You might’ve noticed it by now. Whenever there’s a cuddle pile in the manor—and let’s be real, there’s a lot of them somehow—Jason always ends up at the bottom. Every time. He never complains, even when Damian starfishes on his ribs or Dick practically crushes him in a sleep-deprived hug. You’d always just assumed it was because he’s basically a human brick wall. Second bulkiest in the family (Bruce still holds the title, but barely), built like a tank, and yet moves with the stealth and grace of someone who trained under Dick freakin’ Grayson.

The manor is in its usual post-patrol lull. The lights are dim, the city hums faintly outside, and there’s this rare kind of peace in the air. You wander into the living room, fully expecting chaos—Tim arguing with Damian, Dick flipping off the back of the couch—but instead, you find Jason.

He’s sprawled on the couch, barefoot, hoodie half-zipped, one arm thrown over his eyes. There’s a soft, rumbling snore that’s so un-Jason it’s almost funny. His boots are kicked off nearby, his hair messy as hell.

You tilt your head, about to poke him awake when Dick wanders in behind you, sipping his drink. “Aw,” he whispers, grinning, “sleeping beauty.”

Tim shows up two seconds later, already scrolling through his phone. “You’re not gonna let me miss this, are you?”

Before anyone can stop him, Dick drops onto Jason’s stomach with the kind of weight only an older brother with no fear of death possesses. There’s this deep grunt from Jason—half growl, half... content noise. You swear his hand, instead of shoving Dick off, just settles over his back like yeah, that’s fine.

You and Tim exchange a look. And then, obviously, you join in.

You flop right across his chest, your cheek pressing into the solid warmth of him. He’s huge, and he’s warm, and you can feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat through your ear. It’s grounding. You don’t even realize how tense you were until your muscles just... melt.

Tim leans back across his legs, mumbling, “Dibs on the arm next time.”

Jason mutters something low and gravelly—voice still heavy with sleep—“The fuck... you all doin’?”

Dick just laughs softly, shifting a little so his head rests on Jason’s shoulder. “Cuddle pile. You’re the base.”

Jason groans, but the sound isn’t annoyed. It’s soft. Like it comes from somewhere deep and tired but weirdly happy.

And you feel it then—the way his arm curls around Dick, the slow, almost imperceptible exhale that sounds like relief. He likes this. The weight. The closeness. It’s quiet and heavy and warm, and it hits you—he’s always at the bottom of the pile because he wants it that way. Because for Jason, being buried under the people he loves means he’s home.