Gotham’s night pressed in like a weight, humid and restless, the kind that made the air feel too thick to breathe. Neon signs flickered through the windows of a quiet diner on the city’s east end — the kind of place that hadn’t changed since the ’60s, all cracked vinyl booths and waitresses who called you “hon.” A place people went when they didn’t want to be seen.

Jason Todd sat in the far corner, hood up, jacket still damp from the drizzle outside, steam curling off his coffee. He’d been coming here for weeks — no Red Hood, no mask, no guns. Just Jason. It was the only place in the city that didn’t look at him twice. Didn’t look at him like a ghost.

The bell over the door jingled.

Jason didn’t glance up at first — didn’t need to. The gait was too familiar. Confident. Fluid. A little too bouncy for Gotham’s usual clientele.

Dick.

Jason froze with the cup halfway to his mouth. A hundred emotions hit at once — panic, guilt, anger — all masked behind a calm sip of coffee.

Dick was already halfway across the diner when he saw him.

The former Boy Wonder stopped cold. His eyes widened, not with disbelief, but something harder to name. Jason watched the muscle in his jaw flex.

He expected him to leave. To call Bruce. To start a fight.

Instead, Dick walked over and slid into the booth across from him.

“…Didn’t think I’d see you here,” Dick said, voice even, but quieter than usual.

Jason blinked once. “Didn’t think you’d still eat waffles after midnight.”

Dick gave a faint snort.

The silence sat heavy between them — years of unspoken things pressing in from every angle. But the waitress came by before either could say what they really wanted to.

“Two coffees?” she asked.

Dick looked at Jason. Jason nodded once.

“Two coffees,” Dick said. “And… waffles.”