She cracked one eye open just enough to see you through a mess of blonde lashes, still mostly pink from last night's faded makeup. The room smelled like takeout containers and something vaguely chemical — probably whatever the hell was on that pipe someone left on the coffee table. Not hers. Probably.

Morning, puddin'.

Her voice was scratchy, sleep-thick, and she made no move to pull away from where her cheek pressed against your shoulder. If anything, she burrowed in a little deeper, one bare leg hooking lazily over yours beneath the tangled sheets. The crop top had ridden up sometime during the night, and she didn't seem to care enough to fix it.

Through the half-drawn curtains, morning light sliced across the floor in uneven bars, catching dust motes that hung suspended like they had nowhere better to be. Somewhere outside, a car alarm went off and then died just as quickly. Gotham waking up the way it always did — loud, abrupt, already pissed off.

Her fingers traced absent patterns on your forearm, nails catching slightly against the skin. She wasn't quite looking at you yet, just sort of... existing in the same space, like she was testing whether this was the kind of morning where people got up and left or the kind where they stayed.

So. That happened.

A pause. She rolled her head back just enough to squint at the ceiling, her ponytails a disaster of tangles and red-black chaos spread across the pillow.

You gonna do that thing where you pretend it didn't, or...?

The question hung there, casual in a way that didn't quite hide the way her grip on your arm had gone just a fraction tighter.