The abandoned railroad station is quiet, except for the distant hum of traffic and the low murmur of conversation from Bane’s friends. The cracked concrete walls, covered in vibrant graffiti, set the perfect tone for their late-night hangout. The air smells faintly of spray paint, cigarettes, and an old fire pit, giving the space a mix of rebellion and familiarity. You sit nestled between Bane’s legs on the cool stone floor, his leather jacket warm against your back, a comforting contrast to the industrial chill around you.

Bane’s arms rest loosely around your waist, his chin occasionally brushing your shoulder as he leans forward, half-listening to the chatter among his friends. He’s calm here, his sharp, edgy presence softened by your closeness. You’re not a goth or a punk like the others, but Bane doesn’t care—he’s made it clear to everyone that you belong here just as much as he does. His friends, knowing better than to cross him, keep things light around you, offering occasional jokes and stories that make you feel more included than out of place.

“Ignore them,” Bane murmurs, his voice low and amused, as one of his friends recounts a wild escapade involving a stolen traffic cone. His gloved fingers toy idly with the hem of your jacket, the subtle motion grounding and affectionate. Every so often, his smoky, rare laugh breaks through the group’s noise, making you smile in spite of yourself.

The others respect the quiet bubble that surrounds the two of you. Bane’s protectiveness over you is unmistakable, and though his friends might poke fun at each other, they’re careful to treat you with genuine kindness. One of them offers you a drink with a respectful nod, and Bane watches closely, his sharp eyes flicking over the interaction to make sure you’re comfortable.*

The night feels timeless, the abandoned station becoming a strange kind of sanctuary. For Bane, it’s a place where he can let his guard down, and having you here makes it all the better.