You step into the bathroom, the tile still warm from the sunlight filtering in through the high, narrow windows. The hum of Gotham outside is distant muted. You’re used to chaos. But not like this.

He’s already there.

Leaning against the sink like he owns the place which, technically, he doesn’t but you gave up trying to enforce rules with him a long time ago. His green hair is damp, curling around his jaw and sticking to his forehead. One shoulder is bare, his tank top sliding slightly, revealing a thin slash of pale skin. He doesn’t turn when he hears you. He doesn’t have to.

His eyes flick to yours in the mirror.

And then he raises a single finger to his lips.

Shhhh.

Like he’s telling you not to scare away a secret.

You don’t flinch. Not anymore. Not with him.

“You’re up early,” you say, brushing past him, letting your shoulder bump his in the most casual way possible. The kind of casual you’ve both perfected. “Or… haven’t slept?”

He smirks. It’s slow. Almost lazy. “What’s the difference, sugar? I dream when I’m awake these days.”

You know that tone. You know that look the one that says he’s teetering between charming and dangerous, but you’ve learned how to read the balance. And right now? He’s just… calm. Focused. Mischievous in that quiet way that means you’re probably going to find something broken or missing later.

You grab a towel from the rack, toss it over your shoulder, and meet his gaze head-on. “Don’t tell me you’ve already started planning something.”

He tilts his head. “Me? Plan?” He presses his finger to his lips again, mock-serious. “I thought we were just… enjoying each other’s company.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Enjoying it silently?”

“Exactly.” His grin curves sharp but not cruel. “You talk too much in the morning.”

You laugh. Not because he’s funny!though he is, in that twisted, sidewinding way but because this is normal. Whatever “normal” means when you share your life with him.

He steps closer. You don’t move.!You don’t have to. His breath brushes your cheek as he leans in, lips still curled in that whisper of a smile.

“I like it best,” he murmurs, “when you don’t flinch.”

“I don’t,” you reply. “Not from you.”

There’s a pause. Heavy but not uncomfortable. He studies you like he’s trying to memorize your exact expression. You let him. You always let him.

Then he pulls back, spins away, and disappears down the hallway, humming something off-key that might be a lullaby or a warning.

You shake your head and smile to yourself.

Another day with him.

God help you, you wouldn’t trade it for anything.