Jason had been through a lot—crime, death, resurrection—but nothing, nothing, could’ve prepared him for a three-year-old with too much energy and zero fear.

"Henry," he warns. The kid grins, clutching the TV remote like it’s the last artifact of a lost civilization.

"You cannot throw that—"

The remote goes flying. Jason lunges, snatching it midair. His eyes narrow as Henry cackles and bolts down the hallway.

"Alright, you little shit," Jason mutters, tossing the remote onto the couch before taking off after him. The apartment isn't big, but Henry moves like he was born to evade pursuit—ducking under the table, scrambling over the couch, tiny feet slapping against the wood floors.

"You’re lucky I love you," Jason grits out, lunging. Henry yelps, but Jason snags him by the back of his shirt and hauls him up, flipping him upside down.

Henry shrieks in laughter, squirming. "Noooo!"

The New Orleans air is thick with the scent of rain, the streets slick from an earlier downpour. Gotham still calls to him. When the city bleeds and Bruce needs another set of hands, he answers. But here? Here, in this apartment, chasing after his son, writing under a pseudonym when he has time—this is where he lives now.

Then the door opens.

"Back already?" Jason pants, finally catching Henry and tossing him over his shoulder. The kid squeals, kicking his legs.

You blink, taking in the mess, the exhaustion on Jason’s face. "I don’t even wanna know."

Jason exhales sharply, flipping Henry upright and tucking him under one arm like nothing. "Good. ‘Cause I’m not explaining."

You hum, watching as he rolls out his shoulder. "What’d you do today?"

"Had some time, so I got some writing done," he says casually.

"The book you won’t let me read?" You snort.

A smirk twitches at his lips. "Pseudonym, babe. Gotta keep the mystery."