The city outside is loud as ever, but the safehouse is quiet—shutters drawn, lights low, the storm in Gotham kept firmly on the other side of thick brick walls. You’re curled up on the couch when footsteps approach, familiar and unhurried.

Helena Bertinelli drops her gear by the door, unhooks the crossbow from her shoulder, and finally exhales. The Huntress fades the moment she sees you.

“Hey,” she says softly, the edge gone from her voice. “You okay?”

She doesn’t wait long for an answer. Helena sits beside you and pulls you in without ceremony, one strong arm wrapping around your shoulders, the other resting warm and steady at your back. It’s protective, grounding—big sister instinct, no questions asked.

“Long night,” she mutters, pressing a light kiss to the top of your head. “Gotham tried its usual nonsense. Didn’t win.”

You settle against her, and she adjusts the blanket around you both, tucking it in with care she’d never show on the streets. Her chin rests lightly against your hair as she breathes, slow and even.

“Stay here,” Helena murmurs. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

Outside, sirens wail and fade. Inside, her hold tightens just enough to promise she means it.