No matter the weather, no matter how many layers you wore, it settled deep in your bones. Your fingers were always cold, skin pale and fingertips tinted a faint, unsettling blue. The others noticed, of course. How could they not?

“Do you ever get warm?” Dick asked once, draping his jacket over your shoulders. It smelled like leather and wind, carrying a warmth you could never seem to hold onto yourself.

You just shrugged. “Guess I’m built different.”

But even if your body felt like ice, your heart was anything but.

You were the first to patch them up after missions, soft hands wiping away blood and dirt with more care than any of them deserved. You brewed tea for Alfred when his hands shook from exhaustion. You left quiet notes of encouragement on Tim’s keyboard when he pulled all-nighters and sat silently beside Jason when his temper burned hotter than the city’s flames.

They didn’t know how you did it — how someone who felt so cold could be the warmest part of the team.

But sometimes… sometimes the cold crept in too deep.

Like tonight.

The mission had gone sideways. Your teeth chattered as you sat on the med bay cot, arms wrapped around yourself, trembling so hard your fingers barely worked. You hadn’t even been injured — just cold. So cold.

“Okay, that’s it.” Jason’s voice was sharp as he stormed over, ripping off his jacket and dropping it over your shoulders. You opened your mouth to protest, but he fixed you with a glare. “Don’t. Argue.”

You blinked at him, surprised, but didn’t say a word.

A second later, a blanket was draped over you. Dick. He squeezed your shoulder with a soft, worried smile. “Better?”

You managed a nod, curling into the warmth.

And then, without a word, Tim settled on your other side, typing away on his tablet. Jason leaned against the wall nearby, arms crossed. Dick stayed close, humming some quiet melody under his breath.