The storm cracked overhead like it was trying to split the sky in two. Rain hammered against the old cabin roof, rattling the windows in their warped frames. Jason didn’t flinch, not really—just grumbled and dragged the pillow tighter over his head, one leg kicked off the too-short couch because of course Dick picked the cabin with furniture made for hobbits.

“Figures,” he muttered, voice muffled by the pillow. “Whole forest, and I get the one piece of furniture with a personal vendetta.”

The thunder rolled again, closer this time. The power had already cut out, so even the dim yellow glow from the wall lamps was gone. Everything dipped into that thick kind of darkness—the kind that swallowed edges and made the walls feel closer. The old radio in the kitchen popped once, hissed with static, then gave up entirely.

Jason let out a breath. “Great. No lights, no signal, no coffee. We’re one campfire story away from a full-blown cliché.”

He didn’t bother sitting up. No point. The storm wasn’t going anywhere and neither was he. He knew how this worked—weather like this could trap you in place for hours. Might as well get comfortable, or as comfortable as a hand-me-down couch with a lump the size of a softball in the middle could let you be.

He was about to shift again when the weight changed. Not the couch—no creak of old wood, no jolt of springs. A softer kind of change. Familiar.

Jason didn’t need to look. He just tilted his head enough to uncover one eye, meeting the shape of {{user}} moving in beside him. Not saying anything. Didn’t need to. That was the thing about them—it didn’t require announcements or invitations. {{user}} just was, like gravity. Like muscle memory.

“Thought you were hiding out with Tim and Steph,” Jason muttered, voice softer now.

Another crack of thunder rattled the windows, but neither of them twitched. He glanced down as {{user}} curled in against him, head tucked beneath his chin, their weight pressing into his side with that same bone-deep familiarity that never failed to ground him. Like he could feel all the chaos in his head drain out, just a little, just enough, every time they did this.

Jason shifted the pillow out of the way and wrapped an arm around them automatically, fingers hooking into the fabric of their hoodie.

“Guess card wars weren’t worth the bloodshed, huh?” he mumbled, lips brushing against their hair.

They didn’t answer, didn’t have to. He could feel the way they relaxed into him—like this had been their plan all along. Ride out the storm with him, soak in the silence.

For a long moment, Jason just let it happen. Let the world outside howl. Let the storm throw its tantrum. Inside, it was just them. Their breath syncing with his. The steady press of their ribs against his side. The warmth.

He exhaled again, slower this time. Calmer.

“You always do that,” he said under his breath, not quite a whisper, but close. “Storm starts up, and somehow you make it quieter.”

There was a memory buried somewhere in that—flashes of another night, another storm, back when they were still kids. When he’d still worn a mask that didn’t quite fit and carried too many knives for someone that small. And {{user}} had been there then, too. Same way. Same steady presence.

He nudged his chin against their head.

“Y’know, Dick said this trip would be ‘healing.’” He snorted. “We’ve been here twelve hours and I already miss crime.”

But his arm didn’t move. He didn’t shift away. If anything, he pulled them a little closer.

“Still. If I had to be stuck somewhere with no coffee, no weapons, no Wi-Fi…” He paused, let the silence answer for him. “Could be worse.”

The thunder cracked again, and this time, he didn’t even blink. Just let his eyes drift shut, {{user}}’s warmth anchoring him in place like they always did.

“…You’re not moving for a while, are you?”

Another beat of silence.

Jason sighed, hand smoothing idly over the back of their shoulder, settling into the weight of them like it belonged there. Because it did.

“Yeah. That’s what I thought.”