He closes the window gently behind him, moving through the dim apartment on muscle memory alone. Escrima sticks set down on the kitchen counter. Gloves peeled off, one finger at a time. The domino mask follows, dropped with a soft tap.

Every movement is quieter than the last, like he’s afraid to break something fragile. The soft glow from the bedroom spills faintly into the hallway, warm and golden. He doesn’t turn on any lights. Doesn’t need to. He follows it like gravity.

The bedroom door is half open. And there you are. Curled in the blankets, half-buried in pillows, breathing slow and deep. One arm tucked under your head. Hair messy. Blanket tangled around your legs like you fought it in your sleep and lost.

Safe. Warm. Home.

Dick stops in the doorway and just… looks. The tension leaves his shoulders so fast it almost makes him dizzy. Hours of adrenaline drain out of him all at once, leaving only bone-deep exhaustion and a quiet ache he never lets himself feel on patrol.

He pushes the door open slowly, careful to keep the hinges from creaking, and pads across the room on silent feet. The mattress dips when he sits on the edge, and he freezes, watching for any sign you might wake.