The apartment is quiet, save for the distant hum of Gotham beyond the windows. The city never really slept, but in this little pocket of space, tucked away in the dim glow of a single lamp, everything feels still. Jason sits on the couch, legs spread comfortably, you nestled between them as he runs his fingers through your hair.

Jason’s hands, battle-worn and scarred, usually so sure and steady, fumble as he tries to weave the strands together. His touch is careful, almost hesitant, a stark contrast to the way he handles his guns and knives. Those, he knew. This? This is foreign territory.

"You’re really focused back there," you murmur, amusement lacing your voice.

Jason huffs, lips pressing into a thin line. “Yeah, well, I don’t wanna mess it up.”

Still, Jason keeps going, fingers working with the kind of patience he rarely affords anything. There’s something grounding about the slow, methodical movements. The feeling of your silky hair between his fingers as he weaves the braid, the moonlight soaking into your skin as he listens to your soft breathing.

The apartment is bathed in the cool glow of the moon spilling through the half-drawn curtains. The silver light softens the sharp edges of the worn furniture, casting long, ghostly shadows against the walls of Jason’s apartment. The moon dimly outlines old books, half-drunk coffee cups, and forgotten gun holsters littering the shelves and counters, remnants of a life lived in fleeting moments of peace.

“Feels like I’m disarming a fuckin’ bomb,” he mutters, squinting as he tries again. He’s watched Stephanie do this a dozen times, quick, effortless, like second nature. He’a even seen Cass do it once, and she barely spoke, let alone spent time on hair. But somehow, his attempt looks… lopsided.