cereal. Or snacks. Or whatever it is you pretend you don’t want and then steal from my cabinet.”

She expected some sarcastic brush-off, or a mumbled excuse about being busy. Instead, he stretched his arms above his head and yawned theatrically.

“Alright. I’ll come.”

That made her pause. She glanced up from the list, surprised to find him already looking at her. “Wait, really?”

“You said I could come.”

“Like, for grocery shopping.”

“Isn’t that what you just said?”

“Yeah, but you’re agreeing. Without protest. That’s usually grounds for suspicion.”

He shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal. “Now why would I deprive you of my wonderful company, hm, sweetheart?”

She makes a face and flips her notepad shut. “And look at that, he’s humble too.”

“I know! I’m the total package, really.”

“Oh, you’re something, alright.” She’s trying not to smile, but it sneaks through anyway. “Also you have to wear proper sneakers. Those fancy dress shoes of yours won’t save you from slipping in the produce aisle.”

“Oh?” He grinned, finishing the last of his morning tea before he got up to put his shoes on. “That sounds a bit specific. You gonna tell me the story behind that, or will I have to force it out of you?”

“It was a tactical slide,” she mumbled quietly, already defensive. “I was testing the floor.”

“You fell, didn’t you?”

 “...Into a stack of lemons.”

“Well, now we know they bruise easily,” he laughed, watching her cheeks turn pink.

She shook her head, turning away before he could see the way her expression softens. He was coming with her. Maybe that didn’t mean anything. 

Or maybe it meant enough.

The sliding glass doors of the grocery store swooshed open, and Lando hesitated on the threshold like he’d stepped into another country.. He stuck close to her side, trying to act casual, but his eyes flicked around like a tourist in a new city.

She, on the other hand, pulled her trolley with practiced ease. It was a little squeaky, but she simply kicked the wheel, and it was suddenly good as new. She started to throw a few basics into the cart — butter, milk, bread — before she had to turn back when she noticed that Liam was still frozen like a deer in headlights.

“...This is it?” he asked.

She looked over, eyebrow raised. “What were you expecting? A red carpet? Spotlights?”

He blinked up at the fluorescent lighting. “I don’t know. I guess I thought grocery stores had, like… more drama.”

“What does that even mean?”

“Dunno. Thought there’d be a big wheel of cheese or something. That’s what I imagined as a kid. This place is kind of underwhelming.”

“That’s because it’s a supermarket, not a Bond film.”

Still, she couldn’t help the grin pulling at her mouth as he trailed after her, pushing the cart with more focus than strictly necessary, eyes darting across shelves like he was trying to figure out the logic of it all.

“Why are the carrots all in bags?” 

Liam squinted at the wall of orange like it was a code he was supposed to crack, before he made a disgusted face. “And why are some of them hairy?”

“They’re not hairy,” she said, amused, nudging the cart forward. “They’ve just got roots. It means they’re fresh.”

“Right,” he says dubiously, poking at one with his index finger like it might bite him. “That seems fake.”

She furrowed her brows, shooting him a worried expression. “What, you think carrots come waxed and perfectly orange from the ground?”

“I wouldn’t know,” he says honestly, and she glanced at him, more curious than judgmental.

She watched as he trailed behind the cart, gaze drifting over shelves like it’s a museum, eyes snagging on price tags and multipack deals like he’s never seen a grocery store before. He doesn’t reach for anything himself, just keeps pace with her, occasionally making faces at the labels.

Idiot.

He looked so serious standing next to the pasta.

“There are… so many kinds.”

She tries her best to hold back a laugh, but with limited success. He just looked so adorably lost.

Liam picked up a bag of rigatoni, turned it over like it might give him directions.

“What do you even do with these? They look like pipes.”

“Cook them, Li. Like a normal human person.”

He put it back, unimpressed. “Too much work.”

She rolled her eyes, already grabbing a box of fettuccine and tossing it into the cart.

They kept moving, and he noticed things. 

Little things.

The way she’d linger at one shelf and then trade whatever she picked for the store brand. Or how she’d turn something over in her hand — cookie butter, frozen berries, good Greek yogurt — look at the price, and then gently set it back down without another glance.

She never said anything about it. Just… kept walking, focused and practical.

But whenever he picked something — sugary cereal, overpriced fruit, dumb snacks that just looked fun—she never said a word about those, never even glanced twice at them let alone put it back. 

Sometimes she teased his tastes, sure – “That’s not trail mix, that’s a cry for help.” But she never once made him switch his things out for something cheaper.

It sat weird in his chest. He wasn’t sure why.

They were halfway through the produce aisle when he nudged her shoulder.

“Hey.”

“Hm?”

“You didn’t grab that yoghurt you like.”

She blinked, then shrugged. “Maybe next week. Not this time.”

“What? Why not?”

She snorted. “Because I like paying rent.”

He opened his mouth to argue but she’d already turned to inspect a bunch of bananas. She looked over her shoulder and saw the furrow in his brow.

“Relax. I’m not dying, Liam. I’m just budgeting.”

Beside her, he went quiet for a moment, contemplative.

“You’ve really never done this, have you?” she asked softly, halfway down the spice aisle.

“I mean, I’ve been inside a grocery store,” he defended. “Just not… this part. Not with a list. Or a trolley. Or… the intent to budget.”

“Yeah, I noticed,” she said, smiling faintly as she placed the store-brand cheese in the cart and put the fancy one back on the shelf.

But when she turned, he was still looking at her.

“Do you always do that? Swap stuff out for the cheaper version?”

She hesitated, then shrugged. “Well, when you’ve got six bucks left in your bank account, you do a lot of math in the cereal aisle.”

Lando furrowed his brow.

“That’s... that’s a thing? I mean, does it really matter?”

She shrugged, tossing something else into the cart. “If it’s only a few cents, not so much. But if you’re on a budget, it adds up. It’s the difference between getting snacks for the week or just dinner.”

He paused, watching her. She had the same neutral, measured tone she’d use when she explained the different drinks to a customer at the café — like it was all no big deal, just the reality of things. But to him? It was like he’s seeing behind a curtain he never noticed before.

“Weird,” he muttered, mostly to himself. “Seems exhausting.”

She rolled her eyes, but there's a softness in her smile.

“You get used to it. Don’t tell me you’ve never had to budget for something.”

He gave her a look. “I... no, not really.”

She snorted, amused. “That explains a lot.”

She’d laughed of course, but for once, Lando’s mind wasn’t focused on that. Something flickered across his face — shame, maybe, or perhaps realization. But he didn’t comment on it. At least, not out loud.

Instead, he glanced into the cart again.“So why haven’t you told me to swap my stuff out?”

“You mean like the bougie almond chocolate clusters you added?”

“They’re elite, thank you very much” he said, clutching the bag to his chest in mock offense.

She laughed, shakes her head. “I figured if you're coming, you get to pick what you like. Budgeting is my problem, not yours, Liam.”

It landed heavier than she meant it to, but he didn't call her on it. He just walked a little closer after that, watching her more carefully. He let his arm graze against hers, choosing not to comment when she picked up avocados and then put them back because they were too soft. He noticed her pause at her favorite crisps, and then reach for a cheaper bag instead.

By the time they both reached the checkout, he’d gone noticeably quiet. Not in a moody way, just thoughtful.

She started pulling items from the cart onto the belt, muttering totals under her breath like it’s muscle memory, making sure each item was accounted for. He zoned back in only when she got to the end and started fishing for her wallet.

As the cashier continued to scan, she pulled out her card without hesitation. And Lando, just as casually, reached forward and tapped his before she could blink.

He stepped forward casually, card already out. “I’ve got it.”

She blinked. “No. No, you don’t– Liam– no, seriously–”

“I insisted on the elite chocolate clusters, yeah?” he said breezily. “Consider it my penance.”

“You can’t just pay for my groceries like it’s a takeaway. This stuff’s expensive—”

“Sure I can.” His tone was still light, but there was a hint of something else in it, a bit of quiet determination. “You feed me. Let me feed you back.”

She opened her mouth to argue, but something about the way he said it, like it wasn’t just about food at all – made her stop.

He went ahead and put in the security pin for his black American Express card, the register beeping once in confirmation. She exhaled, torn between touched and annoyed, but mostly just a little soft.

“Liam.”

“Y/N.”

“That wasn’t a competition. I can pay for myself, you know.”

“Wasn’t trying to win. Just figured if I’m gonna live in your fridge, I should at least pay rent.”

“You—” she stared at him, speechless for a moment. “You are so annoying.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I didn’t ask you to—”

“Don’t care.”

She tried to frown but it came out crooked, somehow fond. 

Maybe it was a trick of the light, but he liked having her look at him like that.

And when she looked at Liam, he just looked smug. But quiet, too – he didn’t make a big deal out of it. He didn’t expect some grand thank you or a gold star.

They walked out side by side, her bag slung over one shoulder, his hand casually holding the other.

“Fine,” she muttered. “But you’re still carrying everything up the stairs!”

“Of course. I wouldn’t dare think otherwise. Anything else, princess?

She rolled her eyes as they headed for the exit, but once again she couldn't quite bite back the smile tugging at her lips. She seemed to be doing that a lot lately, she’d noticed – smiling like an idiot over stupid things, things she didn’t remember finding nearly as amusing before.

Lando noticed. There wasn’t much he didn’t notice when it came to her. She laughed, and this time, it was him who turned to look. Just for a moment. Like maybe, just maybe, this whole thing — shopping carts, pasta, her — was a dream that might not feel so far away after all.

“You’re impossible,” she huffed, shoving him playfully with her elbow since her hands were a bit preoccupied.

He looked over at her, his expression softening for a second as he grabbed the receipt.

“Oh, please. You love it.”

She smiled to herself, like a secret just for her

Maybe she did.

She stood at the counter, staring at the ingredients she'd just bought. Dried basil, tomatoes, a bottle of parmesan, and even fresh garlic, which was definitely a step up from the stale garlic powder she’d just finished using last week. A warm, homey feeling settled over her as she inhaled the earthy smell of the herbs. Maybe it was the rain, maybe it was the quiet, but something about it felt tangibly comforting.

The rain had settled into a steady rhythm outside her windows, soft enough to be soothing, loud enough to justify a cozy evening in. Her kitchen, small and usually quiet, felt suddenly full—with the scent of fresh basil and garlic, and the presence of one very unhelpful young man.

“Do not touch that,” she warned, pointing a wooden spoon at him without turning from the stove.

Behind her, Lando froze mid-bite, a suspiciously square cube of cheese caught between his fingers.

“I wasn’t going to.”

“You literally were already doing it.”

“I was testing it. For poison. Very noble of me, really.”

“Right. My hero.”

He popped it in his mouth anyway, shameless, and leaned back against the counter like he belonged there. Like he hadn’t just eaten a chunk of the cheese she needed for the pasta.

She grabbed the cutting board and started mincing garlic, her mind wandering.

"How does pasta sound for dinner?" she muttered, more to herself than anyone else. "It's been a while."

From across the kitchen, Liam poked his head around, looking a bit too much like an excited puppy, just without the wagging tail.

“You makin’ food? I can help.”

She glanced over her shoulder, met with his eager eyes.

“It’s alright, Li. I’ve got it.”

“Nonsense.” He drawled, his voice teasing, but his expression was dead serious. “I am a pro in the kitchen.”

She chuckled, turning back to the garlic on the cutting board. “Right. You’ve cooked before?”

“Uh... well.” He hesitated. “Here n’ there, you know how it is. Probably more than you though.”

She raised an eyebrow, skeptical. “You want to bet?”

He walked over and leaned on the counter, watching her chop, completely ignoring the pan on the stove where the oil was already heating.

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure I could teach you a few things. Like how to avoid burning garlic,” he said, a smug little grin curling at the corner of his lips.

Before she could respond, she heard a faint crinkle, followed by a too-loud sizzle.

“Shit!”

He only laughed, while Y/N quickly scrambled to turn the heat to the lowest setting so that she wouldn’t end up burning dinner before dinner had even started. Once she was able to take a sigh of relief, she pressed a relieved palm to her chest, breathing deeply.

Maybe if he wasn’t so distracting–

Wait.

It was way too quiet.

“Liam!”

When she turned around, he was halfway through a slice of mozzarella cheese, the piece he’d swiped clearly meant for the sauce, his face lighting up with satisfaction.

“What? You said you were cooking. Thought that meant I was in charge of quality control. I’m bein’ helpful, you know.”

“That was for the pasta, dumbass!”

“It’s delicious, though.” He shrugged, utterly unbothered. “No big deal. I’ll just, y’know... fix it.”

She turned back to the stove just in time to smell the garlic before it could start to sizzle too much again. In a panic, she grabbed the pan, shaking it slightly to cool the oil, while Lando watched from the counter.

“You do realize, that was your fault, right? I was just getting into my groove.”

“Your… groove?” He pretended to contemplate for a second before shaking his head, a wide grin splitting across his face. “Sounds fake.

She shot him a look, but he was already back to the counter, grabbing another small lump of cheese.

“You really want to help, don’t you?” She sighed, exasperated but fond.

“Of course I do.” He came over, dropping a few more chunks of cheese into the sauce pot. “S’what I’m doing,” he said, in the same tone someone would say duh.

“You’re helping? That’s news to me.”

He blinked owlishly, with exaggerated innocence. “M’ taste testin’ everythin’, of course.”

Y/N glared at him, but that only made him laugh. “I’m just trying to help. I’m a good guy, remember?”

She rolled her eyes, reaching for a wooden spoon. “Yeah, I remember. You’re a ‘good guy’ who swipes my cheese and tries to burn my food. Useless, you are”

“You wouldn’t even know how good I am unless I helped, though.” His grin was teasing. “I mean, look at this sauce. It’s gonna be perfect, angel.”

She glanced at him just in time to catch him swallowing the last of yet another bit of cheese. She turned back to the stove with a muttered, “Unbelievable.”

I give up.

“You’re welcome.”

“For what? Sabotaging my dinner?”

“Enhancing it. With flair. Personality. Drama.”

“You’re about to enhance the floor with your face if you keep talking.”

“Aww, you flatter me.” He grinned and strolled over, peeking over her shoulder. “What’s this bit?”

“Garlic. I’m sautéing it,” she explained, her eyes flitting to his, the flecks of gold glimmering back at her as something soft and weighty settled over her. Like a nice comforter, she thought. 

“Looks like it’s about to catch fire.”

Shit. How does this keep happening?

“Because you’re distracting me!”

She hissed and quickly turned down the flame, stirring the garlic before it blackened. Lando winced, hands raised in surrender.

“Sorry. Sorry. Very serious chef business. I’ll shut up.”

He did not, in fact, shut up.

He was still talking as she chopped tomatoes, still talking as he offered to stir and then immediately flung sauce onto the backsplash. He was still talking when she asked him to hand her the pasta, and he held it hostage until she agreed to let him pick the playlist for dinner.

But eventually – finally, eventually – she softened. Especially when he leaned a little too close trying to smell the sauce and got tomato on his shirt.

“That’s what you get,” she said, the sternness in her voice not matching the care with which she dabbed his sweater with a damp paper towel.

I’d ruin a thousand expensive sweaters if it meant you’d touch me with such gentleness each time.

“Didn’t even flinch. You’re getting used to me.”

“Or I’m building a resistance, like a virus.”

“Romantic.”

She snorted, giving him a playful shove with her hip.

As she plated the food, the rain picking up in a gentle percussion outside, he watched her with a quiet curiosity. Something softened in his gaze. He noticed, maybe, how methodical she was. How calm. How she hummed without realizing. How this, all of it—dinner, rain, soft light—felt like a life.

Not something he’d ever known, but something he was beginning to desperately want to know more of.

She handed him a dish and flopped into her favorite armchair. He’d told her a thousand times to get rid of that ancient thing, that he’d happily take her to get something better, yet ho couldn’t count on two hands the number of times he’d found her curled up in that same spot, study or scrolling or dozed off unintentionally.

He liked knowing her favorite spot.

“My sister always used to ask for this when it rained,” she said casually, interrupting his thought as she swirled her fork in the pasta. “Said it was ‘good food weather.’”

“She’s right.”

“You didn’t even taste it yet.”

“I meant the vibe. But yeah, probably the food too.”

She laughed softly. The kind of laugh that felt like an exhale. Then:

“When I moved here, I used to cook too much. Like… way too much. Didn’t know how to portion for one person. Used to give the rest to the neighbors or just eat it cold the next day.”

“That’s kind of sad.”

“It was,” she admitted. “But I like cooking. Makes the place feel… alive, I guess. Kinda like a real home, you know?”

Lando took a bite then, chewing thoughtfully. He looked up at her, eyes warm.

I wonder what it’d take for me to give you a real home.

“Well, this one’s perfect. Even with the distinct lack of cheese.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“I mean, it could use a bit more cheese—”

She threw her napkin at him.

The TV flickered in the corner, casting slow, shifting light across the room. Some wildlife documentary murmured in the background—lions in tall grass, a monotone narrator talking about territory and belonging—but neither of them were really listening. They were stretched across the couch, tangled by comfort rather than touch: her legs curled under her, his shoulder tilted back against the cushion, her head resting against his chest.

Lando wasn’t even sure when they’d gotten like this. He just knew he hadn’t wanted to move. Still didn’t.

The room smelled faintly of garlic and basil from earlier. Rain still tapped gently against the windows. It was the kind of night that didn’t need much. Just presence.

She was stretched out across the couch, limbs heavy from the rain and pasta and comfort. He hadn’t meant to stay this long, but the hours had blurred into each other, soft and quiet and safe.

The silence between them wasn’t awkward. It rarely was. If anything, it was the kind of silence that felt rare — like the world forgot about them for a while. Like they could exist in this small pocket of space and not have to explain themselves.

After a long pause, she murmured, barely above a whisper, “Do you ever think this is strange?”

Lando shifted slightly, looking down at the top of her head. Her face was turned slightly toward him, half-lidded eyes catching his. He blinked, slow.

“No. Why?”

“I don’t know,” she said, fingers gently playing with the cuff of his sweatshirt. “Just… do.”

“We’re not strange,” he said, a little too fast. He tilted his head, brows drawn slightly.  “It makes sense.”

She raised an eyebrow, amused. “How do you figure?”

“Dunno. It just–  just does.”

She laughed, her whole body shaking gently against the weight of him. “Thanks, Sherlock.”

He smiled, that lazy crooked kind he did when he wasn’t trying too hard. “I just mean, like… we talk, right? And it, like, works. So, y’know…”

“Gee, just what every girl dreams of hearing,” she teased, poking him.

“I’m serious, though!” he insisted, shifting a little under her. “I tell you loads of things all the time.”

She turned her face into his chest slightly. “No you don’t, dummy. You like being mysterious too much for that.”

“I’m not mysterious,” he protested, offended in that fake way he knew would make her laugh. “I’m, like… normal.”

She laughed then—soft and a little wistful. “I’m not sure anything about us is normal.”

She laughed softly at her own words, but he didn’t laugh with her. He went quiet instead. And when the silence stretched a little too long, she shifted, heart thudding faintly at the idea she’d struck a nerve.

The room went still. The flicker of the TV washed over them in dim pulses. She noticed he hadn’t replied.

She blinked, worried suddenly that she’d struck something too deep. So she pushed herself up a little, reaching instinctively for his shoulder.

“Wait—I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant that—”

“If this isn’t normal…” he interrupted, voice softer, smaller than she’d ever heard it, “…is that bad? I kinda like it like this. Not normal.”

The words landed somewhere deep in her chest.

She paused. Lando didn’t look at her. He was staring straight ahead, as if admitting that was hard. As if he wasn’t used to speaking things that close to the heart out loud.

“I kinda like it like this,” he added, voice quieter still. “Not normal.”

She couldn’t help it. Her heart melted at the honesty of it.

She settled back down beside him, this time a little closer as she exhaled softly, more a thoughtful hum than anything. Her features softened instantly, lips curling into a sleepy smile, her body resting back against him.

“Hmm,” she whispered. “I can do not normal.”

He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. She settled back down against him, head resting lightly on his chest now. His hand moved almost instinctively to her back, warm and slow and steady. 

She dozed off with her arm wrapped around his torso, her hand resting on his ribs.

Still, he stayed awake longer than he meant to, watching the way her face relaxed into sleep. He didn’t move – he couldn’t bring himself to.

A few minutes passed. Maybe more.

And when he was sure she was asleep — eyes fluttered shut, lips parted just barely—he dipped his head just enough to press a gentle kiss to her forehead. Let it linger.

Then, quieter than a prayer:

And then, when he was finally absolutely sure she was asleep – her eyes fluttered shut, lips parted just barely – the room grew quiet and the storm softened outside. Only then did he lean forward, just enough to press the barest, most gentle of kisses to her forehead.

“I’m not a religious person,” he whispered, so low it felt like a prayer, “but sometimes I do think God made you for me.”

She didn’t stir. But his heart did something dangerous in his chest.

He didn’t stop it.

Carvini is remanded into custody by Tuesday morning. The headline runs for less than twelve hours before something louder takes its place. Another scandal. Another body. Another fire.

By Wednesday, the city pretends nothing ever happened.

Jason reads the update on his phone without expression, thumb scrolling like he’s waiting for the screen to contradict itself.

“Remanded doesn’t mean finished,” he mutters.

“No,” you agree. “But it means quiet.”

For now.

Oracle confirms it that night—Moretti’s still low-key, still breathing, still circling the edges of Falcone territory like a shark that hasn’t decided whether to bite or drift.

Jason listens. Asks the right questions. Says thank you.

Then he sets the phone down and stares at nothing.

You don’t push.

You’ve both learned that forcing calm never works.

⸻

It’s three days later when you see it.

Not downtown. Not somewhere dramatic. Just your block—sun-faded brick, cracked sidewalks, the light pole you pass every morning without thinking.

The paper is thin. Cheap.

You almost miss it.

It’s warm for Gotham—one of those false mercies the city gives you after something ugly.

The sidewalk smells like hot concrete and old rain. A bus exhales past you, rattling the light pole as it goes. Somewhere down the block, someone’s radio is playing too loud, tinny bass vibrating through open windows.

You’re already thinking about dinner. About whether Sophia will eat the pasta or just pick at it again.

That’s why you almost don’t see it.

The paper is thinner than it should be. Cheap copy stock, curling slightly at the corners where the tape has started to peel.

You slow without realizing you’ve done it.

HAVE YOU SEEN THIS WOMAN?

The words are printed in bold, slightly off-center. The ink looks over-saturated, like it bled just a little too much into the fibers.

Your stomach drops—not sharply, not like panic.

More like gravity.

The photo is old.

You recognize it anyway. The curve of your jaw before exhaustion settled in permanently. Hair longer, lighter. A version of you that existed before everything narrowed down to survival and schedules and safety plans.

The name underneath isn’t yours.

Close enough to be intentional. Wrong enough to be deniable.

The phone number at the bottom is half torn away, jagged like someone ripped it down without caring how obvious it looked.

You stand there longer than makes sense.

A breeze lifts the corner of the paper, making it whisper against the pole.

You’re not scared.

You’re cataloging.

Who printed it.

Who taped it up.

How long it’s been there.

Why it’s here and not somewhere louder.

Behind you, boots stop.

Jason doesn’t say your name.

He follows your line of sight, and you feel the air change around him—like the temperature just dropped a degree.

He reaches past you, peels the flyer off in one smooth motion. The tape makes a soft tearing sound, too loud in your ears.

He folds it once. Then again. Controlled. Precise.

Pockets it.

“Okay,” he says quietly. “That’s new.”

You swallow.

“It’s not about Sophia,” you say immediately, the words coming out steadier than you feel.

Jason turns to you then—really turns, eyes searching your face for cracks.

“No,” he agrees. “It’s about you.”

The radio down the block crackles into silence.

You realize you’ve been holding your breath.

Oracle confirms it within the hour.

Falcone-adjacent. Low-level. Recon, not a hit.

Someone gathering pieces, not pulling triggers.

Jason listens, jaw tight.

“So they don’t know where she lives,” he says.

“Not yet,” Oracle replies. “And they don’t have the right name. This is… curiosity.”

Jason hates curiosity.

He hangs up and turns to you.

You’re sitting on the couch, knees tucked in, not shaking—not spiraling. Just tired in a way that hits behind the eyes.

“I don’t feel scared like before,” you admit after a moment. “I just… don’t want to be here when curiosity turns into certainty.”

You don’t move right away after that.

You just sit there, knees tucked in, staring at the dark screen of your phone like it might blink first.

Jason watches you recalibrate.

Not panic.

Not freeze.

Just… pivot.

It’s subtle, but he sees it—the way you square your shoulders before unlocking the phone. The way your thumb steadies before you start typing, like you’ve already decided what matters and what doesn’t.

“Jordan first,” you murmur, more to yourself than him.

He pretends not to listen. Fails.

Hey. I’m safe. But something came up and I need to take a few days.

I’ll explain more when I can. Can you cover me?

No drama.

No overexplanation.

Just truth and trust.

You send it without hesitation.

Then Ren.

Please don’t freak out. I’m okay.

I just need space and a little quiet.

Can I borrow some normal when I get back?

Jason swallows.

He’s faced down gunfire without blinking.

This—this calm competence in the middle of fear—hits harder.

You pause, exhale, then open your work email.

Your tone shifts again—professional, contained, unyielding in a way that doesn’t invite negotiation.

You don’t justify.

You don’t apologize.

You ask for leave like it’s a right, not a favor.

Jason realizes, distantly, that this is what trust actually looks like. Not blind. Not naive. Earned. Maintained.

When you finally set the phone down, your shoulders drop a fraction of an inch—like you’ve just finished putting out a fire no one else saw.

“They’ll understand,” he says quietly.

You nod. “Jordan already does.”

Of course she does.

Something inside Jason tilts.

Not fast. Not loud.

Just enough for him to realize he’s already adjusting his footing around you. Already factoring you into decisions he used to make alone. Already imagining a future where this—your steadiness, your boundaries, your quiet strength—is the center he moves around.

You lean back against the couch, eyes closed now—not sleeping. Just letting the noise dim.

“I don’t feel scared like before,” you admit after a moment. “I just… don’t want to be here when curiosity turns into certainty.”

That’s it.

That’s the line.

Jason doesn’t argue.

Because this isn’t fear talking.

It’s clarity.

And God help him, he’s falling harder—not for the way you need him, but for the way you don’t.

⸻

Your phone buzzes almost immediately.

You look down.

Say less. I’ll mother-hen this place into compliance.

Your chest loosens before you can stop it.

Not relief exactly—something steadier. The quiet certainty of knowing someone has already stepped in front of you without needing the whole story.

You smile despite yourself.

“Jordan,” you murmur.

Jason glances over. “Good Jordan?”

You nod. “The best kind.”

He watches the way the tension leaves your shoulders, the way your grip on the phone eases. You don’t have to explain what that message means. You don’t have to translate it into fear or logistics or justification.

It just means: you’re covered.

Your phone buzzes again.

You glance down, already bracing for concern.

Instead—

Go relax. Let Hot Toddy distract you from reality for a minute. Drink water. Make good choices. Or at least interesting ones. Be safe.

You bark out a laugh before you can stop yourself, the sound sharp and sudden in the quiet apartment.

Jason looks over, eyebrow raised. “That… sounds encouraging?”

You wipe at your eyes, still smiling. “That’s Ren.”

“Should I be worried?”

“Only if she starts sending packing lists,” you say. “Those get unhinged.”

The humor does what it’s meant to do—cuts through the tension without pretending it isn’t there. Reminds you that somewhere out there is a friend who will absolutely roast you into calm and then show up with snacks if needed.

You set the phone down, breath easier now.

Between Jordan holding the line and Ren shoving you toward joy with both hands, the fear has less room to breathe.

And for the first time since the flyer, you feel like yourself again.

And that makes all the difference.

⸻

Your phone buzzes again.

Jason doesn’t look at it this time—not directly. He watches you instead. The way your mouth curves when you read it. The way the tension drains out of your shoulders like someone finally loosened a valve.

You snort.

He exhales a quiet laugh before he can stop himself. “That one Ren?”

You nod, still smiling. “She just told me to relax, drink water, and let you—”

You pause. Consider.

“—distract me from reality responsibly.”

Jason blinks. Once.

“…I like her,” he says slowly. “Terrifying.”

You laugh properly this time, and something in Jason settles. Not because things are solved—but because you’re held. Not clinging. Not alone. Surrounded by people who show up loud and weird and effective.

Feral, but effective.

He files that away.

Files you away like that too.

⸻

Bruce’s call comes an hour later.

Not urgent. Not coded. Just Bruce Wayne, offering something without attaching strings to it.

“The beach house is empty,” Bruce says evenly. “It’s quiet. Secure. You’re welcome to it—for as long as you need.”

Jason stiffens automatically. Old instincts flaring.

Bruce doesn’t push.

“This is for her,” Bruce adds calmly. “For Sophia. For you. Consider it… preventative care.”

Jason closes his eyes.

You’re watching him when he opens them again.

You don’t plead.

You don’t argue.

You just wait.

He nods once. “Okay.”

Bruce doesn’t sound surprised. “Alfred will make sure the fridge is stocked.”

Jason almost smiles.

⸻

Packing happens fast—not frantic, just… efficient. Like your body already knew it was time to move.

Sophia “helps” by placing exactly one sock into the suitcase and declaring the task complete.

Your phone keeps lighting up on the counter.

Ren, apparently, has opinions.

DO NOT forget sunscreen. I will haunt you.

Beach snacks > dignity. Plan accordingly.

Is Hot Toddy bringing a hoodie? Because I’m emotionally invested.

You read them out loud.

Jason groans. “She’s gonna text me, isn’t she.”

“Already did.”

He pauses. “What did she say?”

You grin. “She said if you let me get sunburnt she’ll steal the tires off the bike.”

“…Valid.”

You zip the bag, feeling lighter than you have in days.

⸻

The car fills slowly—bags, cooler, Sophia’s stuffed animals somehow multiplying when no one’s looking.

Sophia climbs into her seat, vibrating.

“Beach?” she asks, eyes huge.

Jason buckles her in carefully. “Yeah, kiddo. Beach.”

She gasps like this is the single greatest revelation of her short life.

“Sand?”

“Yes.”

“Water?”

“Yes.”

“Snackssss?”

Jason glances at you. “So many snacks.”

She cheers.

You slide into the passenger seat, watching Gotham recede in the side mirror as Jason starts the engine.

For the first time in a while, leaving doesn’t feel like running.

It feels like choosing.

The city falls away behind you.

The road opens up ahead.

And Sophia hums to herself, already imagining the ocean.

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