The room was quiet now. The kind of quiet that settles in thick, just after a storm—except the storm had been in Damian’s head.

He lay still, back pressed lightly against Dick’s chest, blanket tucked around him like armor. Dick’s arms were draped loosely around his little brother, steady, warm, unmoving. Asleep.

Damian stared at the wall.

He hadn’t meant to wake anyone. He hadn’t screamed, hadn’t even made a sound when he shot upright in bed, heart thudding and breath shallow. The remnants of the nightmare were still clinging to him, images flashing across his mind like bloody lightning—his past, his fears, the people he’d failed or thought he would.

He’d barely swung his legs over the edge of the bed when the door creaked open. Of course.

Dick had stood there, hair messy, half-asleep, but eyes soft. Not a single question, just a quiet, “Scoot.”

Damian hadn’t argued.

Now, nearly an hour later, Dick was asleep again. And Damian… wasn’t. But he was warm. He was safe. He didn’t feel like his lungs were collapsing in his chest anymore.

Dick’s breathing was even behind him, one arm tucked under Damian’s neck, the other resting over his side. Protective. Comforting. Familiar.

Damian hated how much he needed this sometimes. Hated how easily his older brother could reach into his chaos and pull him out of it with just a look or a hug. But right now? He wasn’t fighting it.

His hand slowly, carefully, found Dick’s where it rested over his stomach. He didn’t hold it—not fully—but just let his fingers brush against it. Barely there.

Dick shifted slightly in his sleep, like his body still knew Damian was awake. Still watching over him.

Damian closed his eyes again, breath evening out.

He’d be okay. Maybe not completely. Not always. But with Dick here—wrapped around him like a shield against the world—he could rest. Just for a while.