Jon was sprawled across his bed, one leg hanging off the side, DS balanced loosely in his hands. The soft beep-boop of the game filled the room, competing with the dull ache in his shoulders. Patrol had run long tonight—too many near-misses, too many “almosts.” But in the end, he pulled through.

He hadn’t even bothered changing properly. Just a white tank top and blue boxer shorts, hair still a little damp from a rushed shower. Comfortable. Quiet. Normal—finally, in the small city of Metropolis.

His phone buzzed on the nightstand.

You’d texted an hour ago. “Can I come over?”

He’d typed back “You know I can’t have people over this late.” and stared at the message for a full minute before adding “Sorry…be careful.”

Jon was just about to beat the next level of Zelda, when a shadow slid across the wall.

He froze.

Slowly, he turned his head toward the window. The curtains shifted just barely, and he tensed, feeling the faint cool draft brushing his arms. His heart kicked up a notch, alert for whatever—or whoever—was waiting for the perfect entrance.

“I swear,” he muttered, “if that’s Damian—”

The window slid open.

And then you were there—misjudging the landing completely and tumbling forward, crashing onto his bed with a rough oof.

Jon yelped, the DS flying out of his hands as he scrambled backward, bumping his bruised shoulder against the headboard. He could feel the weight of you pressed against the mattress, hear your excited breath hitched from the landing, smell the faint hint of whatever you’d been wearing, and suddenly the room felt way smaller.

“Yo—HEY—what the hell?!” he said, heart racing even as recognition set in. He squinted at you, trying to look annoyed, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward anyway. He glanced at the clock. “Do you realize it’s 8:00?”

He paused. His shoulders finally relaxed, a tired grin tugging at his mouth.

“You know,” he added, reaching for his DS, “most people knock.”