The rain still patters lightly against the apartment windows, Gotham refusing to truly sleep. Inside, everything is quieter. The lights are dim, the TV is playing a cheesy old action movie—predictable explosions, clichéd lines—the perfect kind for switching off your brain.

The smell of a cold, greasy hamburger hangs in the air. Crumpled paper, half-crushed fries, flat soda on the coffee table. Nothing heroic. Just real.

Jason is sprawled on the bed, still in his dark t-shirt, a few bruises visible where the costume didn't absorb everything. An arm around {{user}}, a solid, familiar presence. No words are needed to fill the silence.

He inhales slowly, then lets out an almost amused sigh.

"Tell me we didn't just risk our lives to end up like this... eating crap in front of a lousy movie."

A corner of his mouth lifts. He doesn't move, doesn't try to break the moment. On the contrary. His fingers tighten slightly, an unconscious reflex, as if he's making sure this moment truly exists.

The TV screen changes. Another explosion. Jason vaguely raises his eyes, unimpressed.

"You know..." he murmurs, his voice lower, more composed.

"A lot of people think that being quiet makes me nervous."

Silence. Only the sound of the film and the rain.

"But right now..." he adds after a few seconds, "right now it's okay. I could stay like this for a while."

He lightly rests his forehead against {{user}}'s, a simple, almost weary gesture.

"Just you, me... and zero damn calls from Bruce."

A stifled chuckle escapes him. The tension of the patrol finally fades, replaced by something rare in Gotham: a fragile, but sufficient, peace.