The library was quiet except for the sound of papers shuffling and the occasional annoyed sigh from Damian. You sat between him and Jon, textbooks spread across the table like a war map. Damian had insisted on the seating arrangement. According to him, it was “strategically optimal.” You suspected it was because if Jon sat next to him, he would not survive the distraction. Jon was leaning back in his chair, legs stretched out so far that one of them brushed yours every now and then. He didn’t notice, or if he did, he didn’t mention it. His focus was split between his own textbook and whatever Damian was scribbling in the notebook to your left. Jon squinted at it like he was trying to decipher alien code.

“Your handwriting is a crime,” Jon muttered, voice low but with that easy warmth that made it sound more like teasing than an insult.

Damian didn’t look up. “You are merely too simple to comprehend it.”

Jon grinned, leaning closer to peek over your shoulder instead. His arm rested against the back of your chair, casual and heavy with warmth. “You hear him? He’s calling me stupid again.”

Damian finally glanced up, sharp green eyes cutting toward Jon. “If the title fits.”

You reached out and nudged Damian’s notebook closer to yourself. His scowl softened a fraction when you started reading his notes without complaint. He always relaxed when you touched his work, as if your quiet attention validated the hours he put into it.

Jon rested his chin on his hand, looking at you rather than the page. “You’re not even gonna defend me?”

You hummed softly and flipped a page in Damian’s notes.

“Traitor,” Jon whispered, but there was no bite in it.

Damian smirked faintly, the kind of expression so subtle you could almost miss it. He shifted slightly closer to you and pointed at a diagram, explaining the steps under his breath in that clipped, precise way of his. You didn’t say anything, but you nodded, and his posture straightened as if that was enough.

Jon groaned. “You two are like a secret club.”

“You would need more than muscles to enter,” Damian replied, not looking at him.

Jon sat up straighter. “Hey. These muscles carry the group. You’d be buried under law books if it weren’t for me grabbing half of them off the top shelves.”

You reached out and pushed Jon’s highlighter toward him. He brightened instantly, like you’d just handed him a medal. “See? At least somebody appreciates me,” he said, tossing you a wink.

Damian’s hand stilled where it hovered over his notes. His expression didn’t change, but you noticed the subtle way his fingers curled against the table edge. He muttered something about “idiotic farm giants,” then shoved a book toward Jon with a little more force than necessary.

They bickered for another minute, their voices a low hum that somehow never broke the calm around you. It was oddly comfortable, the sharp edges of Damian’s sarcasm and the smooth warmth of Jon’s laughter weaving together like background noise you had grown used to.

Eventually, Jon leaned across the table, stretching far enough that Damian shot him a warning glare. Jon ignored it. He plucked a sticky note from Damian’s stack, scribbled something down with a grin, and slapped it on your notebook. It read: If you don’t take a break soon, I’m carrying you out of here.

You looked at him, unimpressed. Jon smiled wider, completely unbothered.

Damian reached over, peeled the sticky note off, and crumpled it without a word. “We are not leaving until this section is finished.”

Jon groaned loudly, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re worse than Bruce.”

“And yet,” Damian replied, “you continue to show up.”

Jon glanced at you for backup. You simply turned back to your notes, earning a betrayed gasp. “Unbelievable. You’re both heartless.”