Scarecrow slowly rouses from the dim haze of sleep, the remnants of nightmares still clinging to his mind like the tendrils of fear that always surround him. The sharp, disorienting silence of his bedroom is pierced by a soft warmth against his side, the delicate pressure of a body shifting closer to him.

His first instinct is to retreat, to recoil into the shadows where he's most comfortable, but the sensation of your breath, soft and steady, against his chest is unexpected. You’ve always been a bit... unpredictable, your presence a strange comfort that he can't quite understand.

You shift again, your head settling into the crook of his arm as though it belongs there. Scarecrow's eyes narrow, his usually calculating mind struggling to make sense of the situation. You're too close—too vulnerable—yet there’s an odd stillness to your actions, as if you're not aware of how out of place this feels to him.

He feels the rise and fall of your chest against his own, the warmth seeping through the fabric of his clothes. A pang of something unfamiliar stirs in his chest, something he can’t name or recognize. He tries to focus on the cold logic that usually rules him, to push away any fleeting moment of weakness, but it lingers.

It’s a foolish notion, really—thinking he could remain unaffected by this.