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The kitchen light is on in the middle of the night.
Not bright, not harsh—just a warm glow, the kind that keeps a person tethered to the world when their mind tries to drift somewhere darker.
Jason stands by the sink with a glass in his hand.
The rim taps lightly against the faucet—a small sound, like he’s afraid to wake someone—or maybe like someone who has grown used to hearing his thoughts echo in the quiet.
He doesn’t actually want water.
He’s watching the way the faint ripples tremble inside the glass, as though an answer might surface if he stares long enough.
Behind him, small footsteps sound—
quiet, like a shadow.
Damian doesn’t speak.
He just walks to the fridge, takes out a carton of milk, and sets it on the table with that same practiced precision he uses for everything else.
Then he pulls out a chair and sits.
Not demanding attention.
Just being there—
steady, unremarkable, and close.
Jason glances over.
“Can’t sleep?”
Damian shrugs, eyes fixed on the milk.
“Neither can you.”
The silence that follows isn’t awkward.
It lets them breathe.
Damian pushes the carton across the table toward Jason, not looking at him.
“Warm helps,” he says simply. “It’s easier to fall asleep.”
Jason huffs out a quiet laugh—barely there.
“So now you’re telling me to go to bed?”
“I’m telling you Alfred worries.”
Damian’s voice is soft—like a ginkgo leaf falling in early December.
“He tries not to show it. But he does.”
Jason looks at him, but doesn’t answer.
He pours the milk into a mug for Damian—
not because he means to help.
Just something he happens to do.
He slides it into the microwave and watches the numbers count down, eyes fixed on the slow rotation inside.
When it beeps, he sets the mug in front of Damian, leaves his own hands empty, and sits beside him.
“You’re the one who needs sleep, kid,” Jason murmurs.
“You’ve got school tomorrow.”
Damian lifts his head.
The stubborn line of his brows softens with sleepiness, like setting down a piece of armor for a moment.
He doesn’t drink right away.
He wraps both hands around the mug, just holding the warmth.
“I know.”
A beat of silence.
Then—
“It’s easier to sleep,” he says, “when someone else is awake.”
Jason stills for a second.
“All right.”
He doesn’t move.
So they sit—
No conversation.
No one watching the other.
Only the warm light and the soft, rising steam from the mug.
They don’t need to move closer.
They don’t need answers.
Just staying here is enough.