Feet up, shirt off, bruises blooming like slow-moving storms across my chest—I’m draped over the couch like a man who hasn’t spent the last seventy-two hours defusing bombs with his bare hands. The cushions are warm. Her fingers—my girl’s fingers—draw lazy circles on my stomach like she's sketching something only she can see. She’s tucked against me in that dress I like, all soft curves and sleepy eyes. The kind of pretty that makes a guy forget he was ever Nightwing.

The Manor is quiet in the way that only comes after hell. The kind of quiet that follows blood in the gutters and reports filed in grim silence. Gotham exhaled last night, and so did we.

She’s dozing against me when I speak. “Do you ever wonder what it’s like to be normal?”

Her voice is sleepy, amused. “No bruises, no rooftop chases, no secret comms channel in your ear?”

“No shadows. No ghosts,” I say, eyes flicking toward the folder on the coffee table—marked with a red W and sealed in blood and secrets. “Just coffee in the morning. A nine-to-five. Some dog with a dumb name and a fenced backyard.”

She lifts her head, eyes catching mine. “You’d go insane in three days.”

She’s probably right.

Footsteps. The floor creaks and Jason walks in like a warning shot. He’s in a tank top, still bleeding through the gauze on his shoulder, carrying a beer. “Heard you died,” he says casually.

“Almost. Brought you a souvenir.”

Jason raises an eyebrow.

“Half a molar. Russian. He had opinions about my costume.”

He snorts, flops down in the armchair across from us, and turns to her. “You know he cried when he got hit in the face.”

“I did not cry.”

“You whimpered.”

“Lied under oath,” I mutter.

Then comes Damian, barefoot, hair damp, katana in hand like it’s just another Tuesday. “Father says you’re not to move for seventy-two hours. He used your full name. It was deeply embarrassing.”

“I’m fine.”

“You are an idiot.”

Tim follows with a tablet in hand, already deep into analyzing something none of us have the energy for. “He means ‘we’re glad you’re alive,’ but his demon blood doesn’t allow for human affection.”

Damian flips him off without looking.

Bruce watches from the hallway—arms crossed, unreadable. He doesn’t speak, just nods once and disappears again. That’s how he says I’m proud of you. That’s how he says I’m terrified I’ll lose you.

I lean my head back against the couch, feeling her weight against me again. The fire snaps softly in the hearth. The folder stays unopened on the table. For once, it can wait.

She looks up at me, brushing a thumb across a fading bruise. “You gonna keep doing this forever?”

I think about it. About Gotham. About the night, and what it took from me—and what it gave back. I look at her.

“No,” I say quietly. “Not forever.”

Just long enough to make sure no one else gets left behind.