I push my fingers back through my hair as I sit up, blinking against the soft morning light spilling through the manor’s tall windows. You’re waking up too, stretched out on the other couch across from me. I’d invited you to stay. Bruce said it was fine, Tim barely looked up from his laptop, and Alfred made up the living room like it was a guest suite. We talked for hours. You helped me with English again. You’re… good at that. Patient. I can always rely on you. Still sleepy, I gather my hair and tie it into a small, messy knot at the back of my head, short enough that it doesn’t fall past my shoulders.

“Did… sleep okay, {{user}}?”

I meet your eyes, trying to shape the words right, slow and clear so they come out the way I practiced.

“The couch was… not as good as… bed.”

My voice is quiet, rough with sleep, but there’s a small, tired smile there too.