Jason sat on the edge of the mattress, the springs barely creaking under his weight. He’d promised a weekend off—no Red Hood, no Kevlar, no blood on the pavement. Beside him, his partner settled into the pillows, the soft glow of a bedside lamp casting a peaceful warmth he hadn't earned.

"Bed, Jay?" they murmured, reaching out a hand.

"In a second," Jason lied.

His thumb hovered over the encrypted screen of his phone. The blue light washed out the scars on his face, a stark contrast to the dim room. He wasn't scrolling through social media or news; he was synced into the GCPD scanners and the Bat-computer’s localized crime map.

A silent notification pinged: Domestic disturbance in the Bowery. Jason’s jaw tightened. His thumb twitched toward the nightstand where his mask usually sat, then back to the screen. He refreshed the feed. Suspected drug hand-off near the docks. His partner’s breathing slowed, rhythmic and trusting, but Jason remained rigid. To them, he was present; to him, he was miles away, mentally calculating the response time from the nearest precinct and wondering if Bruce’s "no-kill" policy would let the dealer walk by morning.

He didn't notice the warmth of their hand retreating when he didn't move. He just kept scrolling, his eyes darting across the digital map, patrolling the city one pixel at a time while the person he loved slept alone in the space between them.