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You don't remember deciding to move. One second you're on the floor, the letter crumpled against your chest, and the next you're on your feet, dragging your jacket off the hook by the door. Your hands are shaking too hard to get your arms through the sleeves properly. You don't care.
He doesn't get to do this. He doesn't get to decide this for you and vanish before you can even argue.
You've seen him do reckless things before. Jump off buildings. Walk into rooms full of men with guns like it was nothing. But this, this letter, this quiet, cowardly goodbye slid under your door like a bill you forgot to pay this is the most reckless thing you've ever seen him do. Because he's trying to protect you by breaking the one thing that's kept you steady since the day you met him.
You know where he goes when he wants to disappear. The old warehouse roof by the docks, the one he thinks you don't know about, the one he took you to exactly once, on a night he was too tired to pretend he didn't need company. You'd sat up there with him until 4 a.m., his head in your lap, and he'd told you almost asleep, almost honest that it was the only place in the city that felt quiet.
You take the fire escape stairs two at a time.
The city blurs past you, cold air biting at your wet cheeks, and you don't stop to think about how insane this is. Chasing down a vigilante at midnight because he wrote you a breakup letter instead of saying it to your face. But you know him. You know that underneath the leather and the guns and the anger he wears like armor, he is still, somehow, a boy who died once and never quite believed anyone would choose to stay after finding out what that cost him.
You find the warehouse. You find the fire escape on the east side, rusted and groaning under your feet, and you climb.
He's exactly where you knew he'd be.
Sitting on the ledge, forearms braced on his knees, helmet discarded beside him like he couldn't stand to look at the city through it anymore. He doesn't turn when the metal creaks under your shoes. He doesn't turn when you say his name, quiet, breathless from the climb.
"You shouldn't be here."
"You don't get to tell me where I'm allowed to be," you say. Your voice cracks in the middle, and you hate that it does, hate that even now you can't be as steady as you want to be in front of him. "Not after that letter."
His shoulders tense. "I meant every word."
"I know you did." You step closer, close enough that the wind isn't the only thing making you cold. "That's what makes it so stupid."
Now he turns. And god, he looks wrecked eyes red-rimmed, jaw tight like he's been grinding his teeth since the moment he slid that envelope under your door. He looks like a man who convinced himself that leaving was the same thing as loving you enough.
"You don't understand," he says. "He knows you exist. Do you get what that means? Do you understand what he does to the people Iâ"
He stops himself. Too late.
"Say it," you whisper.
"Don't."
"You already wrote it in the letter. You just didn't have the guts to say it to my face your words, not mine." You're crying again, but you don't bother wiping it away this time. "So say it."
His jaw works. His hands curl into fists on his knees like he's fighting something bigger than the Joker, bigger than any villain in this city. Like he's fighting himself.
"I love you," he says, and it comes out broken, furious, like he resents the words for being true. "I love you and that's exactly why I can'tâ"
"That's exactly why you don't get to decide this alone." You drop to your knees in front of him on the cold roof, taking his face in your hands, forcing him to look at you instead of the skyline he's so good at hiding in. "You don't get to protect me by disappearing. You don't get to love me from a rooftop across the street and call that keeping me safe."
His breath catches. "How did youâ"
"I know you, Jason. I know you didn't really leave. I know you're the kind of stubborn idiot who'd stand guard over someone even after telling them goodbye." You press your forehead to his. "So stop guarding me from a distance and let me actually choose. Let me decide if I'm scared of what loving you might cost. That's my choice to make. Not yours."
For a long moment he doesn't say anything. His hands come up slowly, like he's not sure he's allowed, and settle at your waist, careful, like you might still shatter even after everything you just said.
"If something happens to you," he says, voice raw, "I won't survive it."
"And if you push me away," you say, "I already haven't."
He makes a sound then something between a laugh and a sob, the kind of sound a person makes when they've been holding their breath for far too long. He pulls you into him, burying his face against your neck, and you feel him shake.
"I'm not good at this," he mutters into your skin. "The letting people stay part."
"I know." You wrap your arms around him, holding on like you're the one keeping him from falling this time. "We'll figure it out. Together. That's the part you keep forgetting you don't have to survive anything alone anymore."
Above you, the city hums on, indifferent and endless, the same as it was an hour ago when you found an envelope under your door. But up here, on a rooftop that smells like rust and rain, something quietly rearranges itself back into place.
He doesn't let go of you for a long time. And this time, neither of you pretends that's a mistake.
tags: dick grayson x reader, nightwing x reader, angst, miscommunication, hurt/comfort, happy ending, reader-insert, long fic, canon-adjacent, mild violence mention, pining, friends to lovers adjacent, established relationship complications
author's note: okay so I said I wasn't going to write another one of these but here we are. help. he lives in my head rent free. this got away from me at about 3am and I have no regrets. usual reader-insert rules apply â no physical description, gender neutral. grab a snack, this is a long one.
You don't mean to fall asleep on his couch.
It just happens the way a lot of things happen with Dick Grayson â gradually, and then all at once. One minute you're sitting with your knees tucked up under you, pretending to watch whatever he'd put on, and the next you're blinking yourself awake in the particular blue-dark of his BlĂźdhaven apartment at some ungodly hour, a blanket you definitely didn't have before tucked around your shoulders.
The TV is off. The lamp in the corner is on its lowest setting, casting a warm amber glow over the small living room. There's the distant sound of traffic outside, and closer â a soft, rhythmic sound from somewhere nearby.
Dick is asleep in the armchair across from you. Still dressed, one arm hanging off the side, his head tilted against the cushion at an angle that's going to be a problem for his neck in the morning. There's a half-eaten takeout container on the coffee table between you.
You watch him for a moment longer than you probably should.
There's something about Dick Grayson asleep that's different from Dick Grayson awake. Awake, he's all momentum â always doing something, saying something, grinning that particular grin that makes people feel like they've just been handed something warm to hold. Asleep, there's none of the performance. Just a person. Just a man who pushes himself too hard and sleeps in armchairs and apparently tucks blankets around people without waking them.
You look away. Pull the blanket tighter.
The thing is â and you are absolutely not thinking about this at two in the morning â you've been in love with him for long enough that it's stopped feeling like a crisis. It's settled into something quieter. A permanent resident in your chest. You've gotten very good at making room for it.
What you are less good at is pretending it doesn't take up space.
The beginning of the problem â the current iteration of it, anyway â starts about three weeks earlier.
You'd been in Gotham for a Wayne Foundation event, one of the ones you'd helped coordinate, and Dick had shown up late with someone on his arm. A woman named Catalina, which you already knew, because you know Dick's life probably better than you know your own. You know he does this. You know it doesn't mean anything. You know, and yet â
And yet you'd spent the rest of the evening with a champagne flute in your hand, nodding at the right times, smiling at the right people, and very carefully not looking at the corner where Dick was laughing at something she'd said.
He'd found you after, predictably. He always finds you.
"You okay?" he'd said, appearing at your elbow like he'd materialized from nothing. Up close, he'd smelled like expensive laundry and whatever cologne Bruce keeps at the manor. "You've been quiet."
"I'm fine," you'd said. "Tired. It's been a long week."
He'd looked at you for a moment with those eyes â that specific look he has where he's actually paying attention, actually seeing you, and it's somehow worse than being looked over. "You sure?"
"I'm sure," you'd said, and smiled, and hated yourself a little.
He'd let it go. He shouldn't have, maybe, but he did, and you'd told yourself that was fine. That you were fine. That you'd been fine for years and you'd continue to be.
The second part of the problem is that Dick Grayson is not, actually, oblivious.
People make that mistake. He's charming and warm and he laughs easily, and people sometimes read that as shallow. Like the smile is a magic trick designed to distract you from noticing there's nothing behind it. That's not Dick. Dick notices everything. He just chooses, very deliberately, what to do with what he notices.
You have suspected, for approximately the last eighteen months, that he has noticed you.
Not the way you'd want â or maybe exactly the way you'd want, which is the terrifying possibility you mostly refuse to look at directly. Like an eclipse. You can know it's there without staring.
It's been three weeks since the Gotham event when everything comes to a head, and it happens, because of course it does, in the middle of an argument.
You're in his apartment again. This has become a habit â you drive to BlĂźdhaven on weekends sometimes, or he comes to you, or you meet somewhere in the middle, and you pretend this is normal friend behavior and not something that is quietly, steadily reshaping the architecture of your daily life. You've rearranged your schedule around him so many times it barely even registers anymore.
The argument starts small. They always do.
He's late â over an hour, this time â and you've been sitting in his apartment with the key he'd given you eight months ago, which you've also never really thought too hard about, and when he finally comes through the door he's in civilian clothes but you can tell from the way he's moving that Nightwing had been out. The careful way he holds his ribs. The slight drag in his step he thinks he hides well.
"You should have texted," you say, and mean for it to come out mild, but something in your voice is sharper than you'd intended.
He looks up from where he's toeing off his shoes. "I know. I'm sorry, I gotâ"
"Held up, I know." You put down the book you've been decidedly not reading. "It's fine."
"You don't sound like it's fine."
"I said it's fine, Dick."
He looks at you for a long moment. Then he crosses the room and sits on the coffee table directly in front of you, forearms on his knees, bringing himself down to your eye level in that way he does when he wants you to take him seriously. It works. It's annoying that it works.
"What's going on?" he says. Not accusatory. Genuinely asking.
"Nothing's going on. I was worried. You were late and you weren't answering your phone and I didn'tâ" You stop. Breathe. "I didn't know if something had happened."
"I'm fine."
"I can see that." Your voice cracks on the last word in a way you absolutely do not authorize. "But I didn't know that, for an hour and twenty minutes. I didn't know."
Dick is quiet. He has the grace to look genuinely sorry, which makes it worse somehow â it would be easier if he'd gotten defensive. "I should have texted. You're right. I'm sorry."
"Stop apologizing," you say, and push up off the couch, because you need to move, you need the room to not have him sitting directly in front of you looking at you like that. "I don't â that's not what I'm asking for."
"Then what are you asking for?"
You stop by the window. BlĂźdhaven at night is not pretty, exactly, but it's vivid. There's always something happening down there. You've come to find it oddly comforting.
"I don't know," you say, which is a lie. You know exactly what you're asking for.
You hear him stand. Hear him cross the room. He stops somewhere behind you, close enough that you're aware of him in the specific way you're always aware of him â like a shift in atmospheric pressure.
"You've been different," he says. "Since Gotham."
"I haven't."
"You have." He's not arguing, just stating. "You went quiet at the event. And then you went quiet with me. And I don'tâ" He pauses. "I don't know how to fix it if you won't tell me what it is."
"It doesn't need to be fixed."
"You're unhappy."
"Dickâ"
"You're unhappy," he says again, "and it's been weeks, and you keep telling me you're fine, and I can'tâ" His voice does something complicated. "I can't stand watching you be unhappy and not knowing why."
You turn around.
He's closer than you expected. He always is. He's looking at you with an expression that doesn't have a clean name â something between frustrated and worried and something else underneath both of those that you can't let yourself look at too directly.
"It's not something you did," you say. "Or not something you know you did. It'sâ" You stop. Look at the floor. Look back up. "It's complicated."
"Is it about Catalina?"
You go very still.
Dick's expression shifts. "That's it, isn't it."
"It's notâ" The denial dies somewhere in your throat. "It's not about her. Specifically."
"Then what?"
You open your mouth. Close it. Try again. There is a version of this conversation where you say something came up, sorry, never mind, forget it, smile, and successfully bury this for another indeterminate length of time. You have rehearsed this version. You have gotten quite good at it.
Something about the way he's looking at you makes the rehearsed version unavailable.
"I hate," you say, carefully, "how easy it is for you."
He blinks. "What?"
"Being â you." You gesture vaguely, which is not precise but is the best you can do. "People love you. People are alwaysâ" You exhale. "Catalina, and before that Kori, and before that whoever else, and it's always justâ" you wave your hand again "âeasy. And I know that's not fair, I know it's not your fault that you'reâ"
"What are you actually saying right now?" He's not angry. If anything he sounds carefully, almost painfully focused.
"I'm saying I'm tired." Your voice comes out quieter than you meant it to. "I'm tired of being in the adjacent position. I'm tired of being the person you call when things fall apart and you need someone steady, and I am â I want to be that person, I genuinely do, that's not the problem, the problem is that Iâ"
You stop.
He waits.
"The problem is that I am in love with you," you say. "Which I am aware is not a you problem. I'm not telling you because I think you owe me something. I'm telling you because you asked and I'm apparently â I can't lie to you. I've never been able to lie to you."
The silence that follows is the loudest you have ever heard.
Dick's face does something you cannot parse. It happens in layers â like watching someone work through a long series of calculations, each one shifting the expression above it.
"Okay," he says.
"Okay?"
"I meanâ" He runs a hand through his hair. "I need a second."
That lands somewhere tender and sore in your chest. Right. You'd expected this. You'd prepared for this. You take a breath, and another, and manufacture something that might pass for composure.
"You don't have to say anything," you say. "I know this is â I'm not asking for anything. I justâ"
"Stop," he says.
You stop.
"Stop doing that." His voice is strange. Not unkind. "Stop wrapping everything up neatly before I've evenâ" He exhales hard. "You always do this. You say something real and then you immediately start cushioning it, and you look at me like you're braced for something, and I can'tâ"
"Dick."
"I've been in love with you for two years," he says. "Approximately."
The room does something strange. Like the air pressure changes.
"I'm sorry," you say. "What?"
"Two years. Give or take." He looks almost pained. "Maybe longer. I'm bad at noticing it while it's happening. Retrospectively I think it wasâ" He stops. Recalibrates. "You remember when you came with me to Haley's for the memorial? Before it closed?"
The non sequitur takes you a second to follow. "I â yes. Of course."
"You didn't ask questions the whole drive. You justâ" He looks at his hands. "You were just there. And I remember thinkingâ" He shakes his head. "I don't know exactly what I thought. Something about how you made it easier to be someone who carried the things I carry. And afterward I didn'tâI didn't let myself think about it too much because the timing was terrible and things were complicated and I told myself it wasn'tâ"
"Dick." Your voice comes out very small.
He looks up.
"Why didn't you say anything?"
"Because." He looks slightly wrecked. "Because I'm good at watching people leave. I'm â that is the one thing I am genuinely good at. And I thought if I didn't say anything then at least I'd still haveâ" he waves a hand at the space between you "âthis. Whatever this is. And I could live with that. I thought I could live with that."
"And theâ" You are trying to construct a sentence. "The Catalinas of the world."
"Are not you." He says it simply. "Have never been you. Are generally somewhat poorly thought-through decisions made by someone who is trying very hard not to want something he's convinced he can't have."
You stare at him.
He stares back.
"This," you say, very slowly, "is an absurd situation."
Something unlocks in his face. "Yeah."
"We have both been." You gesture between you. "For how long exactly."
"At minimum two years."
"Dick."
"I know."
"That'sâ"
"I know."
"We wasted so much time," you say, and you mean it to come out frustrated but it comes out something closer to exhausted, and the exhaustion tips over at its edges into something that is almost like wanting to laugh.
He crosses the room. He stops directly in front of you, and you're looking up at him, and he is looking at you with an expression that you recognize now for what it is â something you've been seeing for two years and filing incorrectly, labeling as concern or fond or just how he looks at people he cares about, when the actual label is so much simpler and more devastating than any of those.
"Can Iâ" he starts.
"Yes," you say, before he finishes.
He kisses like he does most things: like he means it.
Not tentative, not performative. His hand comes up to your jaw like he's done this a thousand times, or like he's thought about doing it a thousand times, which â given the preceding conversation â might both be true in different ways. You reach up and grip the front of his shirt and he makes a quiet sound against your mouth, like something released.
When you pull back, he keeps his forehead against yours.
"Two years," you say.
"Approximately." His voice is rough.
"I'm going to hold that over you forever."
He laughs, short and genuine, and the sound of it does something warm and destructive to your chest. "That's fair."
The aftermath of big revelations is always a little strange.
You've read enough to know the shape of it: there's the moment, and then there's the morning after, when the moment is real but everything else is also still real â the apartment, the leftover takeout, the fact that someone who regularly gets thrown through windows is in love with you and you are in love with them back, and whatever that means for the practical geography of your lives.
You stay up until four in the morning, not doing anything dramatic, just talking. Sitting on the floor with your backs against the couch, trading the bad takeout back and forth, filling in the gaps. He tells you about the memorial drive, the exact thought he'd had. You tell him about the Gotham event, the champagne flute, the ceiling of the ballroom you'd memorized to avoid looking at a particular corner.
"I thought you were uninterested," he says. "Like, categorically. That you'd decided I wasn'tâthat I was too much to deal with."
"You are too much to deal with," you say. "I chose to deal with you anyway."
He looks at you. "Yeah?"
"Obviously."
He smiles. It's not the public smile, the performance smile. It's the one underneath that one. You've caught glimpses of it before and never known what to do with it.
Now you know.
Here's the thing about loving someone who does what Dick Grayson does:
It doesn't get simple. You knew this going in â had known it for two years before anything was even said out loud, had sat with the knowledge of it and made your peace. The fear is real. The waiting is real. The specific agony of knowing he's out there in the dark doing things that could genuinely end him, and being unable to do anything about it except leave the light on â that's real.
But so is this. So is him asleep in the armchair because he didn't want to wake you. So is the key on your keychain and the way he finds you in a room and the two years of him quietly, steadily making himself indispensable in a way that you now know was not unintentional.
A month later, you're back in that apartment.
Different configuration, this time. You're on the couch and he's beside you, his arm around you, your head on his shoulder. He's explaining something about a case â not the classified elements, just the periphery, the way he does sometimes when he needs to talk it through out loud â and you're listening in that half-attending way you have, absorbing the shape of what he's saying rather than every detail.
You're not scared right now. You know that will come and go. But in this specific moment, in this specific dim-lit room, you are not scared.
"You're not listening," he says.
"I am," you say. "You think it's connected to the warehouse thing from two weeks ago."
"Okay, you're half-listening."
"That's all you need. I'm the sounding board, not the detective."
He laughs a little. Pulls you slightly closer. "Fair."
Outside, BlĂźdhaven does what it does. Sirens at some indefinite distance. Traffic on the overpass. The ordinary sounds of a city that doesn't stop.
"Hey," Dick says.
"Mm."
"I'm glad you told me."
You think about three weeks ago, and three weeks before that, and two years of a thing you'd learned to carry. You think about a specific ballroom ceiling and a takeout container and the particular quality of his voice at four in the morning when he stops performing and just exists.
"Yeah," you say. "Me too."
The last scene is this:
It's a Sunday morning, which is unusual â Sundays are often complicated in various ways that don't need specifying. But this Sunday it rains, steadily and grey, and you wake up to the sound of it and the smell of coffee from somewhere nearby.
He's already up. You find him in the kitchen in an old Gotham Academy shirt with a coffee mug in each hand, looking out the window at the rain with an expression of someone who is deeply content with where he is.
He hears you and turns and gives you that smile â the real one, the underneath one â and holds out one of the mugs.
You cross the room and take it. Stand beside him. Look out at the rain.
"Penny for your thoughts," you say.
"Nothing profound. Just thinking it's a good morning."
You look at him sideways. He's looking at the rain still, half-smiling, and you think: here is a man who grew up in a circus and was raised by a billionaire and has saved the world more times than is statistically likely and loves you across two years of carefully unremarked-upon distance.
"Yeah," you say. "It is."
You lean against his shoulder, and he leans back, and outside the rain keeps coming down over BlĂźdhaven, and neither of you says anything else for a long time.
end
thanks for reading if you made it this far, you absolute champion. my inbox is open if you want to yell at me about it, I deserve it. reblog if you also have a debilitating thing for Richard John Grayson, you know who you are.
warnings: fluff, domestic comfort, a tiny bit of angst (he's tired, he's always tired)
word count: ~900
a/n: just a little thing that wouldn't leave my brain. he deserves so much rest and someone who notices. okay bye
it's past two in the morning when you hear the window slide open.
you don't startle anymore. you stopped doing that months ago, somewhere around the time you accepted that this was just him â the scrape of the frame, the soft thud of boots hitting the floor, the careful way he moves through the dark like he's afraid of taking up too much space.
you're still half-awake on the couch, a book open on your chest that you stopped reading an hour ago.
"hey," you say.
a pause. like he hadn't expected you.
"hey." his voice is rough around the edges, the way it always is after a long night. you hear him set something down â his gear, probably â and then the lamp clicks on, warm and low, and there he is.
he looks exhausted.
not just tired. exhausted. the kind that lives behind the eyes and doesn't go away after one good night's sleep.
"you waited up," he says. it's not quite a question.
"i fell asleep and then un-fell asleep." you close the book. "how bad was it?"
he rolls his shoulders in that practiced way that means i'm not going to tell you everything but i'm not going to lie to you either.
"manageable," he settles on.
you nod. you've learned not to push. you've also learned that manageable from dick grayson usually means he took three hits he didn't have to take because he was too busy making sure everyone else got out first.
"sit down," you say. "you're doing that thing where you stand in the middle of a room like you're not sure you're allowed to be in it."
something in his face shifts. it always does when you catch him doing that â when you name the thing he thought he was hiding. he moves toward you, and you swing your legs off the couch to make room, and he sits down heavy, like he's been holding himself up by sheer force of will all night and you've just given him permission to stop.
you don't say anything for a minute. neither does he.
then you reach over and push the hair back from his forehead, just gently, just once, and he closes his eyes.
"i keep thinking," he starts.
"you can tell me," you say, "or you don't have to. either one is okay."
he opens his eyes and looks at you. and god, the way dick grayson looks at people â it's a lot, it's always been a lot, like he's trying to memorize you in case you disappear. bruce wayne raised a kid who learned very early that the people he loved had a habit of going away.
you think about that sometimes. how much courage it takes for him to love anything at all.
"i justâ" he stops. tries again. "i don't know if i'm doing it right. any of it."
"being nightwing?"
"being this." he gestures vaguely between the two of you, and your heart does something complicated.
"dick."
"i'm serious. i'm gone half the time. i come back and you're asleep on the couch because you stayed up worrying and i can't evenâ"
"hey." you put your hand over his. "look at me."
he does.
"i'm not staying up because i'm worried," you say. a small lie. a kind one. "i'm staying up because when you come home, i like to be here. that's a choice i make. nobody's making me make it."
he stares at you.
"you're not too much," you say, because you know that's the real question underneath all the other questions. "you're not hard to love. you're actually incredibly easy to love, and i think you've been told otherwise for so long that you don't know what to do with someone who means it."
the silence stretches out, soft and full.
then he leans forward and presses his forehead against yours, and you feel some of the tension go out of his shoulders, slow as a tide going out.
"i mean it," you say, quieter now.
"i know," he says. "i'm starting to."
you stay like that for a while. the lamp hums. somewhere outside a car passes. his breathing evens out.
"come to bed," you say eventually.
"yeah." he doesn't move for another moment, like he's storing this up. then: "yeah, okay."
you turn off the lamp.
in the dark he finds your hand, and he holds it, and you let him.
he's going to be fine, you think.
he already is, mostly.
he just needs someone to keep reminding him.
[reblogs are deeply appreciated. likes are nice but they don't spread the fic 𼺠also if you want to be added to my taglist just let me know]
So I havenât been on here in a few months. And havenât been able to start writing an update to âFake Dating to Shut Dick Grayson Upâ or a few other things. But I was in and out of the hospital (pregnancy related) and in March I had my little preemie Isaiah. He was born due to complications with preeclampsia and being a IUGR baby (a baby measuring small.) my doctor just verified that his results from his placenta had come back from the lab and confirmed that he was indeed a IUGR due to the placenta showing chorangiosis which is likely an adaptive response to chronic placental underperfusion/hypoxia. So he was getting lack of adequate blood flow to the placenta. And Hypoxia is the resulting deficit of oxygen, so he wasnât getting the oxygen needed. He has a smaller head and he is short but super cute. His head is finally growing but he is still below the 1% for both head and height. And in the 20th for weight now!
The fireworks exploded above the beach in violent colors pinks, golds, greens bright enough to turn the whole night into something unreal.
You stood barefoot in the sand, your sandals abandoned somewhere behind you, salt sticking to your skin while music pounded from the festival stages down the shoreline. Everyone around you was screaming, filming, dancing.
But you only looked at him.
At Rafe.
He leaned against the hood of his truck a few feet away, cigarette hanging lazily between his fingers, expensive watch glinting every time the fireworks flashed overhead. The light caught the sharp edges of his face for half a second at a time enough to make your chest ache.
Because for once, he looked calm.
Not angry.
Not reckless.
Not pretending.
Just⌠looking at you.
âYouâre staring,â you teased softly.
Rafe smirked without looking away. âCan you blame me?â
Another firework cracked across the sky. People cheered louder. Somewhere nearby someone lit sparklers and the smoke drifted through the warm summer air.
You laughed under your breath and shook your head. âYou only say sweet things when thereâs explosions involved.â
âThat true?â he asked.
âMhm.â
He pushed himself off the truck slowly, moving toward you with that dangerous kind of confidence that always made your stomach flip. Black tee. Chains. Ocean eyes impossible to read.
âYou want me honest then?â
You swallowed.
Rafe stopped right in front of you, close enough for you to smell saltwater and cologne and smoke on his skin.
âI think about you all the time,â he said quietly.
The words hit harder than the fireworks.
Your breath caught because Rafe Cameron never sounded unsure about anything except this. Except you.
Behind him, the sky burst gold again, sparks raining down over the ocean like falling stars.
âYouâre joking,â you whispered.
âIâm serious.â
His hand slid around your waist slowly, almost carefully, like he was waiting for you to pull away. You didnât. Couldnât.
The music from the festival turned muffled the second he touched you.
âYou know what my problem is?â he murmured.
âWhat?â
âYou make me wanna be good.â
Your heart nearly stopped.
Rafe laughed softly at the look on your face before brushing his thumb against your cheek. The fireworks reflected in his eyes now, bright and messy and beautiful.
Then quieter
âAnd I donât know how to do that.â
The confession sat between you for a second.
Raw.
Dangerous.
Real.
You reached up, fingers brushing the chain around his neck. âMaybe you donât have to figure it out alone.â
Rafe stared at you like no one had ever offered him softness before.
Then the grand finale started.
The sky exploded into color all at once, loud enough to shake the ground beneath your feet. Everyone around you screamed and pointed upward.
note: Read if you want to feel something. I suck at descriptions. Please give it a read! Itâs full of angst and I feel like a part 2 is in the future. Also listen to Picking Petals by Alyssa Grace while reading!
wc: 6k+
The rain had been hitting the windows of Tannyhill for hours.
Not hard enough to sound violent.
Just steady enough to make the entire house feel trapped underwater.
You sat on the marble bathroom counter in one of Rafeâs hoodies, sleeves pulled over your hands while the sink faucet dripped every few seconds into unbearable silence. The overhead light buzzed faintly above your head.
Rafe was somewhere in the bedroom.
Pacing.
You could hear it in the hardwood floors.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
Like if he stopped moving, heâd finally have to say something real.
âYou gonna keep ignoring me?â he finally asked.
Your jaw tightened.
Ignoring him.
That was funny.
Considering heâd disappeared for almost two days before stumbling back into Tannyhill at midnight smelling like whiskey and rainwater with blood dried across his knuckles again.
You still hadnât asked whose blood it was.
Mostly because you didnât think you wanted the answer.
âYou scared me,â you said quietly.
The pacing stopped.
For a second you thought maybe heâd leave the room completely. Maybe heâd slam a door. Maybe heâd get angry enough to make this easier.
Instead, his voice came quieter than before.
âI texted you.â
You laughed once under her breath, exhausted.
Three texts.
That was all youâd gotten in thirty-six hours.
busy
donât wait up
Iâm fine
Like that was enough after everything theyâd been through.
When you finally looked up, he was standing in the bathroom doorway now. Gray t-shirt damp from the rain. Hair messy. Eyes red around the edges from lack of sleep.
Or maybe from something else.
With anyone else, you mightâve been scared of how he looked right now.
But that was the problem with loving Rafe Cameron.
You could read him too well.
The anger was there, yeah.
But underneath it was panic.
Always panic.
Like he was one bad night away from losing everything.
âYou canât just disappear every time something goes wrong,â you whispered.
âI said Iâm here now.â
âThat doesnât fix it.â
His jaw flexed.
And there it was.
That shift.
The one you learned to notice months ago.
The exact second his frustration started turning sharp.
âYou think this is easy for me?â he snapped.
You flinched before you could stop yourself.
Tiny movement.
Barely noticeable.
But Rafe saw it anyway.
And immediately looked sick.
Silence swallowed the room whole.
Because neither of them could forget the first time youâd ever reacted like that around him.
â
It had been August then.
Hot enough outside that the leather seats in his truck burned against the backs of your thighs.
Theyâd been together four months.
Still in the stage where everything felt reckless and bright and impossible not to romanticize.
Rafe had picked you up after midnight with sand on his feet and a cigarette tucked behind his ear, grinning at you through the passenger window.
âHurry up,â he laughed. âBefore your neighbors narc.â
You remembered rolling her eyes while climbing in beside him.
âYouâre such an idiot.â
âYeah, but you like me.â
Heâd said it so confidently back then.
Like he genuinely couldnât imagine a future where you wouldnât.
That night they drove with all the windows down along the coast, warm air whipping through the truck while music played low through blown speakers. Rafe drummed his fingers against the steering wheel the whole time, relaxed for once.
No fighting.
No pressure.
No expectations.
Just him.
Just the boy underneath everything else.
They ended up parked near the beach sometime after two in the morning, laying in the truck bed staring at stars half-hidden behind clouds.
âYou ever think,â he said suddenly, âpeople already decided who I am before I even got the chance?â
You turned your head toward him.
âWhat do you mean?â
He shrugged, staring at the sky.
âEverybody expects me to turn into some asshole.â
His voice sounded careless.
But youâd already learned Rafe only sounded careless when he was trying hardest not to care.
âYouâre not an asshole.â
He laughed softly.
âYou sure about that?â
You was.
God, you was so sure back then.
â
The faucet dripped again.
Back in the present, you looked down at your hands because looking at him hurt too much.
Rafe leaned against the bathroom doorway now, arms crossed tightly over his chest like he was holding himself together by force.
âI didnât mean to scare you,â he muttered.
âThatâs the issue, Rafe.â Your throat tightened. âYou never mean to.â
Another silence.
He looked away first.
Out toward the bedroom windows where rainwater streaked down the glass.
âYou think I donât know I screw everything up?â
You swallowed hard.
Because that was the thing no one understood about loving him.
Rafe wasnât cruel in the simple way people thought.
Cruel people didnât look at you like they were bleeding too.
Cruel people didnât apologize with shaking hands.
Cruel people didnât hold you after arguments like they were terrified youâd disappear while they slept.
But damaged people?
Damaged people could love you and still break your heart every single day.
âYou disappeared,â you whispered again. âDo you know what that does to me?â
His expression hardened instantly at that.
Not angry.
Worse.
Guilty.
Because he knew.
Youâd called him seventeen times.
Sent texts growing more panicked every hour.
By the second night youâd convinced your self he was dead somewhere.
Or arrested.
Or overdosed.
Or lying face down in a ditch on Figure Eight while she sat staring at her phone praying for him to answer.
Rafe rubbed a hand over his mouth tiredly.
âI just needed space.â
âYou always need space.â
âWhat do you want me to do?â he shot back suddenly. âHuh? You want me to tell you every screwed up thought in my head every second of the day?â
âNo,â you said, voice cracking. âI want you to stop shutting me out like Iâm nothing to you.â
âThatâs not fair.â
Your eyes burned instantly.
Because he was right.
It wasnât fair.
Nothing about them was fair anymore.
Not the way he loved you.
Not the way you stayed.
And somehow that hurt worst of all.
Rafe stared at you for a long time after that.
Like he was trying to figure out when exactly everything between them had become so fragile.
The rain kept falling outside.
Soft.
Constant.
The kind that never sounded dangerous until you realized it had flooded everything while you werenât looking.
âYou think youâre nothing to me?â he asked finally.
His voice had gone quiet again.
That quietness always undid you faster than yelling ever could.
Because angry Rafe was easy to brace for.
Soft Rafe was the one you still loved too much.
You looked away before answering.
âI donât know what I am to you anymore.â
The words sat between them like broken glass.
For a second neither moved.
Then Rafe laughed once under his breath, but there was nothing amused about it. He dragged both hands down his face roughly before leaning back against the doorway.
âYou know whatâs messed up?â he muttered. âI think about you constantly.â
Your chest tightened painfully.
âRafeââ
âNo, seriously.â He shook his head. âYouâre like⌠everywhere. Every second. Doesnât matter what Iâm doing.â
His eyes finally met you again.
âWhen I disappear, itâs usually because I know Iâm about to screw something up. And somehow I still screw it up anyway.â
That hit harder than you wanted it to.
Because you believed him.
God help you, you always believed him.
Even now.
Even exhausted and heartbroken and angry.
You believed every word that came out of his mouth because youâd seen the parts of him no one else ever got to see.
The terrified parts.
The lonely parts.
The little boy buried underneath all the anger.
That was what made leaving impossible.
And staying unbearable.
âYou canât keep loving me like this,â you whispered.
Something flickered across his face then.
Fast.
Sharp enough to almost look like fear.
âWhatâs that supposed to mean?â
You slid off the bathroom counter slowly, bare feet hitting cold tile. Your legs ached from sitting there so long.
âIt means I donât recognize myself anymore.â
Rafeâs jaw tightened immediately.
âYouâre being dramatic.â
The second the words left his mouth, regret flashed across his face.
Too late.
Your expression cracked instantly.
And suddenly they were right back there again.
That cycle.
Push.
Regret.
Apologize.
Repeat.
âSee?â You laughed weakly, tears finally spilling over. âThatâs exactly what I mean.â
Rafe cursed under his breath and pushed away from the doorway.
âI didnât mean it like that.â
âBut you still said it.â
âI know.â
âYou always know after.â
The room went silent again.
That one landed.
You could tell by the way his shoulders stiffened.
Rafe looked at you like he wanted to say something defensive. Something angry enough to protect himself.
Instead he just looked tired.
Twenty-three years old and already exhausted by his own mind.
He sat down heavily on the edge of the bed outside the bathroom, elbows on his knees.
And for the first time all night, he looked small.
Not physically.
Rafe Cameron could never look physically small.
But emotionally.
Like someone unraveling thread by thread.
âI donât know how to do this right,â he admitted quietly.
That almost destroyed you.
Because it was honest.
Not manipulative.
Not rehearsed.
Just honest.
You remembered another night suddenlyâ
Late November.
A power outage during a storm.
The entire house dark except for candles scattered around Rafeâs bedroom while wind rattled against the windows.
Heâd been weirdly calm that night.
Sleepy, almost.
Theyâd laid tangled together under heavy blankets while rain hammered the roof overhead. Youâd traced circles against his chest while he played absentmindedly with the sleeve of your sweater.
âYou ever think about leaving Outer Banks?â You asked softly.
âAll the time.â
âWhere would you go?â
Rafe smiled without opening his eyes.
âAnywhere you are.â
At the time, it felt romantic enough to steal the breath from your lungs.
Now it just hurt.
Because somewhere along the way, loving each other had stopped feeling safe.
Back in the present, you wrapped your arms around your self tightly.
âYou know what the worst part is?â You whispered.
Rafe looked up slowly.
âI still wait for you.â
His expression fell.
Every time.
Every missed call.
Every slammed door.
Every night he disappeared into whatever darkness swallowed him whole.
You still waited.
âI hate that I do,â you admitted shakily. âI tell myself Iâm done, and then my phone lights up with your name and itâs like nothing matters except hearing your voice.â
Rafe swallowed hard.
You could actually see emotion fighting behind his eyes now.
Raw and ugly and barely contained.
âYou think I donât wait for you too?â he asked quietly.
A tear slid down your cheek.
âThis isnât the same.â
âNo,â he agreed immediately. âItâs not.â
That startled you.
Usually he argued harder.
Usually he fought every point until they were both exhausted enough to stop talking entirely.
But tonight he just looked at you with this horrible kind of acceptance.
Like he finally saw the damage clearly.
Rafe stood slowly from the bed.
For a second you thought he might walk toward you.
Instead he stayed exactly where he was.
Giving you space.
Maybe because he remembered the flinch earlier.
Maybe because it haunted him too.
âI never wanted to be someone that hurts you,â he said.
Your breathing shook.
âI know.â
That was the tragedy of it all.
You knew.
If heâd been heartless, you couldâve hated him.
If heâd never loved you, you couldâve walked away cleanly.
But Rafe loved you in the worst possible way:
completely.
And completely wasnât always gently.
For a while, neither of them spoke.
The storm outside had gotten quieter now, rain easing into a soft hiss against the windows. Somewhere downstairs the grandfather clock ticked loud enough to make the silence feel heavier.
Rafe looked exhausted.
Not the kind fixed by sleep.
The kind that lived in someone.
You hated that you still wanted to comfort him.
Even now.
Even standing there with tears drying on your cheeks because of him.
âThat night at the bonfire,â he said suddenly, voice rough, âyou told me you werenât scared of me.â
Your stomach tightened instantly.
Of course he remembered that.
Rafe remembered everything.
â
It had been early September.
One of those end-of-summer nights where the air still felt warm but the ocean breeze hinted at colder months coming.
Everybody had been drunk except you.
Kooks laughing too loudly around the fire.
Music blasting from someoneâs speaker.
Beer bottles buried halfway in the sand.
Rafe had gotten into a fight with some guy near the dunes.
Nothing unusual.
Just stupid drunk yelling that turned physical in seconds.
You remembered pulling him away afterward while he cursed and struggled against your grip, adrenaline making him shake beneath her hands.
âRafe, stop.â
âHe started it.â
âI donât care.â
His nose had been bleeding slightly. Eyes wild with anger.
People stared at him differently after moments like that.
Like they expected violence from him.
Like they were waiting for him to become a monster.
But later that night, after everyone else left, you found him sitting alone by the shoreline.
Quiet.
Completely quiet.
He looked up when you approached, jaw still bruised from the fight.
âYou should probably go home,â he muttered.
âWhy?â
He laughed bitterly to himself.
âYou saw me back there.â
You sat beside him anyway, knees tucked against your chest while waves rolled in near their feet.
âIâm not scared of you.â
Rafe looked at you then.
Really looked at you.
Like those words physically hurt him somehow.
âYou should be smarter than that,â he whispered.
But you werenât.
Or maybe you just loved him already.
Back in the present, you rubbed at your eyes tiredly.
âYou remember everything,â you said softly.
A humorless smile crossed his face.
âOnly stuff about you.â
God.
There it was again.
The version of him that made leaving feel impossible.
The version that noticed when you switched shampoos.
The version that memorized your coffee order after hearing it once.
The version that kissed your forehead when you were half asleep because he thought you wouldnât remember.
Rafe looked down at the floor for a moment before speaking again.
âYou know what I think about all the time?â
You didnât answer.
His throat bobbed once.
âThe first time you cried because of me.â
Your chest caved inward.
Immediately you knew exactly which moment he meant.
Not tonight.
Not the fights.
The first time.
It had been January.
Cold enough that your hands stayed tucked inside Rafeâs hoodie pockets while you walked along the marina.
Things had already started getting harder by then.
More arguments.
More disappearing acts.
More nights where you lay awake wondering why loving him felt like waiting for bad news.
That particular fight had started over nothing.
It always did.
Youâd accused him of shutting you out again.
Rafe accused you of trying to control him.
Voices got louder.
Tension sharper.
Until finally you snapped,
âWhy do you act like loving you is some impossible job?â
The second the words left your mouth, Rafe went still.
Not angry.
Wounded.
And instead of answering, he just laughed under his breath and said:
âYou think I donât know I ruin everything?â
Then he walked away.
Actually walked away from you in the middle of the argument.
You remembered standing there frozen while cold wind whipped around you.
And for some reason that hurt more than yelling.
Because suddenly you realized something terrifying:
Rafe always left first.
Before people could leave him.
That was the first night you cried over him.
Not because he screamed.
Not because he broke something.
Because for the first time you understood that loving him might never feel secure.
âYou looked at me like your heart broke that night,â Rafe said quietly.
You blinked back into the present.
He was still standing near the bed, eyes fixed somewhere past your shoulder like he couldnât bear direct eye contact anymore.
âIt did,â you admitted.
That honesty seemed to knock the air out of him.
He nodded once slowly.
Like he deserved that.
Maybe he did.
But you were tired of keeping score.
Tired of deciding which moments canceled out the others.
Did the tenderness erase the damage?
Did the apologies erase the fear?
Did the love erase the loneliness?
No.
But somehow it all existed together anyway.
Rafe suddenly laughed again under his breath, shaking his head.
âYou know whatâs crazy?â he murmured. âI used to think if somebody loved me enough, itâd fix whateverâs wrong with me.â
Your eyes burned instantly.
âRafeâŚâ
âBut you did.â His voice cracked slightly. âYou loved me more than anybody ever has.â
Silence.
âAnd I still turned into this.â
The pain in his face nearly undid you completely.
Because beneath all the anger and impulsiveness and self-destruction, Rafe carried this awful certainty that he was unlovable.
Every fight traced back to it somehow.
Every ruined moment.
Every defensive word.
Every time he pushed you away before you could hurt him first.
You took a shaky breath.
âYouâre not a bad person.â
His eyes lifted to yours finally.
Dark blue.
Bloodshot.
Devastated.
âYou donât believe that anymore.â
And the worst part?
You didnât know how to answer.
Not because you thought he was evil.
But because somewhere along the way, loving him had started hurting you both too much to call it healthy anymore.
Rafe saw the hesitation.
You watched the realization settle over him slowly.
Heavy.
Permanent.
Like a door quietly closing somewhere inside his chest.
Rafe looked away first.
That was rare.
Usually he held eye contact like a challenge, like he could force people to stay through sheer intensity alone. But now he just stared toward the rain-streaked windows with his jaw clenched so tightly you thought it might crack.
And somehow that hurt worse than if heâd yelled.
Because you could actually see the moment something inside him folded in on itself.
Quietly.
âYou know,â he said after a long silence, âI used to think you were the one thing in my life I couldnât ruin.â
Your breath caught painfully.
He laughed once under his breath again, exhausted.
âGuess that was stupid.â
âDonât,â you whispered immediately.
âWhat?â
âTalk about us like weâre already over.â
The words slipped out before you could stop them.
And there it was again.
That awful truth between them.
Even nowâ
even after everythingâ
part of her still couldnât let go.
Rafe noticed.
Of course he noticed.
His eyes lifted back to yours slowly, something dangerously hopeful flickering there for half a second.
âYou still want this?â he asked quietly.
You opened her mouth.
Nothing came out.
Because what were you supposed to say?
Yes?
No?
You wanted him.
That had always been the problem.
Not the fights.
Not the sleepless nights.
Not the heartbreak.
Him.
The version of Rafe that kissed your temple when you were anxious in crowded rooms.
The version that drove forty minutes at two in the morning because you casually mentioned craving milkshakes.
The version that held you so carefully afterward whenever they fought, like he was terrified youâd shatter in his hands.
But loving him also meant loving the chaos attached to him.
And you were tired.
Tired in your bones.
Rafe watched you struggle to answer and nodded slowly like he understood anyway.
âYeah,â he murmured. âThatâs what I thought.â
Something inside you cracked.
âI hate when you do that.â
His brows furrowed slightly.
âDo what?â
âDecide what Iâm feeling before I can even say it.â
He scoffed softly.
âYou wear every emotion on your face.â
âMaybe because I actually communicate mine.â
The second the words left your mouth, regret hit instantly.
Rafeâs expression hardened on reflex.
Defense mechanism.
Automatic.
âYou think I donât communicate?â he snapped. âIâm standing here telling you exactly how screwed up I am.â
âYou only do that after you hurt me.â
Silence.
Sharp.
Immediate.
Rafe looked like youâd slapped him.
And maybe you had.
Because it was true.
Every vulnerable confession came after destruction.
After disappearing.
After anger.
After damage already done.
Like he only knew how to open up once everything was bleeding.
He turned away abruptly, pacing toward the bedroom windows now.
You watched him drag a hand through his hair hard enough to pull at the roots.
âI donât know how to talk before things get bad,â he admitted finally.
The honesty in it made your chest ache.
âI know.â
âThatâs not an excuse.â
âNo.â
Another silence settled.
Softer this time.
Almost mournful.
Rafe stood with his back to you, shoulders tense beneath the damp gray shirt clinging to him from the rain. You could remember every inch of those shoulders by heart.
How they felt under your hands.
How he curled around you in bed unconsciously during the night.
How they tightened whenever he thought you might leave after a fight.
There had been a night in February.
One of the rare good nights.
No fighting.
No drinking.
No chaos.
Just them.
Youâd fallen asleep on the couch downstairs with some movie still playing quietly in the background. You woke up sometime after three in the morning half tangled beneath him, the television casting pale blue light across the room.
Rafe was awake already.
Heâd been looking at you.
Not in a creepy way.
Not intense.
Just⌠soft.
Like you were something he still couldnât believe belonged to him.
âWhat?â You whispered sleepily.
A tiny smile crossed his face.
âNothing.â
âYouâre staring.â
âYou drool in your sleep.â
You laughed tiredly and shoved weakly at his chest while he grinned for the first time all night.
Then, quieter:
âYouâre pretty.â
Simple words.
But Rafe almost never said things like that casually.
Not without an argument attached.
Not during apologies.
Which made moments like that feel painfully genuine.
You remembered touching his face gently and murmuring,
âYouâre being nice tonight.â
His smile faded slightly at the edges then.
Like nice was something temporary.
âDonât sound so surprised.â
That memory nearly destroyed you now.
Because you realized something awful:
The good moments had never been fake.
That was why this hurt so much.
Rafe turned from the window suddenly.
âYou know what really kills me?â he said quietly.
You looked up.
âNo matter how bad I screw upâŚâ His voice roughened. âYou still look at me like youâre trying to find the version of me you fell in love with.â
Tears burned your eyes immediately.
Because he understood.
God, he understood you perfectly sometimes.
Too perfectly.
âYouâre still in there,â you whispered.
Rafeâs face twisted slightly at that.
Like he wanted to believe you.
Like it physically hurt that he couldnât.
âYou shouldnât have to dig this hard to find something good in somebody.â
The room went still.
And suddenly you couldnât breathe properly.
Because deep down, beneath all the fighting and loving and history between them, you knew what this conversation was becoming.
Not a breakup exactly.
Something sadder.
The slow realization that sometimes love exists at the wrong time in the wrong people.
That sometimes two people can love each other completely and still slowly destroy each other anyway.
Rafe looked at you for one long, unbearable moment.
Then he asked quietly,
âIf I asked you to stay⌠would you?â
Your heart broke at the way he said it.
Not demanding.
Not manipulative.
Just scared.
Actually scared.
Like underneath everything else â the arrogance, the anger, the sharp edges â he was still just a boy standing in front of the person he loved asking you not to leave him behind.
You opened her mouth.
Closed it again.
Because the answer was yes.
That was the horrifying part.
Some reckless, aching part of you would always stay for him.
Rafe saw it immediately.
His eyes shut briefly like the truth physically hurt.
âJesus Christ,â he muttered to himself.
âWhat?â
âYou still would.â
A tear slid down your cheek silently.
He laughed bitterly under his breath, pacing away from you again.
âThatâs so unfair.â
âWhat is?â
âThe fact that you still love me this much after everything.â
Her chest tightened painfully.
âYou act like itâs easy for me.â
âI know itâs not easy.â
âNo, you donât.â
Rafe stopped moving.
You wiped angrily at you face before continuing.
âYou donât know what it feels like to love someone who keeps making you question yourself.â
He stared at you.
âYou think I want that?â
âI think you donât even realize when youâre doing it half the time.â
That one landed deep.
You saw it in the way his entire expression changed.
Not defensive this time.
Worse.
Guilty.
Because you were right.
There were so many moments where Rafe hurt you without meaning to. Little cuts instead of explosions.
The disappearing.
The shutting down.
The cruel words thrown out during arguments that he regretted five minutes later but you remembered for weeks.
And the worst part was how gentle he became afterward.
How heâd hold you like you were wounded.
How heâd whisper apologies into your hair at three in the morning.
Like love could somehow undo the bruises left by his anger.
Rafe rubbed both hands over his face tiredly.
âI donât know how to be what you need.â
Your throat tightened instantly.
âI never asked you to be perfect.â
âNo.â He looked at you then, eyes glassy with exhaustion. âYou just asked me not to hurt you.â
Silence.
That was it.
The entire relationship reduced to one impossible request.
Please love me without destroying me.
The saddest part?
He wanted to.
God, he wanted to.
You could see it all over him.
Rafe wasnât looking at you like someone trying to win an argument anymore. He looked like someone watching the life he wanted slip through his fingers in real time.
And suddenly you remembered another night.
March.
One of the bad ones.
Heâd come home furious about something involving Ward. You never even fully understood what happened. All you knew was that Rafe stormed into the bedroom shaking with anger, throwing his keys hard enough against the wall to crack drywall.
You remembered standing carefully from the bed.
âRafeââ
âDonât,â he snapped instantly.
The room went tense immediately.
His breathing hard.
Hands trembling.
For a second you genuinely didnât know what version of him you were about to get.
That realization terrified you.
And he noticed.
God, he noticed.
Rafeâs anger disappeared so fast it almost looked painful. His entire face fell the second he saw fear cross yours.
Like he hated himself for putting it there.
Immediately he backed away from you.
Actually backed away.
âIâm not mad at you,â he said quickly, voice cracking slightly. âBaby, Iâm not mad at you.â
You remembered nodding even though your heart was racing.
And Rafe looked absolutely devastated by it.
Later that night, long after the argument burned itself out, you woke up around four in the morning to find him sitting on the edge of the bed staring at the floor in complete darkness.
âRafe?â
He looked over his shoulder slowly.
And youâd never forget the look on his face.
Not anger.
Not frustration.
Fear.
Pure fear.
âIâm becoming him,â he whispered.
Ward.
He meant Ward.
The realization shattered you.
Because suddenly everything made sense:
the anger,
the panic,
the self-destruction,
the constant need for control.
Rafe wasnât just scared of losing people.
He was terrified he was turning into the man who taught him love could coexist with damage.
Back in the present, you looked at him standing near the windows now, shoulders rigid beneath dim lighting.
âYouâre not your father,â you whispered.
Rafe laughed softly.
But there was no humor in it.
âYou sure?â
âYes.â
âYou hesitated earlier.â
Your stomach dropped.
Of course he remembered that too.
Every tiny reaction.
Every pause.
Every flinch.
The honesty of it nearly undid you.
He collected them like evidence against himself.
âI hesitated because Iâm tired,â you admitted shakily. âNot because I think youâre evil.â
Rafeâs eyes met yours.
âBut you think I hurt you.â
Because there was no defense left in him now.
No anger.
Just truth.
âYes,â you whispered.
Something in his expression broke quietly.
Not dramatically.
No yelling.
No slammed doors.
Just a tiny fracture behind his eyes.
And suddenly you realized this might hurt him too much to fight for anymore.
That realization terrified you more than anything else.
Because if Rafe stopped fighting for them, if he finally believed youâd be happier without him. He might actually let you go.
The rain had almost stopped outside.
Only occasional drops tapped against the windows now, the storm finally exhausting itself sometime near dawn.
You suddenly realized how late it was.
Or early.
The sky outside the bedroom windows had started turning that soft dark blue right before sunrise.
Youâd spent the whole night unraveling each other again.
Rafe rubbed both hands over his face slowly before speaking.
âYou remember that day on the boat?â
Your brows pulled together slightly through tears.
âWhat day?â
âThe Fourth of July.â
And immediately you did.
It had been before everything got hard.
Before they learned how to wound each other so precisely.
The marina had been packed for fireworks that night, music echoing over the water while boats drifted close together beneath strings of lights.
Rafe had been in one of his rare good moods.
Laughing easily.
Relaxed.
His arm around your waist the entire night like he couldnât stand not touching you.
At some point, you ended up alone at the front of the boat while fireworks exploded overhead in streaks of gold and red.
You remembered leaning against the railing while ocean wind whipped through your hair.
Rafe stood behind you, chin resting lightly on your shoulder.
âYou happy?â he asked suddenly.
You laughed softly.
âRight now?â
âYeah.â
You turned slightly toward him.
âI think I could stay in this moment forever.â
Rafe looked at you then with an expression youâd never forgotten.
Not lust.
Not obsession.
Love.
Real love.
The terrifying kind.
He kissed you slowly while fireworks lit the sky behind you, hands warm against your face.
And afterward he whispered against your mouth,
âYouâre the best thing thatâs ever happened to me.â
At the time, you believed love like that could survive anything.
Back in the present, your chest hurt so badly you thought it might cave in.
Rafe gave you a small smile that looked completely broken at the edges.
âThat was probably the happiest Iâve ever been.â
A tear slid down your cheek.
âRafeâŚâ
âNo, itâs okay.â His voice stayed quiet. âI just⌠I keep thinking about how I had that. I had something good.â
You shook your head immediately.
âYou still do.â
His expression twisted.
âYou shouldnât have to survive me just to love me.â
That sentence shattered whatever was left inside you.
Because for the first time all night, he wasnât asking you to stay.
He wasnât trying to pull you back toward him.
He was finally seeing you clearly too.
The exhaustion under your eyes.
The fear you tried to hide.
The way you braced herself before his moods now.
Rafe swallowed hard and looked away.
âWhen did you start flinching around me?â
The question came so quietly you almost missed it.
Your throat closed instantly.
Because neither of them wanted to say the answer out loud.
Not really.
Rafe nodded slowly anyway.
Like silence told him enough.
Then he laughed softly to himself, except it sounded more like heartbreak.
âI swore Iâd never be that guy.â
âYouâre notââ
âI am if youâre scared.â
You opened your mouth to argue.
Nothing came out.
Because fear wasnât always about physical danger.
Sometimes it was emotional.
Sometimes it was wondering which version of someone you were coming home to.
Sometimes it was loving somebody so much that their bad days became your bad days too.
Rafe looked at you one last time.
And you saw it then.
Heâd made the decision for both of you.
Not because he stopped loving you.
Because he loved you enough to finally stop dragging you through the wreckage with him.
âYou should go home before the roads flood,â he said quietly.
The words hit like a knife.
This was really happening.
No screaming.
No slammed doors.
No dramatic goodbye.
Just two exhausted people standing in the ruins of something they desperately wanted to save.
Your breathing shook violently.
âI donât want this to be the end.â
Rafeâs eyes glistened slightly, though he blinked it away fast.
Until one day you wake up exhausted from carrying both the love and the pain at the same time.
You grabbed your bag from the floor with trembling hands.
Rafe didnât move to stop you.
That hurt worst of all.
At the bedroom doorway you paused, turning back toward him one final time.
He stood exactly where you left him, shoulders slumped, eyes red-rimmed from exhaustion and heartbreak.
For a second he looked less like Rafe Cameron and more like just a boy who never learned how to be loved without ruining it.
You crossed the room before you could stop your self.
Rafe barely had time to look up before you wrapped your arms around him tightly.
He froze.
Then immediately folded around you like instinct.
Like home.
His face buried against your neck while his arms locked around you hard enough to hurt.
Neither of you spoke.
There was nothing left to say.
You felt his breathing shake once.
Just once.
And that nearly killed you.
When you finally pulled away, his hands lingered at your waist for a second too long before falling empty at his sides.
You memorized him then.
Messy blond hair.
Tired blue eyes.
Rain-damp shirt.
The sadness carved into his face.
All of it.
Because some part of you knew you would spend a long time trying to forget him afterward.
You made it halfway down the staircase before his voice stopped you.
Soft.
Almost broken.
âI did love you right, sometimes.â
Tears blurred your vision instantly.
Because that was true too.
You looked back at him standing upstairs in the dim morning light.
And somehow the truth was both things at once.
He loved you.
He hurt you.
Neither canceled the other out.
âI know,â you whispered.
Then you walked out of Tannyhill just as the sun finally started rising.
You spent a long time afterward trying to decide which version of him hurt more to remember.
The boy who kissed you like you were something precious.
Or the one who made you cry in bathroom mirrors at three in the morning.
But grief was cruel like that.
It never let you keep only the bad parts.
Sometimes youâd hear a song in a grocery store and suddenly remember the way Rafe used to tap his fingers against the steering wheel while driving at night.
Sometimes youâd wake up reaching for someone who wasnât there anymore.
Sometimes you still checked your phone during storms.
Just in case.
And maybe that was the real tragedy of loving Rafe Cameron.
Not that he ruined you.
Not that he didnât love you enough.
But that he did.
Completely.
Violently.
Imperfectly.
Enough to make leaving feel like losing a part of yourself.
Enough that even afterward, you still caught yourself picking petals in your mind.
You thought you were good at hiding it. Youâd learned how to keep your face still. Neutral. Unreadable. Untouchable. It was a skill you never wanted, but one youâd perfected.
So when he walked into the apartment, boots quiet against the floor, domino mask already pulled off and hanging loosely from his fingers, you didnât turn around.
You just kept staring out the window. The city lights blurred together, glowing gold and white and blue beautiful, distant, unreachable. Just like him, sometimes.
Behind you, you heard him pause. He always paused when he saw you like this. He never rushed you. Never forced you. That was the worst part.
ââŚHey,â Dick Grayson said softly.
His voice was gentle. Careful. Like you were something fragile.
You swallowed, forcing your voice to stay steady.
âHi.â
It sounded wrong. Too thin. You heard the shift of fabric as he set his escrima sticks down on the counter. The quiet thud of his gloves. The soft exhale he didnât realize he made. He was watching you. He always watched you. You blinked quickly, but it didnât help. The pressure behind your eyes was already there, already burning. You turned your head slightly, hoping the angle would hide it. It didnât. He crossed the room slowly. Not like Nightwing. Not like the acrobat, the fighter, the hero. Just Dick. Just him.
âHey,â he said again, closer now.
You felt his presence at your side, warm and solid and real. You kept your eyes forward.
âIâm fine.â
The lie tasted bitter. He didnât call you out on it. He never did. Instead, he leaned his hip against the window beside you, his shoulder barely brushing yours. Close. But not forcing. Not yet. Silence stretched between you. You hated silence. Silence meant he was thinking. Silence meant he was noticing. Silence meant he could see through you. Your vision blurred.
You blinked again, harder this time, but one tear slipped free anyway, tracing down your cheek before you could stop it. You froze. Maybe he hadnât seen. Maybe.
His hand moved. Slowly. Carefully. His fingers brushed your cheek, catching the tear before it fell. And everything broke.
Your breath hitched before you could stop it. You looked down, ashamed, embarrassed, exposed.
âI didnât meanââ
His other hand gently tilted your chin back up.
âHey,â he whispered.
That word again. Soft. Steady. Safe. His blue eyes searched yours, full of something that made your chest ache. Not pity. Never pity. Understanding. Concern. Love.
âYou donât have to pretend with me.â
Your lips trembled. You hated that they did. You hated that he could see it. You hated that part of you was relieved.
âIâm not pretending,â you tried, but your voice cracked halfway through.
His thumb brushed under your eye, wiping away another tear.
âYou are,â he said quietly.
âAnd thatâs okay.â
Okay. Like it wasnât a failure. Like it wasnât weakness. Like it wasnât something to be ashamed of. Your shoulders shook once. Then again. And before you knew it, his arms were around you. Not tight. Not trapping. Just there. An invitation.
You collapsed into him. Your forehead pressed into his chest, fists clutching the fabric of his suit like it was the only thing holding you together. His arms wrapped around you fully now, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other rubbing slow circles on your back.
He didnât shush you. He didnât tell you to calm down. He didnât tell you it would be okay. He just stayed. Your tears soaked into his suit. He didnât care.
âIâve got you,â he murmured against your hair.
Four simple words. Your breathing hitched. You didnât deserve him. He deserved someone stronger. Someone better. Someone who didnât fall apart like this.
âIâm sorry,â you whispered.
His hand stilled.
âFor what?â
âFor being like this.â
He pulled back just enough to look at you. His brows furrowed, confused, almost hurt.
âLike what?â
You gestured helplessly.
âWeak.â
His expression changed instantly. Not anger. Not frustration. Something deeper. He lifted your hand gently, pressing it against his chest, right over his heart. It was beating fast.
âFor the record,â he said softly, âthis is the bravest thing you do.â
You frowned slightly.
âWhat?â
âLetting me see you like this.â
His thumb brushed your knuckles.
âYou trust me with the parts of you nobody else gets.â
His voice dropped quieter.
âThatâs not weakness.â
Your throat tightened. He leaned down, resting his forehead against yours.
âYou donât have to be strong all the time,â he whispered.
âNot with me.â
Another tear slipped free. He caught that one too. And you realized something. You never had to ask him to stay. He always did.
You loved Jason in the way storms love the ocean violently, endlessly, without ever asking permission.
He never promised you forever. Never even promised you tomorrow. Jason existed in fragments late-night knocks on your window, bruised knuckles he refused to explain, quiet moments where his forehead rested against yours like he was afraid the world might steal that too. And you took it. Every broken piece of him.
Because sometimes, when Jason thought you were asleep, his fingers would trace the curve of your wrist like he was memorizing you. Like he wanted to keep you somewhere safe.
But Jason didnât know how to stay. He knew how to leave without goodbye. How to disappear for days. How to look at you like you were the only thing keeping him human and still walk away.
And you let him. Every time.
Dick watched it happen from the sidelines, silent and steady like he always was. He was warmth where Jason was fire. He was consistency where Jason was chaos. He answered your calls. He walked on the inside of the sidewalk. He noticed when you were tired, when you were hurting, when you were pretending you werenât.
Dick loved you in the quiet ways. He never climbed through your window at 2 a.m. Instead, he knocked on your door at 6 p.m. with takeout because he remembered you had a long day. He never left you guessing. But you never looked at him the way you looked at Jason. Never with that desperate, aching hope.
Dick saw it every time your phone buzzed and your entire face lit up. Saw how you forgave Jason before he even apologized. Saw how you held onto someone who didnât know how to hold you back. And Dick hated himself for wishing, just once, youâd look at him like that.
Jason loved you like something temporary. Dick loved you like something permanent. And you stood between them, heart already given to the one who didnât know how to keep it.
You find it tucked under your apartment door. No knock. No text. No warning. Just an envelope with your name on it, written in messy, familiar handwriting youâd recognize anywhere. Your hands tremble before you even open it. Because Jason never writes letters. Jason barely even texts. Jason just shows up. But not today.
You close the door behind you, locking it automatically, like the click might keep whatever this is from hurting you. Your fingers hover over the envelope, tracing the sharp slant of the letters.
He pressed hard when he wrote it. He always does that when heâs upset. You swallow and open it.
Sweetheart,
If youâre reading this, it means I didnât have the guts to say it to your face. You deserve that much, at least. More than this. More than me.
Thereâs a faint smudge near the edge of the ink. You brush your thumb over it, wondering if it was rain. Or blood. Or his hand hesitating.
I need you to listen carefully, okay? And I need you to hate me if thatâs what it takes.
Your chest tightens. No. No, you donât like this.
You canât see me anymore.
The words blur instantly. You blink hard, forcing yourself to keep reading.
This isnât because you did anything wrong. You didnât. You never do. Thatâs part of the problem.
Your throat burns.
Youâre good. Youâre soft. You still smile at strangers and feed stray cats and apologize when someone else bumps into you. You still believe the world can be kind. And I donât get to ruin that.
Your hands shake so badly the paper rustles. You remember the way heâd watch you when you laughed, like he couldnât understand how someone like you existed. Like you were something fragile he didnât deserve to touch.
He knows about you.
Your breath stops. You donât need him to say the name. You already know.
The Joker.
The word feels like ice in your veins.
He didnât say your name. Not yet. But he knows you exist. He knows thereâs someone I go back to. Someone I protect. Someone I love.
The tears fall before you can stop them. He never said it before. Not out loud. Not directly. Only in the way he held you like you might disappear. Only in the way he stayed until you fell asleep. Only in the way he always came back.
And that means youâre a target now.
Your heart pounds painfully.
I canât let that happen. I wonât let that happen.
The next line looks messier. Less controlled.
Iâve died once. I wonât survive watching it happen to you.
A sob escapes your throat, quiet and broken.
You donât belong in my world. You never did. You belong in sunlight. In bookstores. In quiet mornings and soft things. Not in blood. Not in fear. Not with me.
Your fingers clutch the letter desperately.
So this is me ending it. I need you to forget me. Move on. Find someone normal. Someone who wonât come home at 3 a.m. covered in bruises and pretend itâs nothing. Someone who doesnât bring monsters to your door just by loving you.
The paper wrinkles under your grip.
Youâre too fragile. And Iâm too good at breaking things.
Your tears drip onto the ink, smearing the words.
This is the only way I know how to keep you safe. If he thinks you donât matter to me⌠He wonât touch you.
Your heart shatters quietly.
Iâm sorry. For every moment I let myself pretend I could have this. Pretend I could have you. You made me feel human again. That was my first mistake.
Goodbye, sweetheart.
â Jason
The silence in your apartment is unbearable. Heâs gone. No footsteps on your fire escape. No shadow outside your window. No quiet presence leaning against your doorway like he belongs there. Just emptiness. And the letter. You sink onto the floor, clutching it to your chest like it might bring him back. He thinks youâre fragile. He thinks youâll break. He thinks pushing you away will save you. But he doesnât understand. He already ruined you. Because now you know what it feels like to be loved by him. And nothing will ever compare to that.
Outside, somewhere in the darkness, Jason stands on a rooftop across the street. Watching your window. Making sure youâre safe. Even if you never know heâs there. Even if he has to break his own heart to do it.
Note - I wrote a part 2 to the "Fake Dating to Shut Dick Grayson Up" Hope you enjoy!
Reader x Jason Todd
Dick does not believe you.
Thatâs the problem.
Heâs been watching. Observing. Narrowing his eyes every time Jason stands a little too close, every time you roll your eyes in sync, every time your hands brush and linger half a second too long.
And tonight?
Heâs had enough.
âYouâre lying,â Dick says flatly, arms crossed in the cave.
Jason looks offended. âWow. No faith in true love.â
Dick ignores him. His gaze locks on you. âYou wouldâve told me.â
You bristle. âMaybe I didnât want to.â
Dick softens slightly. âYou tell me everything.â
The words hit harder than you expect. Jason shifts beside you â subtle, but protective.
âWell,â Jason says coolly, âclearly not everything.â
Dick steps closer. âOkay. Fine. If this is real?â
He gestures between you.
âProve it.â
Silence.
Your stomach drops.
Jason doesnât hesitate.
He turns to you slowly not cocky this time. Not smirking. He searches your face first. A silent question.
You nod once.
Thatâs all he needs.
Jasonâs hand slides to your waist firm, grounding, not theatrical. His thumb presses just slightly into your hip like heâs anchoring himself. The other hand cups your jaw, warm and steady.
Dickâs breath audibly catches.
âYou want proof?â Jason murmurs but heâs looking at you, not Dick.
And then he kisses you.
Not rushed.
Not exaggerated.
Not fake.
It starts soft. Slow enough that you could pull away if you wanted to. His lips are warm, careful. Testing.
You donât pull away.
Your fingers fist into his shirt instead.
Thatâs when it shifts.
Jason exhales against your mouth, and the kiss deepens not messy, not desperate, but intentional. His thumb brushes just under your ear. Yours slide into his hair without thinking.
The cave disappears.
Dick disappears.
Thereâs only Jason solid and warm and very, very real.
When he finally pulls back, itâs slow. Like heâs dragging himself away from something he doesnât want to let go of.
His forehead rests against yours for half a second too long.
Your breathing is uneven.
Dick clears his throat.
Loudly.
âWell,â he mutters. âOkay. I stand corrected.â
Jason doesnât look at him.
Heâs still looking at you.
Something in his expression has changed. The smug edge is gone. Thereâs heat there but also something quieter. More dangerous.
You swallow. âThat⌠convincing enough?â
Dick runs a hand down his face. âPlease never do that in front of me again.â
Jason smirks but itâs softer now. Less performance.
âNo promises.â
Dick walks off, muttering about boundaries.
The second heâs gone, the silence between you and Jason feels heavier than it did before.
Jasonâs hand is still on your waist.
âStill fake,â you say, but your voice isnât steady.
Jason tells himself heâs only there because Dick asked him to check in.
Thatâs the lie.
The truth is youâre leaning against the coffee table in front of him, music low and lazy, hips moving like you know exactly what youâre doing and worse, like youâre doing it just because you can.
âYouâre gonna break something,â he mutters, arms crossed, helmet abandoned by the door.
You glance over your shoulder, smirking. âRelax. Iâm being careful.â
Thatâs another lie.
You step closer. Too close. Jasonâs knee bounces once before he can stop it. He looks anywhere but you ceiling, wall, the stupid plant you keep forgetting to water.
Then you turn around and without asking settle onto his lap.
Not grinding. Not yet. Just enough weight to make his breath hitch.
âWell,â you say lightly, adjusting like this is the most natural thing in the world, âyou looked tense.â
Jason freezes.
âGet up,â he says, voice rougher than he means it to be.
You tilt your head. âMake me.â
The music hums. Your hips start to move, slow and teasing, nothing explicit just enough friction to make Jason swear under his breath. His hands hover, not touching, like heâs afraid the second he does, this stops being a joke.
âYou do realize,â he says through clenched teeth, âweâre notââ
âA couple?â you finish, smiling sweetly. âYeah. I know.â
Thatâs the problem.
Because if you were a couple, this would be allowed. Safe. Defined.
Instead, youâre dancing in the gray area his favorite place to pretend he doesnât live.
You lean in, lips brushing his ear. âRelax, Todd. Itâs just a dance.â
His hands finally land on your hips not pulling you closer, not pushing you away. Just holding.
âYeah,â he murmurs. âThatâs what Iâm afraid of.â
Summary - Dick Grayson, who is not your boyfriend doesn't know how to handle his feelings around you and starts giving you out of nowhere kisses. Repeatedly. Casually. In public. For sport.
Youâre talking. Of course you are.
Youâre always talking.
Something about Alfredâs cookies being better than literally any bakery in Gotham and how that should be illegal, actually, because..
Dick is half-listening, leaning against the counter, arms crossed, mouth twitching like heâs fighting a smile he refuses to let win.
âYouâre staring,â you say, grinning up at him. âDo I have something on my face?â
âYeah,â he says easily. âAnnoyance.â
You gasp, dramatic, offended. âRude. I am a delight.â
He exhales a laugh before he can stop himself. You see it, see the exact moment he loses the internal battle.
And then heâs stepping closer.
Too close.
Before your brain can catch up, he presses a quick kiss to the corner of your mouth. Barely there. Soft. Almost casual. Like itâs something heâs done a hundred times before.
Like it means nothing.
You freeze.
He pulls back just as fast, already turning away.
âRelax,â he says over his shoulder. âDonât make it weird.â
You stand there, heart doing parkour in your chest, thinking:
Oh. Itâs weird. Itâs so weird..
The one where he does it in front of people..
Youâre laughing too loud. Again.
Bruce gives you that look. Jason mutters something about earplugs. Dick "traitor" covers his smile with his hand.
âWhat?â you say. âI bring joy.â
âYou bring noise,â Jason corrects.
âYou love me.â
âDebatable.â
Youâre mid-retort when Dick suddenly hooks a finger in the belt loop of your jeans and pulls you just enough to steal your balance.
âWhatââ
He kisses you.
Right on the lips this time. Quick. Clean. Unapologetic.
The room goes dead silent.
Dick lets go like nothing happened. âAnyway,â he says, clapping his hands once. âMission briefing?â
Jason stares at you. Then at Dick. Then back at you.
ââŚWhat the hell was that?â
Your face is on fire. âIâI donât know.â
Dick doesnât look at you. Doesnât explain. Just keeps talking like he didnât just short-circuit your brain in front of his entire family.
Later, you corner him in the hallway.
âYou canât just kiss me,â you hiss.
He shrugs. âSure I can.â
âThatâs not how people work!â
His eyes flick down to your mouth. Back up.
âSeems to be working fine.â
The almost-gentle one (the most dangerous)
Youâre upset. Not crying, just quiet. Which, for you, is alarming.
Dick notices immediately.
He sits next to you on the couch, knees brushing. Doesnât joke. Doesnât tease.
âYou okay?â he asks softly.
You shrug. âYeah. JustâŚthinking.â
He studies you for a long moment. You can feel it. The weight of his attention.
âHey,â he murmurs, tilting your chin up with two fingers.
Before you can ask what heâs doing, he kisses you again, slow this time. Not rushed. Not playful. His lips linger at the corner of yours, forehead resting against yours after.
It feelsâŚintentional.
Your voice comes out small. âDick.â
âMm?â
âWhy do you keep doing that?â
He doesnât answer right away. When he finally pulls back, his smile is gone.
ââŚYou overthink everything,â he says, standing up.
And just like that, he walks away.
You sit there, stunned, realizing this one hurt worse than the others.. Because for half a second, you thought it meant something.
The one that finally breaks you
Youâre done pretending it doesnât bother you.
âSo what,â you say, arms crossed, blocking his path. âYou just kiss people whenever you feel like it?â
Dick sighs. âYouâre making this a thing.â
âIt is a thing.â
He looks at you then. Really looks. Something unguarded flashes across his face.
âYouâre annoying,â he says quietly.
You swallow. âI know.â
âYouâre loud. You get under my skin.â
âDickââ
âAnd every time you smile at me,â he continues, voice low, âI want to kiss you just to shut you up.â
Silence.
Your heart is pounding. âThatâs not fair.â
He steps closer. âI know.â
âSo whyââ
He kisses you again, this time full on the mouth, longer than ever before. No audience. No jokes. No escape.
When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours.
âI donât do this with people I donât care about,â he admits.
Heâs been trying to âhelpâ your love life for monthsâdropping names, nudging you into conversations, accidentally leaving you alone with people who are objectively nice but painfully wrong for you. Every time you say youâre fine, he smiles like he knows better.
âYou just need someone who challenges you,â he says.
You challenge the urge to shove him off the nearest rooftop.
Jason finds the whole thing hilarious. Or at least he pretends to. He leans against the Batmobile, helmet tucked under his arm, watching Dick ramble about your potential chemistry with the latest unfortunate soul.
âWow,â Jason says dryly. âDidnât know you were running a dating service now, Dick. You charging commission?â
Dick rolls his eyes. âIâm serious. They deserve someone who actuallyââ
ââisnât interested,â you cut in.
Dick opens his mouth again.
Jason doesnât let him.
Jason slings an arm around your shoulders like itâs the most natural thing in the world. Solid. Warm. Way too familiar. You freeze for half a second before Jason squeezes onceâtrust meâand smirks.
âTheyâre taken.â
Silence.
Dick blinks. âTheyâre⌠what?â
Jason grins, all sharp edges and trouble. âTaken. By me.â
You stare at him. He looks back at you like this was always the plan.
Dickâs eyes flick between you. The arm. Jasonâs smug face. âSince when?â
You panicâthen commit. You lean into Jasonâs side, fingers curling into his jacket.
âSince you wouldnât stop trying to set me up with random civilians,â you say sweetly.
Jason hums. âYeah. Real romantic origin story. Matchmaking trauma.â
Dick squints. âJason.â
âDick.â
âThis better not beââ
Jason drops his forehead against yours, just barely touching. Close enough that you can feel his breath, hear the smile in his voice.
âRelax. Iâm being a great boyfriend.â
Your heart tries to escape your ribcage.
Dick groans. âI hate both of you.â
Mission accomplished.
Except⌠now Jason doesnât move his arm.
Later, when Dick is gone and the cave is quieter, Jason finally steps back. For a second, the air feels colder.
âSo,â he says casually. Too casually. âGuess weâre fake dating now.â
You cross your arms. âGuess so.â
A beat.
Jason tilts his head. âWe gotta sell it, yâknow. Dickâs persistent.â
You raise a brow. âAnd how exactly do you suggest we do that?â
Jasonâs grin softensâloses a little of its sharpness.
âEasy,â he says. âPublic hand-holding. Occasional rooftop make-outs. Maybe you come by my place, steal my hoodies.â
Your stomach flips. âThat sounds suspiciously thought-out.â
He shrugs. âWhat can I say? Iâm committed to the bit.â
You watch him for a moment, then sigh. âFine. But if this gets weirdââ
âIt already is,â Jason says, gently bumping your shoulder. âBut⌠weâll keep it fake.â
He offers his hand. You take it. And neither of you lets go.
