i can just imagine when the time comes that tim finally manages to convince the rest of the batfam that jason and peter aren’t dating, dick (he’s the poor victim and also the reason for this whole mess) walks in on them full on back against the wall making out (because by that time, jason “i remember a lotta things, pete” and peter “take responsibility, you dick!” have finally realised that its okey to kiss your homoerotic, fake boyfriend, “let’s track each other,” dog parenting roommate)
Look, ALL I'M GOING TO SAY is that Tim's knowledge that Peter and Jason aren't dating isn't going to be the boon he thinks it's going to be ☠️
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comicfury link
HEYY HEYYYY hiatus over plant lives again! This is a fun little hourlies chapter, I love those. Love seeing what they are up to.
warnings: this chapter contains themes of grief, alcohol abuse, and attempted suicide. reader discretion is advised.
if you or someone you love is struggling, please - reach out, and let someone help. you are never on your own.
thirty-seven | thirty-eight | thirty-nine
The car rolled to a gentle stop outside the Norris estate’s black iron gate. Max had already stepped out, the others trailing behind with the energy of soldiers after battle — relieved, sore, and very much exhausted.
The driver’s door didn't open. Lando was still sitting in the driver’s seat, his hands loose on the wheel, and his gaze somewhere far beyond the windshield. He certainly didn’t seem to be in any rush to get out of the car.
Max turned back, leaning into the open window of his passenger side door. “Mate, you comin’ in?” he asked, furrowing his brow.
“Nah,” he murmured. “I’ve got somewhere to be.”
Max frowned. “You good?”
There was a beat of hesitation. Then Lando nodded, a tired smile on his lips.
“Yeah.”
Max opened his mouth — maybe to say be careful, maybe to say you’ve done enough tonight — but before he could even begin to form the words, the car was already rolling away, taillights vanishing into the dark.
Fewtrell couldn’t help but worry, even if tonight had gone well. Usually they’d all celebrate together after a win like this – maybe not with cake and confetti, but they’d found some drinks and takeout did the trick just as well.
Max also knew how hard Lando had been taking everything. Everyone else still saw the ruthless leader that Lando showed them, but Max had known him for a lifetime. Something about him had been different lately, both for better and for worse. He’d disappear at odd times, sometimes not returning for days.
Then there was the time Carlos had to call him because Lando was spiraling, obsessing over getting his revenge like a madman instead of the tactical leader they all knew him to be. There was also the night that none of them had talked about, the one everyone in the Circle would pretend never happened.
But Max could never forget it.
The first night Lando was back at the mansion after Daniel’s death, there was something hollower in his eyes. Everyone was grieving, of course. But there was something to be said about what it must’ve taken from Lando to be the one to sit by Daniel’s side the longest, talking and comforting and joking until it came time for final promises. It was Lando’s hand that blessed Daniel one final time as he gently closed the eyelids of one of his oldest friends, someone who’d been a mentor to him back when he was first starting to make a name for himself.
Everyone blamed themselves, at least a little bit. But no one blamed themselves as much as Lando Norris.
He’d come home that next night, his shoulders weighed down, his voice empty. Where everyone expected a moment of remembrance, or a rallying speech, or a battle cry or just something–
Lando Norris didn’t say a word.
Instead, he walked past everyone who tried to call out to him, and headed straight for his office. The door remained locked for hours.
None of them would forget the muffled sound of heaving sobs they heard that night. It was Carlos who had noticed when those pained cries finally dissipated into weaker whimpers–
Until there was abrupt silence.
Fewtrell had to break the door open, ramming his side against it with the full force of his weight behind him, over and over again until the weight finally gave out. The locking mechanism finally broke, and when Max entered, it felt like he did too.
He walked in, only to find Lando collapsed in a heap on the floor, an awkward mess of limbs in the center of his handcrafted rug. When he stepped closer, he saw that Lando was shaking, the trembling of his body sloshing around the bourbon of the glass in his hand.
“Hey, hey, what’s wrong, mate? You don’t look well,” he tried gently, knowing that Lando was a bit like a cat in that often approaching him with kindness outright only made him scamper away.
But even Max Fewtrell had never seen him like this before.
Lando had attempted to say something in response, but it was too incomprehensible for Max to make it out.
“What is it, hm? Talk to me–”
“Leave me… alone,” Lando slurred, voice caught somewhere short of anger but still past sorrow. “Go away.”
It was only then that Max became close enough to notice the wet glassiness of his eyes, the flush of his cheeks.
Lando was crying.
“Lando, buddy, talk to me, yeah? I’m here–”
“It won’t work,” he cried, words blurring into one another. “Why won’t it work?”
Confused, Max was just about to ask what Lando was talking about when he saw it.
His heart dropped.
Its black metal glinting in the loose, barely-there grip of Lando’s right hand, was his gun.
It won’t work.
“I tried,” Lando laughed –a terribly weak, heartbreaking thing– but it comes out alot more sniffly than he intended. “Two times, I tried. Stupid thing keeps jammin’.”
Taking a shaky breath, Max put on his most believable smile. His hand carefully reached for the loaded gun, speaking only in gentle tones.
“Don’t worry about that’, yeah?” Max coaxed, his voice not nearly as strong as he’d hoped. Still, he plucked the weapon out of Lando’s reach, using his fingers like a pair of forceps.
“No, no,” Lando shook his head, eyes wide and innocent. ”Tha’s mine, give it–”
In his inebriated state, Lando’s efforts to reach the gun were futile, practically missing Max’s hand by a mile. Tucking the now locked weapon into the waistband of his pants, Max wrapped his arms around Lando’s shoulders, locking the younger man’s arms in place. Lando struggled futilely against the gentle yet firm grip for a few minutes, until the exhaustion of his efforts gave way to the real storm that had been brewing inside.
That night, Max sat there, holding Lando as he cried until he finally passed out in his hold, exhausted by the toll of his own emotions. That night, Max rambled on and on, saying all the nice things Lando would have never let him say if he wasn’t absolutely blackout drunk.
Later, as he poured a spare blanket over Lando’s sleeping form, Max didn’t look at Lando and see the same man he did every day. Instead, he saw a boy, one whose heart was in unimaginable pain.
And when Lando woke the next day and said nothing about the events of the previous night, Max and Carlos exchanged a look, silently vowing to never speak a word of this to anyone.
Now, as Max watched the taillights of Lando’s car fade into the distant darkness, he was torn between hope and fear.
Hope – that Lando would find himself knocking on a familiar apartment door, instead of picking up the bottle. That Lando would leave his gun untouched tonight. That instead of locking himself alone somewhere, that maybe he’d find his way to the only arms he’d ever really allowed to hold him. That maybe when he’d return to the mansion in the morning that little bit more sated, something warm in his expression and lax muscles.
Hope, that Lando would find his way to the one that makes him better.
She must have fallen asleep waiting for him.
Again.
The lights in her apartment were dim, just the amber glow of the kitchen under-cabinet lights, and her small figure curled up on the couch under a throw blanket — like she’d tried to stay up and just couldn’t quite make it.
The apartment was mostly dark when Lando arrived, save for the lamp Y/N always left on when she waited for him. Y/N hadn’t meant to fall asleep — that much was obvious from the blanket tugged halfway over her shoulders, a plate of untouched cookies sitting on the coffee table beside a mug of cocoa now gone cold. Beside that table, her figure was curled up on the couch in a quiet doze.
His chest ached, in an alarmingly familiar, fluttery way.
Lando stood in the doorway for a long moment, the night’s weight still pressing against his ribs. Then he stepped in and quietly locked the door behind him.
Without a word, he dropped his coat by the door and stepped inside. He carefully and painstakingly closed the door behind him, silent as a ghost. Then crossed the room in four slow strides and knelt beside her, fingers brushing a loose strand of hair from her cheek. When she stirred, her eyes fluttered open, and she blinked into the darkness until she found him.
“Liam?”
He didn’t answer. He just leaned in and, as gently as he could manage, wrapped his arms around her and pulled her into him — not because she needed it, but because he did.
She was half asleep still, eyes half-lidded, but something in her just knew. Knew it was him, knew he had come home by touch alone, by smell. Even without really opening her eyes she knew it was him, simply by the way his breaths came and his feet made the floorboards creak in familiar tones.
“Hey,” she mumbled, voice thick with sleep, “how was work?”
He didn’t answer, and just held her tighter.
“Come,” Y/N invited softly. “...Sit with me?”
They shifted together until they were both curled on the couch — him half-sprawled, her tucked against his chest, his arms still locked around her like he didn’t trust the world not to take her away if he let go for even a second. It was only after a few long beats had passed, that he finally spoke.
“Needed this,” he mumbled into her shoulder, barely above a breath.
Her heart stuttered.
“Yeah?” she asked.
He nodded again, but slower this time, his cheek brushing against her collarbone.
Her fingers kept stroking his hair. She felt the way he softened under her touch, tension slowly bleeding out of his shoulders.
“Long day, huh?”
“...How’d you know?” he muttered, voice rough with exhaustion
She laughed softly, then kissed the crown of his head. “Lucky guess, I s’pose. But sometimes you get all clingy like this after you’ve had a long day.”
A beat passed.
“M’not clingy.”
“You’re literally on top of me right now.”
He spoke against her, words muffled by the fabric of her sleeping shirt. “Shh, don’t move.”
She laughed softly, before shifting slightly. “Actually, that reminds me, lemme get up a sec—”
“Noooo,” he groaned, arms tightening.
“Oh, c’mon,” she said, smiling as she gently pried herself loose. She laughed again, breath warm in his hair. “I’m just getting your dinner plate. Food will make you feel better, I promise. I bet you haven’t eaten, huh?”
Lando rolled his eyes.
Of course, she’s right.
Naturally, that only made him more annoyed.
A minute later, she returned with the plate she’d tucked away for him in the microwave — still warm, perfectly portioned. He stared at it like she’d handed him the world on a paper plate instead of just a burger and fries.
“Here,” she said, nudging it toward him. “Eat.”
He took the first bite of the burger without a word, and she watched the way his shoulders sank with each chew, like the weight of his day finally could finally evaporate.
“How’d you keep the fries, like, crunchy?”
“Magic,” she deadpanned.
“N’ you didn’t put the tomatoes by the bread,” he breathed, his tone filled with awe. “You made sure it wouldn’t be soggy?”
When she looked at him, the way his eyes were wide with wonder, like she’d performed a miracle instead of simply remembering how he liked his sandwiches, she couldn’t help but laugh.
“Duh,” she smiled. “Of course, stupid.”
She didn’t say anything else after that – just stayed close while he ate, her thigh pressed against his and her presence a steady heartbeat beside him.
And for the first time that day, Lando breathed easy.
It didn’t take him long to finish the food.
Not with her curled beside him, teasing him with those little glances and the occasional pleased hum when he actually paused to take the time to breathe and chew his food slowly instead of just wolfing it down. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was until the food was right in front of him.
He wondered how she’d known.
Is it possible for someone to know you better than you know yourself?
Finally, once he was done, she nudged his arm. “Here, I’ll take it. I’ll only be a minute.”
She took the empty plate from his hands, letting her fingers brush his for a beat longer than necessary.
He made a sound between a groan and a sigh, lifting the plate with an unnecessary amount of effort, like even that motion exhausted him. Even if he looked a little foolish, maybe it was worth it if it made her smile at him like that.
He must’ve gotten lost in some unknown train of thought, however, because he found himself brought back to the present by the sound of her voice.
“You know,” she said lightly, “this might be the quietest you’ve ever been.”
Lando offered a lazy, sideways smirk, but didn’t reply. He seemed perfectly content to just watch her, the outline of her growing smaller as she walked over to the kitchen to take care of those dishes.
“You feeling better now?” she asked as she disappeared down the hallway.
Lando only hummed in reply — noncommittal, eyes heavy-lidded, his body already leaning into the couch cushions like they were trying to swallow him whole.
She called something back over her shoulder after that —maybe another question, or perhaps she was teasing him again— but by the time she rinsed the plate and returned to the living room…
He was already gone.
His body was splayed across her couch like a crooked painting, and with one arm behind his head, the other rested loosely on his chest.
Just like that, he was fast asleep. All of him had gone completely still, save for the slow rise and fall of his breath. His curls were a mess and there was a tiny crease between his brows, like he was still thinking away, even in slumber.
She ran warm water into the sink, the clink of plates and the faint hum of the faucet oddly comforting. She easily rinsed the plate before tucking it into the dishwasher. “So, you wanna tell me about your day now?”
Drying her fingers with a dishcloth, the scent of soap mingled with the warm night air. There was a beat, then another, where there was only silence as she waited.
No answer.
She dried her hands and turned back toward the living room, tossing her question lightly over her shoulder. “Li?”
Still nothing.
When she re-entered the room, she found him completely gone — fast asleep, his arm draped over the back of the couch where she’d been sitting just moments before. His head lolled slightly to the side, curls flattened from her fingers, his breathing slow and steady. Out cold.
And somehow, even like this, he still looked vaguely annoyed — his brow furrowed like even his dreams required sharp angles and unfinished business.
Aww.
Once she was done admiring the sight, she hovered for a moment, unsure as she glanced at the clock.
Midnight.
It wasn’t even worth trying to move him. And god knows he looked like he needed the sleep. She should’ve just grabbed a blanket and gone to her room.
But yet, her feet didn’t move.
She hesitated, chewing lightly on the inside of her cheek.
It’d been a long day. For both of them, maybe. She could go to bed, sure. Let him sleep it off here, leave a blanket and a note for when he woke.
But…
She hesitated.
She thought back to the way he’d curled around her earlier, holding her so easily like he needed it as much as she did. And she couldn’t shake the way it felt, lying in his arms, the unspoken comfort between them. No one had ever made her feel like this — like it was okay to not pretend, to just be… here.
Liam didn’t talk much. But sometimes, silence was better. And sometimes, she thought, she could almost feel the words he didn’t say, the weight of his world in the moments where everything just slowed.
What did it mean to let someone stay? To want them to stay?
She glanced back at him, his face now a little more relaxed, eyes closed in that deep sleep that made him look younger, vulnerable in ways he never allowed anyone to see.
She always did sleep better with him.
Not always beside him, even. Just… with him.
In the room.
In his orbit.
There was something about the steady sound of his breath and the way his body went warm and boneless when he let himself relax – the kind of rest he never seemed to get alone.
So maybe she was selfish for it.
But Y/N was tired too, and if this was what they were, whatever this was…
Then maybe it was okay to let herself indulge in these comforts.
Just a little, she told herself.
Cautiously, Y/N lowered herself beside him, trying not to disturb the quiet. The couch wasn’t huge, but she tucked herself in — back to the cushions, knees bent — and before she could even settle properly, Lando shifted in his sleep.
It wasn’t weird. It wasn’t anything other than natural, even. By now, she knew how her body gravitated toward his. He’d made space for her countless times before, whether that be on the couch or the floor or that one time on her bed or even in her favorite armchair, all without having to say a word. And there was something comforting in that.
Her eyes dropped to the space beside him.
It was certainly narrow.
Probably cramped.
Definitely not designed for two.
She crossed to the couch and knelt beside him, trying not to disturb the sleep he’d clearly been starved of. His face had smoothed out now — not a trace of his usual tension in his jaw. Whatever worries chased him in daylight had finally, at least for tonight, let go.
Carefully, slowly, she lowered herself into the space next to him.
As soon as she settled, Liam’s body shifted, like he was aware of her — even in sleep. His arm moved a fraction, just enough to make room for her, his torso inching closer as if they’d done this a thousand times, as if this was their natural rhythm.
Her body melted into the space he created, a perfect fit, and she exhaled a long, peaceful breath. The rhythm of his breathing matched her own, deep and steady, and for the first time in what felt like forever, she allowed herself to relax completely. There was nothing forced, nothing rushed.
It was as if he knew. As if his body recognized hers before his brain could catch up. The way his arm dropped over her waist like it belonged there, his chest pressed lightly against her back, the heat of him sinking into her like gravity.
There was just that intuitive way he had of molding to her shape like he’d been doing it forever — his arm finding her waist, palm flattening like memory, his leg hitching slightly over hers to make space. Still mostly asleep.
Her breath caught. She didn’t dare move.
Instead, she just tucked herself into the blanket she’d messily stretched over the both of them before she let her eyes slip shut and her breathing slow.
There was one last thought she remembered before the haze of drowsiness washed it away, the quietest of questions.
I wonder if soulmates are real.
Before she could find herself an answer, sleep wrapped her in its warm embrace, and Y/N finally slept like nothing was missing.
She woke to the distant, shrill sound of a phone ringing.
At first, she thought it was part of the dream—some strange, hollow melody echoing through a version of her apartment that wasn’t quite right. But then it kept going, a shrill, persistent ring, slicing through the fog of sleep like a blade.
She groaned softly, her head buried into the back cushion of the couch. Her neck ached. Her arm was numb beneath the weight of his chest. Her face was buried in something warm and solid. Lando’s shirt, she realized after a moment, already rumpled from the night before. He was still out cold, one arm curled beneath her, the other across her hip like a weight he didn’t want to give up.
Raising her head, her eyes blinked blearily into the dim apartment as she noticed the light seeping faintly through the curtains. Her body was still cocooned in the warmth of Liam and his body heat, his limbs still wrapped around her like sleep had erased whatever boundary they might’ve once pretended existed.
Apparently it had been a long sleep, because her muscles felt like they’d melted and then reformed. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d slept that deeply.
Liam didn’t even twitch — somehow completely dead to the world, his jaw slack, his breath slow. It was almost like he’d had such a long day that even the adrenaline gave up. It was rare for him to sleep this long.
Hell, it was rare for her to sleep this long. But they must have slept for quite some time, judging by the fact that the light filtering through the blinds was far too sharp for early morning, and her mouth tasted like she hadn’t spoken in hours.
The phone rang again. She grumbled softly, squeezing her eyes shut tighter before cracking them open.
She blinked slowly, the air cool against her face.
I should probably turn the heat up a bit.
Her back ached in that specific way the couch always promised after too many hours, but the weight across her waist was solid and warm.
Still asleep, his breath warm against the back of her neck, his body curled around hers like he had no plans to move. He didn’t stir, didn’t even move an inch despite the incessant ringing noise. If it weren’t for the rise and fall of his chest against her spine, he could’ve passed for a corpse.
Dumbass, she thought fondly.
She groaned softly and peeled herself away, wincing as his arm that draped over her waist like a stubborn paperweight refused to let go for a beat too long before eventually sliding off.
“Liam,” she whispered half-heartedly, lazily nudging his shoulder. He didn’t even stir. “Liam, your phone’s goin off…”
Nothing.
Y/N didn’t know whether to be annoyed or impressed.
This man could survive a war and sleep through an earthquake, she thought wryly, rubbing the side of her neck as she reluctantly decided to actually get up.
With a quiet sigh, she slipped off the couch, wrapping her arms around herself as she padded across the apartment in her socks, still half-asleep and squinting at the brightness of the morning light spilling in through the windows.
The phone was on the kitchen counter where he’d dropped it the night before. The stupid thing was still vibrating, still ringing.
She reached for it just as it lit up again.
Max Fewtrell.
She recognized him instantly — not just from Liam’s stories and the grainy pictures he’d show her every once in a while, but also of course from the one time he’d dropped a completely wasted Liam at her doorstep, mumbling something about how Liam could probably use her company.
Her thumb hesitated for half a second, but then she answered.
“He—”
But she didn’t even get the full word out.
“Lando, thank god— mate, where the fuck have you been?” Max’s voice was loud, frantic, all in one breath. “I’ve been calling you for hours. No one’s heard from you, we didn’t know where you were or whether you were alive. Do you even realize how much chaos that causes?”
She blinked. Her mouth opened, then closed again.
She was frozen.
“I mean, I always tell you to check in. You said you would. Did you forget what happened last time you went dark after a job? I thought maybe something went wrong, or— Lando? Wait, are you there? Fucking say something—”
“…What?”
The word came out so quietly she might as well have not even said it. Then there was silence, for a beat too long.
She didn’t breathe.
“Lando?” Max again, his voice lowering, seeming to slow down a bit compared to the earlier spiralling. “Lando, are you there? Fuck, just say something, will you—”
She didn’t. She couldn’t.
Her thumb hovered over the button to end the call. Her heart spiked, throat dry, brain catching up to the name.
Lando.
Not Liam.
It wasn’t some nickname, wasn’t some casual slip of syllables.
The thoughts formed a tidal whirlpool, slamming into her so hard that it felt like her mind was blanking and she’d had the wind knocked out of her.
So she hung up. It was immediate, instinctively – like the phone itself had burned her.
The silence that followed was deafening.
With slow fingers, she set the phone back down, as if moving too fast might trigger another hidden landmine. As if the very idea of being seen holding it might further implicate her in something she wasn’t prepared to carry.
With her heartbeat still hammering in her ears, she spared a glance back at the couch where he still lay, peacefully unaware. There, nothing looked out of place — his lashes casting soft shadows across his cheek, the blanket half-twisted around his waist, the corner of his mouth barely curved in his sleep.
She looked at the man still fast asleep on her couch. The same man who said he worked in “business.” The same man who came home that one night with bruises and blood on his knuckles. The same man who made her tea and called her “sweetheart” and fell asleep with his nose tucked into her hair like he’d always belonged there.
Her hands suddenly felt cold.
Who the hell had been in her home all this time?
Max’s voice still rang in her ears.
Lando?
Lando.
Lando.
Not Liam.
Not the man on her couch.
Not the man who’d just spent the night wrapped around her, holding her in a protective embrace like she was something precious.
She stared at the phone on the counter like it might explode.
Missed Call: Max Fewtrell.
Her breathing was too loud in the quiet. Her heart wouldn’t settle. Instead, her grip on the counter tightened. Her heart beat too fast. Something cracked inside her — not loudly, not all at once, but quiet. Like glass under pressure, fine and fragile.
Y/N was startled from her thoughts when behind her, she heard the soft scuff of movement.
She turned just as he walked in, sleepy and loose-limbed, dragging a hand through his curls. He looked like he was still warm from sleep, still him.
There was a yawn then, soft and lazy, before his bare feet padded across the hardwood and stopped in the doorway of her kitchen. His voice was rough with sleep, still warm with leftover affection.
“Morning, Angel,” he mumbled, before grinning – a lopsided, dorky thing. “Do we have somewhere to be, or…?”
Once-familiar brown eyes sought hers, his whole expression immediately pausing when she didn’t smile back, when she didn’t say anything at all.
That was when he saw it, something foreign swirling and clouding those eyes he’d come to love.
Not surprise.
Not confusion.
But fear.
It was a subtle, visceral kind of fear. It made her take a step back before she could stop herself. Her fingers curled into her palm like it’d somehow protect her, but at the same time her breathing was becoming too shallow.
His smile dropped.
“Hey,” he said more gently, his hands automatically reaching for her until she flinched back from him. Hurt flashed across his face, like it hurt him to be away from her, like he couldn’t possibly understand what the hell was going on right now.
All he knew was that she looked upset, that she looked afraid. His instinct was to reach out, to hold her, to comfort her. Confusion was written clearly across his face as his eyes searched hers, desperate to decipher why she wouldn’t let him soothe her.
“Hey, sweetheart. S’alright, it’s okay,” he tried, but she could still barely look at him. “What happened?”
Her eyes darted to the phone on the counter, then back to him. She looked like she wanted to ask a thousand things and none of them, all at once. But she really wanted was to go back to twenty minutes ago, where al she’d known was sweetness and warmth and safety instead of this fear that threatened to split her chest open.
Lando only grew more worried and more confused the longer she didn't answer him. In all the time he’d gotten to know her, she’d never looked like this.
For once, he was at a loss, unsure of what to do.
Her voice came out quiet, uncertain. It took all the strength she could muster to keep the words from splintering halfway in her throat.
“…Who's Lando?”
a/n: i'm just gonna go ahead and leave this here...
A large sheet of blank paper was spread out across the circular picnic table. Soap sketched the basic lines of streets, intersections, and buildings. The hand drawn map of Eden was slowly coming together as he also filled out the natural landscape of parks, waterways, and landmarks.
Once it was completed, they’d make copies and give it to their soldiers to study so they could become familiar with the landscape before the raid. That way they weren’t going to get lost or accidentally ambushed in a dead end.
Simple enough.
Except for the fact that the two people that had the most experience inside Eden – and thus were the best qualified to help him map it out – were Catori and Ghost.
Beach games. Soft kisses. Jason Todd holding your hand like it’s a decision. The kind of day that reminds you why healing feels dangerous—in the best way.
📝 IM SO SORRY!! Some of my tag list people accidentally got filtered out after my spreadsheet software updated 😭 if you accidentally weren’t getting tagged or were getting tagged in the wrong things my bad. I love y’all very much.
🥀Return to Story Master List🌹
The next morning comes gently at the beach house.
Not with alarms or urgency or the weight of a city already awake without you—but with light, pale and gold, slipping through the windows like it’s checking whether it’s allowed in yet.
You wake to the sound of the ocean first.
Then the smell of coffee.
Jason is already up.
You find him barefoot in the kitchen, hoodie sleeves pushed to his forearms, one hand braced on the counter while the coffee drips like it’s got all the time in the world. His hair is a mess in that endearing, unguarded way that never survives Gotham mornings.
He looks over when he hears you.
“Mornin’,” he says softly, like the word itself might still be stretching awake.
“Hey,” you answer, leaning into the doorway. You don’t rush toward him. You don’t need to. The space between you feels settled, familiar already.
He pours you a mug without asking.
You take it from him with a quiet smile, fingers brushing, and something in his shoulders loosens like that was the right answer to a question he didn’t know he was asking.
Outside, the beach is already alive—waves folding over themselves, gulls arguing loudly over nothing.
Sophia wakes not long after, padding down the hall with her blanket trailing behind her like a cape. She doesn’t say anything at first—just climbs into your lap while you sit on the couch, face pressed into your shoulder.
Jason watches it from the kitchen, pretending not to.
You kiss the top of her head. “Good morning, beach explorer.”
She hums, then wriggles free, already distracted by the promise of outside.
The three of you end up back on the sand before the house is even fully awake.
Sophia wanders near the shoreline, crouching, standing, crouching again—deeply absorbed in the important work of finding things. You sit on a towel, coffee warming your hands, letting the quiet stretch.
Jason drops down beside you, close enough that your knees touch.
“This feels fake,” he murmurs.
You smile. “Don’t jinx it.”
He huffs a laugh and leans back on his hands, face tilted toward the sun.
Sophia comes back a few minutes later, fist clenched tight, her expression serious in a way that makes your chest ache before you know why.
She stops in front of you and opens her hand.
Inside is a shell—uneven, chipped along one edge, its color faded in places. Not impressive. Not polished.
Chosen.
“This one’s yours,” she says simply.
You kneel to her level, brushing sand from her knees, and close your fingers gently around it.
“Thank you,” you say, like it matters. Because it does.
You tuck the shell into your pocket without ceremony.
Jason sees it.
You don’t look at him, but you feel the moment land—quiet, weighty, something he files away instead of commenting on.
Sophia grins, satisfied, and immediately wanders back toward the water, the exchange complete.
Jason exhales slowly. “She… does that?”
“Yeah,” you say. “She gives away the good ones.”
He nods, like that explains something important.
Not long after, the quiet breaks.
Stephanie Brown arrives like a burst of sunlight and noise, beach bag slung over her shoulder, already talking before she’s fully in the yard.
“Oh my god,” she says, spotting Sophia immediately. “Is that the tiniest beach criminal I’ve ever seen?”
Sophia lights up.
“Sparkle!” she announces with delight.
Steph gasps. “I love it. That’s my name now.”
Tim follows behind her, arms full of snacks and sunscreen and what looks suspiciously like a laminated checklist.
“I brought backup supplies,” he says, already scanning the area like this is a mission instead of a beach day.
Sophia grabs his hand and starts dragging him toward the water without explanation.
Tim glances back at you. “I’ve been recruited.”
Jason snorts. “Good luck, Drake.”
Steph flops down beside you on the towel, already applying sunscreen with zero regard for dignity.
“She’s perfect,” she says, nodding toward Sophia. “Absolutely feral. I approve.”
You laugh, the sound easy and unguarded.
Jason watches the whole scene—the way Sophia moves easily between people, the way you let her go without hovering, the way the space around you feels… held.
He shifts closer, his knee pressing into yours.
“She’s got good people,” he says quietly.
You glance at him, warmth blooming low in your chest.
“So do you.”
He looks at you for a beat longer than necessary, something soft and startled crossing his face.
The morning stretches on like it doesn’t have anywhere else to be.
And for once—neither do you.
—
The game is Stephanie’s idea.
Which means it isn’t really a game so much as a loosely agreed-upon activity with vibes, rules that change mid-play, and absolutely no scorekeeping integrity.
Jason eyes the frisbee like it might personally offend him. “I’m not—”
Sophia cheers. Loud. Pointing at him.
“Jason!”
That’s it. That’s the end of his resistance.
He sighs and pushes himself to his feet. “Fine. But I’m not diving.”
Steph grins. “We’ll see.”
You end up on Jason’s team by default, which feels less like strategy and more like inevitability. Tim insists on explaining throwing angles like he’s briefing a mission, complete with hand gestures. Steph listens for exactly three seconds before launching the frisbee anyway.
It sails too far.
Jason jogs after it, muttering under his breath, scooping it up with practiced ease. He throws it back with a lazy flick that’s far more accurate than he meant it to be.
Steph shields her eyes. “Oh no. He’s athletic.”
“Tragic,” you deadpan.
Sophia runs between all of you like a comet, shrieking every time the frisbee moves, cheering indiscriminately. Sometimes for Tim. Sometimes for you. Mostly for Jason, who pretends not to notice and fails completely.
At one point, Steph dives dramatically into the sand, pops back up with grit in her hair, and declares, “I regret nothing.”
Tim offers her a towel like this is a known outcome.
Jason finally gives in—really gives in—when Sophia claps every time he throws. He loosens, laughs more, lets himself sprint and spin and exist without bracing for impact.
You catch the frisbee once, badly, nearly tripping over your own feet.
Jason’s hand is at your back instantly, steadying you.
“You good?” he asks.
“Yeah,” you laugh. “Just uncoordinated.”
“Still counts,” he says, low and sincere.
Later, when the game dissolves into chaos and sand and everyone collapsing onto towels, Jason drops beside you, breathing a little heavier, hair falling into his eyes.
Steph flops down dramatically on your other side. “Okay but I’m just saying, Todd smiled at least twice.”
Jason groans. “You’re all liars.”
Tim, already documenting something on his phone, says, “Three times. Four if you count the one Sophia caused.”
Sophia beams at that like it’s an achievement.
Jason leans back on his elbows, tilting his face toward the sun, and you feel the quiet pride settle in your chest.
This—this mess of laughter and sand and sunburned shoulders—feels like something you’re allowed to keep.
And when Jason’s hand finds yours again, fingers lacing without ceremony, you know he feels it too.
—
The energy burns itself out the way it always does—loud at first, then slower, softer, until everyone ends up sprawled under umbrellas and towels like they’ve collectively agreed to rest.
Sophia is happily occupied a short distance away with Steph and Tim, building something elaborate and doomed near the waterline. Her laughter drifts over easily, unburdened.
You sit in the shade, back against the cooler, passing a bottle of water between you and Jason. The sun has warmed everything—your skin, the sand, the air itself.
Jason tips the bottle back, drinks, then presses it into your hand without looking. His fingers linger just a beat too long.
“Hydrate,” he says.
You smile. “Bossy.”
“Alive,” he counters.
You sip, then stretch, toes digging into the sand. Jason watches you do it, gaze lazy, unguarded. When you glance back at him, he doesn’t look away.
Instead, he tilts his head. “Waves look good.”
You narrow your eyes. “You’re plotting.”
“Always.”
You don’t get a chance to object before he’s on his feet, offering you a hand like a challenge. You take it—of course you do—and let him pull you toward the shoreline.
The water is cold enough to make you gasp when it hits your ankles.
Jason laughs, genuine and surprised, and wades in farther, tugging you along. You splash him deliberately, sending a spray of water straight at his chest.
“Oh, that’s how it is?” he says.
He lunges, hands catching at your waist as a wave breaks around your legs. You shriek, half-laughing, half-protesting as he tries—very clearly—to dunk you.
“Jason!”
“You started it,” he says, grinning, breathless, water dripping from his hair.
You twist, slipping from his grip just enough to splash him again. He catches you the second time, steadier now, pulling you close so the next wave hits you together instead.
Your hands brace against his shoulders. His grip is firm but careful, keeping you upright even as the water surges.
For a moment, everything slows.
The ocean roars.
The sun glints off the water.
Jason’s face is inches from yours.
“You okay?” he asks quietly, all play gone soft.
You nod. “Yeah.”
He leans in without rushing it, like he’s giving you time to change your mind. You don’t.
The kiss is salt and laughter and warmth—brief, lingering, uncomplicated. His thumb brushes your cheek, grounding, affectionate.
When you pull back, you’re both smiling.
“Again,” you murmur, already knowing the answer.
He kisses you once more, deeper this time but still gentle, before a wave crashes into your knees and forces you both to laugh and stumble apart.
Jason steadies you, forehead resting briefly against yours.
“Worth it,” he says.
You grin. “Absolutely.”
You head back toward the towels, dripping and breathless, the world still soft around the edges. Sophia waves at you from her sand project like this is exactly where you’re meant to be.
Jason walks close beside you, arm brushing yours with every step.
The afternoon stretches on, unhurried.
And nothing feels like it needs fixing.
—
The sun starts to lower without anyone announcing it.
The heat eases. The air softens. The kind of warmth that settles instead of presses.
You and Jason stretch out on towels under the umbrella, skin still damp, hair drying slowly in the breeze. Sophia has migrated back toward the sandcastle project with Steph and Tim, her laughter drifting over in lazy bursts, safe and distant.
Jason lies on his back, one arm bent behind his head. You turn onto your side, facing him, tracing absent patterns in the sand with your free hand.
At some point, his fingers find yours.
No hesitation.
No question.
Just contact.
His thumb rubs slow circles against your knuckles, steady and grounding. You curl closer without even realizing you’re doing it, your knee resting against his thigh, your head near his shoulder.
Neither of you speaks.
You don’t need to.
The ocean fills the space instead—rhythmic, endless, forgiving.
You close your eyes for a while. Not sleeping. Just letting your body remember what it feels like to be held in place by something gentler than vigilance.
When you open them again, Jason is watching you—not intently, not guarded. Just present.
“Hey,” he murmurs.
“Hey.”
“I could do this,” he says quietly.
The words land with more weight than he probably intended.
You turn your hand so your fingers lace together fully this time. “Yeah?”
He nods once, eyes on the horizon now. “Yeah. I think… I want to.”
You don’t rush to answer. You don’t try to make it mean more than it does.
Instead, you squeeze his hand.
“I’m here,” you say.
That’s enough.
The light shifts again, amber now, glinting off the water like the ocean is trying to remember itself. You sit up slowly, watching Sophia chase Steph along the shoreline, Tim trailing behind with resigned patience.
You think about exits less than you used to.
You think about moments more.
Jason leans in, presses a quiet kiss to your temple, lingering there like he’s anchoring himself.
Later, when the air cools enough that you reach for his shirt again, he drapes it around your shoulders without comment. His arm settles around you easily, like it’s been practicing for this.
The day doesn’t end with fireworks.
It fades.
Softly.
Warmly.
On purpose.
And for the first time in a while, you don’t dread the night.
