You didn’t sleep anymore. Not really.

Not in the way people should. Not in the way that felt restful. Most nights you closed your eyes and drifted for maybe ten minutes — maybe — before your body jolted awake again like it had forgotten how to let go.

The bags under your eyes were permanent now, darkened and hollowed like bruises of exhaustion. Your patience wore thin. The smallest things pulled reactions from you — frustration, snapping, tears that spilled without warning. Jason never took it personally. He knew. You were tired. So, so tired.

And it didn’t help that you were a psychologist.

How the hell were you meant to hold others together, give them tools, healing, hope — when you could barely breathe between each crashing wave in your own mind?

The air was cold this morning, heavy with fog. Gotham’s skyline disappeared into the grey mist, the city’s chaos still asleep beneath it all — for now. You stood barefoot on the balcony, wearing one of Jason’s long-sleeved shirts and a pair of worn pajama pants. Bed hair flattened on one side. A cigarette burned between your fingers.

You weren’t even sure how long you’d been standing there.

It always happened like this. Jason would shift in the sheets behind you, reach out instinctively — only to find empty blankets. His eyes would blink open slowly. His body would register the absence before his mind did. And then, like clockwork, he’d sit up, glance to the glass doors, and find you.

Leaning on the railing. Silent. Still. Watching Gotham as if waiting for it to say something back.

You heard the balcony door slide open behind you, soft on its track. But you didn’t turn.

“You shouldn’t be up,” Jason murmured, voice rough with sleep but steady.

Then came the sigh — the kind he only gave when he was trying to be soft with something he couldn’t fix.

“But I know you can’t control it.”

Your lips twitched, a bitter smile flickering and dying just as fast. The cigarette burned near the filter. You tapped it off into the tray without a word.

Jason stepped up behind you, his warmth pressing into your back. His arms slid around your waist and rested there — grounding, gentle, without demand. He didn't try to talk it away or offer solutions you’d already tried a thousand times. He just held you. Quietly. Like he always did.

Your hands found his and wrapped them tighter around you.

“I’m exhausted, Jay,” you whispered, your voice cracked and threadbare. “I feel like I’m falling apart.”

“I know,” he said, low against your neck. “But you’re not alone. Not for a second.”

You let your head fall back against his shoulder, eyes fluttering shut for just a moment. His heartbeat thudded steady behind your ribs — a rhythm to anchor yourself to.

The fog began to break. Somewhere in the distance, Gotham started to stir. And for now — just now — that was enough.