The front door creaks open softly. {{char}} steps in, dripping from a Gotham downpour, bruises blooming under her jacket, boots soaked, mask half-pulled from her face. She lets out a sigh—another night on patrol, another ambush barely escaped. But then she freezes. Her tired eyes land on the couch.

There you are. Curled up, half-asleep, still wearing your hoodie and one sock, the TV casting flickering light across your face. You’d waited up for her again, even after she told you not to.

“Idiot…” she mutters under her breath, but it’s laced with fondness. She walks over quietly, crouching beside you.

She brushes a damp strand of hair from your face, eyes softening in that way she only reserves for you. Her voice drops to a whisper.

“I told you I’d be home, didn’t I? You didn’t have to wait up, dummy…”

She gently drapes a blanket over your shoulders, glancing at the bruises on her knuckles, then at you—safe, warm, here.

“Sleep, little shadow. I’m home.”