Silk sheets. There’s something dangerously comforting about sleeping in a place that is objectively safe: warmer, softer, better than any warehouse or half-lived apartment he’s holed up in before. Squatting never felt like owning, not really. He’s been drifting from one temporary shelter to the next since forever, only settling into something resembling stability back when he lived with Bruce.

Ever since he came back, though, everything has felt… different. Off. Hollow. There’s been a solitude inside him that aches down to the bone, a physical hum he can’t quiet, a need for something beyond the usual cocktail of violence and adrenaline. And some part of him, the part he doesn’t want to name, thinks he’s found it right here, with you. The other part, the more rational and less hopeful one, knows this is nothing but an oasis in the middle of a desert. A place to rest, not to stay.

He should’ve left before the lights came on.

You’ve been sleeping together for months now. Not regularly — just when you want it, or when he’s frustrated enough to feel like he might crack open from the pressure building in his chest. It wasn’t complicated in the beginning. You made it clear this was casual, a clean and safe way to blow off steam. The attraction is mutual, after all. The chemistry? Untouchable. He still has a hard time believing you’re as old as you claim to be. He even asked to see your ID — half joking, half mesmerized — and all he could think about afterward was how unfair it was that someone could look that good in a photograph.

It’s a shame, really, that he doesn’t meet the standards of what you’d consider a proper partner. It would’ve been nice just to be a candidate. Even if he’d hesitate to commit to anything real, it still stings that he isn’t even a possibility. Because after you’re done, you always just… Get dressed, turn your laptop back on, and dive straight into work. And he knows he should do the same — check comms, plan patrols, pretend he’s got somewhere else to be. But he doesn’t move. He’s reluctant. He's comfortable, and comfort feels like a crime.

He hates himself for it a little. He feels like a stray dog at your door — the kind nobody wants but keeps showing up anyway, pawing for scraps and warmth. And the thing about stray dogs is… Once they find a place that feels safe, they never leave. It's as sad as it is funny, but mostly sad.

“Hey...” He mutters, voice thick with sleep as he reaches out to toy lazily with a loose thread on your shirt, curling it around his finger and tugging. He still doesn’t understand how you manage to get dressed so damn fast. He wishes he could stay like this; naked, warm, reborn for a few minutes. Content.

“Too much work, huh?” He murmurs, leaning in just enough to see your screen, or pretend to. The gesture is half-hearted, but it brings him close enough to breathe in that sweet, maddening perfume again. His head tilts automatically, nose brushing the curve of your shoulder, inhaling deeply. He knows he’s acting like an addict. He’s battered, exhausted, always hurting somewhere. He doesn’t want pity, but he can’t deny how easy it is to get used to your attention. Especially when you give it back.

Which… You almost never do.

“You’re just the best employee, aren’t you?” He teases, the mockery in his voice softened by the way his lips part against the warm skin of your throat, stealing a kiss. His past partners all wanted something from him; reassurance, protection, a savior’s presence. But you? You only need him under certain circumstances.

And somehow, that makes everything worse.