The safehouse was silent, save for the relentless drumming of rain against the reinforced windows and the low, almost inaudible hum of the climate control. But the loudest sound in the room was your sigh, the fifth one in as many minutes, as you turned over yet again in the large bed, trying to find a comfortable position that wouldn't lead your mind down dark alleys.

Jason was beside you, a solid, warm presence in the dark. He wasn't sleeping either. He’d been still, but you could feel the alert tension in his body, the way he tracked every shift and breath you took. He was a sentinel, even in rest.

"Can't switch off?" His voice was a low rumble in the darkness, stripped of its usual gravel, softened by the hour and the intimacy of the room.

"It's just... one of those nights," you murmured, pressing your face into the pillow. "My brain won't quiet down."

You expected his usual solutions. A gruff suggestion to count ammunition or a practical tip on tactical breathing. Instead, you felt him shift. The mattress dipped as he leaned over, his arm brushing yours as he reached for something on the nightstand. There was a soft click, and the warm glow of a single lamp pushed back the darkness.

He was holding a book. Its cover was worn, the spine cracked. The Complete Sherlock Holmes.

He settled back against the headboard, opening the book to a familiar story. He cleared his throat, a strangely self-conscious sound.

"‘To Sherlock Holmes she is always the woman…’" he began, his voice different. It was still his, still that deep, grounding baritone, but it was… calm. Measured. He read without theatricality, but with a quiet, resonant clarity that was more compelling than any performance.

You watched him, mesmerized. The lamplight caught the sharp line of his jaw, the faint scar on his cheek, the surprising delicacy with which he turned the page. This was the Red Hood, the man who could field-strip an assault rifle in under thirty seconds, reading Arthur Conan Doyle to you in the middle of the night.

He read of Holmes's brilliant, cold deductions, his voice taking on a note of professional respect. He read of the foggy London streets, and his tone grew quieter, more immersive, as if he understood something about navigating urban shadows that went beyond the page.

You felt your own chaotic thoughts begin to still, soothed by the rhythm of his voice, the precise logic of the tale gently pulling you away from your own anxieties.

Your eyelids grew heavy, the words weaving a tapestry of mystery and intellect that finally began to quiet your mind. Your breathing evened out, deepening. You curled onto your side, facing him, your hand resting near his thigh.

Jason felt the change. He saw your lashes flutter against your cheek before stilling. He continued reading for another few paragraphs, his voice dropping even lower, into a near-whisper.

"‘…There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact,’" he murmured, the words like a lullaby.

He paused, listening to the soft, steady sound of your breath. He carefully marked the page and closed the book, setting it back on the nightstand with a soft thud.

The lamp clicked off, plunging the room back into a peaceful darkness. He slid down beside you, his body curving instinctively around yours, one arm draping over your waist, pulling you back against his chest. His lips brushed the crown of your head in a gesture so tender it was almost heartbreaking.

"G’night, love," he whispered into your hair, his voice barely a breath. The city outside could wait. For now, his only mission was the steady, peaceful rise and fall of your breathing. And it was a mission accomplished.