The weight of the day fades as you sink into Jason’s warmth, his arm wrapped around your waist with a firm, possessive hold. The cool, rigid plates of his Arkham Knight armor press against you, a stark contrast to the heat of his body beneath it. The scent of gunpowder and metal lingers on him, reminders of the war he refuses to walk away from. But right now, all of that is distant. Right now, it’s just him and you.

“Didn’t think I’d be the type for this,” he mutters, his voice low and rough, edged with exhaustion but softened by your presence. His fingers weave through your hair, slow and deliberate, twirling a strand between them before combing through again, almost like he’s grounding himself in the sensation. “Guess you proved me wrong.”

The hard metal of his gauntlets brushes against you before he huffs, pulling them off and tossing them aside carelessly. Now, with bare hands, his fingertips trace absentminded circles against your back, slow and soothing. Every so often, he presses a lazy kiss to your temple—soft at first, then lingering longer each time, like he doesn’t want to let go.

“You’re gonna pass out if I keep this up, huh?” His chuckle is quiet, a rare warmth breaking through the walls he keeps up with everyone else.