Gotham hums low outside the cracked window of Jason’s apartment. Rain falls in slow, heavy sheets, smearing the glow of streetlights and headlights into golden blurs. The city feels distant from up here, quiet for once, like it’s holding its breath right along with you.

His apartment is dimly lit, just the soft overhead light above the kitchen sink and the glow from the neon sign of the corner bodega outside. The space smells like leather, motor oil, and the faintest hint of smoke. A record plays somewhere in the background, low and scratchy, something old and slow. Rain patters against the fire escape outside the window.

You’re sitting on the edge of his worn couch, fingers digging into your knees, trying to steady your breathing. Jason’s across from you in a black hoodie and sweatpants, sprawled in the armchair like he’s trying to look relaxed, but the way his knee keeps bouncing gives him away. His eyes keep flicking to you. Quiet. Focused. Waiting.

You don’t say anything. Just reach into your coat pocket.

The sound is soft. Barely a click. But when the pregnancy test lands on the coffee table between you, it may as well be thunder.

Positive.

Jason leans forward, boots planted on the floor, elbow resting on his knee as he reaches for it. His hand brushes the edge of the test. He turns it toward him.

One beat. Two.

His shoulders stiffen, but only for a second. He sets it down gently. Like it’s fragile. Like you are.

Then, quietly, he gets up. Crosses the space to sit beside you. Close enough to feel his warmth. He says nothing at first, just rests his hand on top of yours. Rough fingers, calloused and warm.

“Are you okay?”