#choosing rest

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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