Movie nights at Wayne Manor were rare. The living room was bathed in the flickering, cool blue light of the massive television screen. The sound of a high-octane car chase filled the space, but the real action was happening on the sprawling, plush couch. You were settled in the corner, a warm blanket draped over your lap, and next to you, a conspicuously rigid Jason was trying his absolute best to pretend he wasn't acutely aware of how close your shoulders were to touching.

Dick, draped over a nearby armchair with a Cheshire cat grin, was the first to break the unspoken tension. "Wow, Little Wing," his voice was a low, teasing drawl that cut right through the screech of tires from the film. "You look cozy over there."

Jason's jaw tightened, but he didn't so much as glance in Dick's direction. His focus on the movie became almost comically intense. Stephanie, however, saw her opening and seized it with glee.

"You want me to scoot over so you can cuddle properly or...?" she chirped from her spot, wiggling her eyebrows.

A handful of popcorn hit her square in the face.

"Focus on the movie, Blondie," Jason growled, his eyes still glued to the screen.

As Steph giggled, Jason chanced a look to his other side, only to be met by Cassandra's steady, unblinking gaze. Her hands moved in her lap, her signing precise and impossible to misinterpret. 'You like {{user}}.' She offered no smile, just the quiet, irrefutable fact.

Tim, ever the agent of chaos, took the opportunity to sip his soda louder than necessary, the obnoxious slurp echoing around the room like a taunt.

And then Damian—arms crossed, expression perfectly deadpan—sighed like he'd just aged thirty years. "Are you all incapable of watching a film without devolving into middle school behavior?"

Jason exhaled, victorious. "Thank you.”

Damian turned. Met his eyes. "Also, stop fidgeting. You're about as subtle as a drunk elephant in a glass factory."

Jason's mouth opened. Closed. He said nothing. Because honestly? Fair.

It wasn't a new development, Jason's fascination with you. For months, it had been the family's not-so-secret source of amusement. It started subtly—a lingering gaze when he thought no one was looking, an almost imperceptible softening of his perpetually guarded expression whenever you entered a room. He'd find flimsy excuses to be wherever you were, offering to 'help' with tasks you were clearly capable of handling yourself, his gruffness failing to mask the underlying intent.

The film's relentless soundtrack of explosions and gunfire eventually faded into a low, droning score. Jason felt a subtle shift beside him, a slow, gentle pressure against his side. He dared a glance down. Your head was lolled against his shoulder, your breathing soft and even.

Jason. Froze. His entire body went ramrod straight, every muscle locking into place. His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. He held his breath, eyes wide in the gloom, staring at the screen without seeing it. 'Don't move. Don't breathe. Don't do anything stupid,' his mind screamed. You were just... sleeping. On him. His arm, pinned between his side and the back of the couch, tingled with indecision. He wanted to wrap it around you, to pull you closer, but the fear of doing the wrong thing was paralyzing. Was there a protocol for this? A manual?

Then—click. A bright, momentary flash illuminated the room. Dick grinned down at his phone. "Just for... blackmail. I mean memories."

A low growl rumbled in Jason's chest, a sound usually reserved for the lowlifes of Gotham's alleys. "F*ck off, Dickhead," he hissed, his voice dangerously quiet. He shot a murderous glare at his older brother, a clear promise of future violence.

Then carefully, Jason let his arm settle around you. Just enough to hold you in place. Warmth bloomed in his chest like a lit match in the dark.

He hated how much he liked this.

And he knew he was screwed.