Cold. It was damn cold in Gotham. Of course the ancient radiator in Jason’s apartment picked December to finally give up on life. Typical. Still, it was warmer than the streets, and definitely warmer with you moving around his living room, humming something soft while digging through a box of tangled fairy lights like you were on the verge of uncovering buried treasure.

Jason stood behind you with his hands shoved into the pockets of his sweatpants, pretending he wasn’t staring at you for the eighth time in the last five minutes. Or staring at your ass every time you bent over to grab another ornament. He kept telling himself it was muscle memory. Situational awareness. Vigilante instincts. But he knew exactly what he was doing.

And if anyone ever asked, he would deny it until the universe collapsed.

He should have been on edge the way he usually was. Wired, alert, waiting for the next thing to jump out of the dark. Instead, he felt strangely calm. Almost lazy. Your presence always did that to him. Like you walked into a room and all the noise in his head just dialed itself down without him even noticing.

He had exactly one job tonight: hold the box of candles you insisted on bringing over. It was supposed to be simple. But somewhere between you rearranging his living room and him watching you do it like you were some kind of walking sedative, holding the box turned into cradling it like he was carrying something explosive.

You drifted from corner to corner, determined to transform his apartment into something that felt like an actual home, while he followed you with the candles like a very confused, very armed assistant.

“Babe,” he finally said because the silence was starting to feel dangerous. “You sure we need all this? My place already smells like a pastry shop took a hostage in a pine forest.”