a senior moment perhaps

He wakes up pretty quickly most of the time. After how many of them he’s had by now, his body knows to wake him and get him out of there as soon as possible. It’s the panic that comes afterwards that’s harder to deal with than the nightmare. The crushing darkness of his room, the feeling that everything he’d dreamt might be real. But maybe it’s how comfortable he feels sleeping beside you that keeps him there a little longer tonight, in the world where he lost you too.

You’re used to waking up when you sleep in the same bed as Peter. There have been several times when you’ve slept over at his apartment and he’s gotten an alert on his phone in the middle of the night, causing him to spring out of bed, grab his suit, press a quick kiss to your forehead and go off to do what he does best. But what wakes you up tonight is different.

It’s the sound of whimpers that clue you in to the fact that something isn’t right. Still half asleep, you turn over, blinking your tired eyes to look at Peter. He’s laying beside you, sweat coating his body, head moving side to side. You hear the whimpers for what they are now.  Murmurs of “No, no, no.” 

Dread fills you. “Peter,” you mutter, sitting up in the bed and reaching out a hand to place on his shoulder to try and gently shake him awake. “Peter, wake up. You’re having a nightmare, sweetheart.” 

His eyes fly open, staring up at the ceiling for a split second before looking right at you. He murmurs your name and before you can even think about replying or to ask if he’s okay, he’s wrapping his arms around you and pulling you back down to the bed and into his chest. His body is warm and slick, still coated in sweat that you’re sure would have soaked through a shirt had he been wearing one. 

“Are you real?” Peter whispers against your head. “Please tell me that this is real.”

Your heart cracks. “It’s real, Peter. I’m real.” You don’t even know if he can hear you but you try to make your words as loud as you can through the sudden feeling of thickness in your throat. You’ve never seen him like this before. 

You can feel his heart racing and slowly you become aware of the fact that his breathing is quickening too. 

“Peter, hey,” you gently try and push back from him, though his grip is still tight on you, clearly trying to convince himself that you are real. “Tell me what’s going on.”

His grip loosens enough for you to pull away a little. You reach up a hand to stroke his cheek. His eyes are screwed shut, breathing coming in small bursts. You recognise it for what it is immediately. 

“Can you sit up with me for a second?” You whisper, moving to sit up and feeling immediately relieved when he listens to you and sits up too. “I think you’re having a panic attack, sweetheart. Can you open your eyes for me?”

You move to sit a little closer to him so he can see you in the dark room, only lit by the sliver of moonlight coming through the curtains. You reach up and swipe away a tear as it falls from his eye. 

“Peter, open your eyes, sweetheart,” you try again.

His eyes slowly open and the sight of them so full of tears breaks your heart even more. That, combined with his still heavy breathing and the fact that he hasn’t uttered a word since he first woke up, worry you even more.

You reach down to take his hands in yours, giving them a gentle squeeze. “Can you breathe with me, Peter? In for four, out for four, okay? I’ll do it with you. Ready? One, two, three, four…”

Relief fills you as Peter starts to try breathing with you. It’s difficult at first but the more you count out loud, the more you do it with him, the better he becomes at it. His breathing starts to slow and even though there are still tears streaking down his cheeks, it’s progress. 

You keep counting for a few minutes even after his breathing has slowed and the tears stop falling. Your hands don’t let go of his, though. You still want to keep holding him, anchoring him to the real world for as long as he needs it, even if he hasn’t asked you to. 

“Are you okay?” You eventually ask, voice soft.

Peter nods once and then shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut again. You can’t help but feel the need to get closer to him so you make the split second decision to move to straddle his lap, letting go of his hands briefly to rest them on the sides of his neck, stroking your thumbs back and forth over his skin. 

“That was a nightmare, wasn’t it?” 

He nods again, hands moving to rest on your waist and pull you a little closer to him. “They’ve been happening for a while,” he replies, voice a little croaky from the tears and the panic attack. In the past, he’s been known to scare himself awake with a scream. Had he done that tonight? No… no, tonight your voice had been what he’d heard when he’d awoken. Your voice and your touch. You had cut through the noise. “And the panic attacks afterwards.”

“You’ve never said anything,” you frown. You’re not disappointed in him. You think you understand why he kept them to himself. But knowing he’s been struggling like this for a while and you’ve been unable to help him hurts a little. 

“I didn’t… I didn’t want to seem weak to you,” he admits, meeting your eyes. His eyes are still full of tears, you notice. “I shouldn’t be having nightmares. Not when it was my choice.”

“Everyone has nightmares, Peter. I’d never think you’re weak for having them.”

Peter shakes his head again. “Not nightmares like these,” he continues. “These ones… they’re different. It’s not just nightmares like I used to have. About the blip or about losing fights or… about Aunt May. These ones…” He drifts off, closing his eyes again.

“You can tell me,” you hum, stroking your thumb over his skin again. 

“In these ones, you forget me too,” he manages. “I wake up one morning and you’re asking who I am, why I’m in your apartment, in your bed. Or I come home and you tell me to get out of your apartment or you’ll call the cops. Or I try and text you and the message bounces back to me because I’m not in your contacts.” 

Tears start streaming down his cheeks again as he tells you about his nightmares. They’re coming too fast for you to stop this time, even though you try. Even though there are similar tears tracking their way down your cheeks too, now. He’s been dreaming about you forgetting him. About Doctor Strange’s spell working on you, like some kind of delay. And you had no idea about it up until now. It’s been over a year since the day that spell worked. Has he been having these nightmares ever since then?

“Peter, I’m not going to forget you,” you sniff, removing one of your hands from him just so you can wipe your own tears from your face this time. “If the spell was going to work on me, it would have worked by now. But it didn’t. It didn’t and I’m still here.”

Peter blinks, finally looking back at you. “How can you be sure of that?”

You wish you could tell him with certainty that you were sure. That there wasn’t a part of you that thought that one day, the spell would take effect. That the delay would finally wear off and you’d forget him entirely. You’d had similar nightmares in the past, but none to the extent that Peter has clearly been having. 

“We can’t be sure of anything, Peter,” you admit softly. “But we can be sure of right now. And right now I’m here, and you’re here and we’re together. And I remember you and I still love you like I have all along. That’s not going to change.”

For a few moments, Peter does nothing but stare at you. Even though in the dark room, he can’t see you that well. He focuses instead on what he can feel. The weight of your body atop his. The warmth of your legs over the top of his. The feeling of your shirt and your skin where his hands sit on your waist. He reaches one of his hands up to cup your cheek, wet with tears like his are too. His thumb moves to trace your lips. He works on calming his breathing again as he takes in the feel of you. You’re here. You’re real. You remember him.

He can’t help but lean forward, then, and capture your lips in his. His hand moves to hold behind your neck as he kisses you, still focusing on how you feel, how warm your lips are, the taste of the salt of both of your tears mixing together, the faint taste of your lip balm, the one you always put on before bed. He memorises feelings like this for the next time he wakes up in a panic from a nightmare like the one he’d just had. Feelings like these to remember what it feels like to have you, to hold you, to love you and to have you love him back just as deeply. 

Eventually, when he needs to breathe again, he pulls away regretfully from your lips. He rests his forehead against yours. “I’m sorry I woke you, love,” he mutters.

“I’m not,” you say. It’s the truth. You’d rather be here with him awake now than sleeping beside him, unaware of everything he was going through and unable to help him. “Wake me up next time it happens, please. Every time it happens.”

Peter knows better than to argue with you. “Okay,” he agrees. “I will.”

The two of you sit there again for a few moments, soaking in the feeling of each other. You feel closer. Things have changed in your relationship tonight. For the better, you think.

“You think you can try and sleep again?” You ask. 

He nods, if only for your benefit. He doesn’t know if sleep will come for him again tonight, but he’ll happily lay with you in his arms, feeling the way you breathe and letting you sleep beside him. “Yeah, I can try.” 

Before you can move off of him to lay down again, he leans forward to kiss you again. The kiss is deep but gentle, soft but firm. It’s another attempt to memorise the way your lips feel against his. Something to think about as he tries to sleep again beside you. Something to hold onto.

He wraps his body around yours as you both lay back down to try and sleep again. He makes sure the blanket is pulled back up around you to keep you warm and presses a soft kiss behind your ear as you snuggle back into him. 

“I love you,” he whispers, needing you to hear the words since he didn’t say them earlier.

Those beautiful green eyes that you fawned over every single day were blown wide and were stuck on your form and all the color had drained from his face.

Genuine fear began gripping your heart as you hurriedly flew to your feet, crossing the distance until you stood right in front of your boyfriend, hands reaching up to gently cup his face, “Baby? What is it? You’re scaring me.”

That admission seemed to be enough to finally snap Jason out of whatever trance he had been sent into the second he breached the entrance of your bedroom. The horror that had been written all over his features seeped into his tone when he sputtered out the question, “What is that?”

You paused, tearing your eyes away from his just to quickly glance around the room to see if anything was askew. It wasn’t. In fact, you had barely moved from the bed since Jason left you with a lingering kiss and the promise to return soon a few hours prior. You had been too wrapped up in your reading to do much else.

“What’s… what, Jay?” You hadn’t a single clue as to what he was referring to, but you knew that you wanted to soothe whatever it was that was bothering him. You wanted to fix it even though you didn’t know what it was.

“That!” He spit out the word with such disgust that you would have recoiled had you not known that the exclamation wasn’t directed towards you- not really. His outbursts never were.

He reached out and gently, but firmly, tugged at the sweatshirt that practically drowned your form.

You glanced down, and understanding finally overtook your expression, and you had to swiftly press your lips into a thin line to keep yourself from smiling- or worse, laughing.

In this specific situation, you highly doubted that your boyfriend would appreciate the gesture.

A Nightwing hoodie about two sizes too big clad your form alongside old sweatpants that belonged to Jason once upon a time, but you had long since claimed as your own. And because you doubted he was acting personally offended by the pants he had accepted months ago he was never getting back, you had to desperately fight off the laughter that threatened to bubble up to the surface.

“Oh! I forgot to tell you,” That much was clear, “Dick dropped it off for me yesterday.”

Jason physically stiffened at the mention of his older brother, eyes narrowing in immediate suspicion as to what the man was playing at. If there was one thing Grayson was known for, it was for finding any way possible to mess with his Little Wing.

“And, what? He paid you to wear it and record my reaction?” He immediately began whipping his head from side to side, practically seething by this point, “Where are the camera’s, sweetheart?”

The tone in which he asked informed you that he was already plotting to break any recording device he found, smash it up into little pieces, and deliver them to Dick in a box with a bow and deliver a fist to the face for the man.

This time, you couldn’t stop the laughter from slipping out, shaking your body slightly. Jason’s eyes snapped to you at the sound, forever a moth to the flame when it came to your joy.

It was only then that his eyes softened around the edges, your giggles had that effect on him.

“Baby,” He whined, stretching out the pet name as he did so, “Why are you wearing a stupid Nightwing hoodie?”

Another round of soft laughter escaped from your lips as you raised your hands to his face once more, thumb brushing gently against his cheek. He leaned into your touch, eyes involuntarily fluttering as they always did.

“Dick felt bad about missing my birthday last week because he was away on a mission, so I think he picked this up off a street vendor and it was the only size they had left and he dropped it off at the apartment yesterday while you were gone. It completely slipped my mind, which is why I didn’t mention it. I washed it last night and it was so warm after I threw it into the dryer this morning that I put it on without thinking about it, so I could be comfy while I read.” You explained calmly, heart rate returned to its normal pace now that you discovered that nothing was truly the matter.

Jason’s tense muscles finally loosened- though only slightly- and he now took to glaring at the fabric again like it was a threat to him and his standing as your sweet, lovable boyfriend.

Before you could open your mouth to say anything more, the man began grumbling incoherently under his breath, though you swore you could catch words such as ‘kick his ass’ and ‘Dickhead is in for a surprise’. You really did pity whoever was in the same vicinity as the vigilante brothers on patrol tonight.

Without warning, the hoodie was tugged over your head, and you let out a gasp when you were left standing in nothing but a sports bra and Jason’s sweats, “Hey-” You exclaimed, only for every other word to escape your vocabulary as your boyfriend tossed the clothing into the nearest trash bin you had.

A soft frown overtook your features, “That was a gift-” You tried to protest, but once more cut yourself off when you watched with wide eyes as your boyfriend tugged his own hoodie over his head without any thought.

It wasn’t anything special, just an old, plain black one that he wore around every once and a while, and he quickly slipped it over your head before you could blink.

“There,” He took a small step backwards and planted his hands on his hips, eyes sweeping up and down your body appreciatively, “Much better.”

Your lips parted as you looked down at yourself, now dressed head to toe in your boyfriend's clothing. After a moment you closed your eyes and shook your head, chuckling softly to yourself before pointing to your boyfriend teasingly, “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously in love with you,” He spoke with the cheesiest smile on his face, stepping forwards and dropping his hands to your hips and a kiss to your forehead, eyes alight, “You look so hot like this, sweetheart.”

That prompted yet another laugh and grin from you, reaching up to wrap your arms loosely around his neck, “I’m in oversized clothes.” You deadpanned, “And my hair is a complete mess.”

“Sexiest woman I’ve ever seen.” Jason confirmed with complete seriousness, capturing your lips softly against his own and smiling against them.

After a moment, you pulled away and smiled adoringly up at him, “I’m not going to let you throw that away, you know.”

He nodded, “That’s why I’m planning on burning it.”

You threw your head back with a laugh, gently hitting your boyfriend's chest, “Jason!”

You bite your lower lip when you see him talking to Sherry while keeping one eye on you. You know this isn’t the best place, or the best day, for people to find out that you two are giving your relationship a second chance… or that what it looks like. You’re grateful that your daughter’s traveling with her college friends, because otherwise…

Your attention shifts away from your ex-husband when you hear a man’s voice speaking beside you. You don’t know his name, but you know he’s one of Leon’s coworkers at the DSO. You’d run into him a couple of times at different events the organization hosted for its employees, and even you didn’t remember his name, you did indeed remember his attempts to hit on you even though you were still married.

Now, nearly three years after your divorce, he seems to still have that intention, just like you do.

You go along with everything he says, even though you’re barely paying attention. Your eyes can’t help but stare at Leon, who now seems distracted by his cell phone. You know he’s faking a call when you see him hold it to his ear, but his lips don’t move.

You know exactly what you have to do when you see him disappear.

Seven minutes. That’s how long you’d agreed to spend on one of your trysts, in the restrooms, without raising any suspicion.

“Sorry, I think I have to go to the bathroom… A little emergency,” you say to the man, who’s still standing next to you, and still talking to you.

“Would you like to go to my room when you get back?” he blurts out quickly. “I booked a room for tonight before heading home. You know…”

“I’ve booked one for tonight, too, but thanks for the offer,” you say. You realize he’s about to interrupt you, so you decide to speak again without even thinking about the consequences of your words: “I have company tonight, so… I’m sorry.”

You don’t give him time to continue, nor do you turn around to see his reaction. You simply head quickly toward the restrooms farthest from the room, keeping your head down to avoid being caught… doing whatever you’re doing.

Doing exactly what you’ve been doing with your ex-husband for the past six months.

You can’t stop thinking about your siblings and what they’d think of this. You know Claire wouldn’t mind if you got back together with Leon. Actuallyt, just like the two of you, she didn’t even know why you’d signed the divorce papers. But Chris…

Typical overprotective older brother behaviour with his little sisters.

You step into the bathroom cautiously, looking around to make sure there’s no one else there but you, and hopefully Leon.

“Leon?” you whisper, waiting for a reply. “Oh God, tell me you’re here.” Damn it, it’s not like we’re twenty again that we have to be hiding like this—

You don’t hear the click of the door opening. All you notice’s a hand resting on your waist, pulling you toward the only bathroom stall. Then, lips press against your neck that begin to suck with no care.

“Damn…” your ex-husband murmurs against your temple, leaving a trail of kisses from your jawline to the edge of your cleavage. Unfortunately for you, you can’t stop him. You can only beg for more with every moan that escapes your lips. “I haven’t had a chance to tell you tonight, but you look gorgeous.”

You’re used to his compliments even divorced, but you can’t help feeling a kind of flutter in your stomach with a sense of nostalgia and regret in your chest.

“Do you mind if I take it off?” Leon asks, pulling you out of your thoughts as he steals a kiss from you. “I know I shouldn’t because we have to do this quick, but—”

“What if we save that for later?” you suggest, grabbing the collar of his shirt and pulling him close to you again. This time you take your time bitting his neck, his ear… “That’s why we booked a room tonight, isn’t it?”

He smiles shyly and then looks at you, asking for your permission to continue, just as he always did whenever you had sex. You don’t hesitate to nod, and immediately tilt your head back, feeling Leon’s lips explore your neck once again as his hands slide up under your dress and glide down your thighs until they reach your underwear.

You try to stifle a moan when you feel two of his fingers touching your pussy above the fabric of your underwear.

“Didn’t expect you to be this wet right from the start…” he murmurs.

“What do you want me to say? You look absolutely gorgeous in that suit. Also… it’s your birthday, and thinking that we might get caught… I guess the whole idea of having a secret affair with my ex-husband turns me on,” you joke, even deep down you both know you’re telling the truth.

Leon doesn’t answer. Instead, he breaks contact with your pussy, making you moan in response, begging for him to touch you again.

“Leon…”

“Do you want me to keep going?” you ask. “Maybe I got a little carried away, but if you don’t want to do this here—”

“Please, Leon…” you interrupt him, praying he won’t think you’re too desperate.

He presses his lips against yours. There was nothing else to say, and you both knew it. You gently bite his lower lip as you deepen the kiss while he slides his index finger inside you, fucking you as his thumb takes care of your clit.

With a quick movement, you lift one of your legs and rest it on his waist. He slips in another finger without warning you, keeping going with his movements as you feel your walls tightening more.

Your breathing is ragged. You can’t stop moaning, begging him to keep going, not to stop, to make you come… You also know he wants something else: you glance down at his pants, where there’s a very noticeable bulge.

You’re the one who pulls away even when you were on the verge of your orgasm. But it was his birthday. Without even thinking, you reach for his belt to quickly undo it, but his hands gently grab your wrists, pulling them away from the waistband of his pants.

“Leon…” you complain. “It’s your day. Don’t do this.”

“It’s just that…” he looks down, touching his erection to try calming himself down. “I don’t want us to have sex here. Look, I know it’s my birthday, that I have a party out there that I should be enjoying. I also know we’re divorced and that maybe we’re taking a bit of a risk with this, but…”

He forces himself to shut up, but you can tell from his eyes that he wants to say more. 

“Do you regret this?” you ask him out of the blue, your voice trembling at the possible answer he might give you. “Do you want to call it quits?”

“Yeah.”

You feel a part of you break inside, and you let out a bittersweet laugh.

You knew it. You knew that starting over with Leon was a bad idea, specially considering that—

Once again, his hands grip your waist and pull you toward him. 

His lips crash against yours in a kiss that’s both aggressive and, at the same time, eager. You shouldn’t be doing this after his confession, but you can’t stop your fingers from running through his hair and tugging at it, desiring so much more from him even you know that, perhaps, he couldn’t give it to you.

“I want us to finish all this because I want us to start all over again,” he says the moment you pull apart, his voice agitated. “I want a second chance where we don’t have to hide from anyone else. Damn it, Miss Redfield, if you only knew everything I want to do with you all over again…”

“You sure?” you rest your forehead against his. He nods, stealing a kiss from you. “Leon, you really don’t have to say anything just to make me feel good—”

“Isn’t it my birthday? Chris told me that at 12,” he glances at his watch, “in about ten minutes, I have to go blow out the candles, but you know what the only thing I want is? You.”

You’ve spent enough years sharing your life with Leon first, as friends, then, as a couple, and finally as a married couple with a daughter in her twenties to know that he doesn’t like being the center of attention. 

You know he’d hated the whole idea of Chris’s huge birthday party, but at the same time, he’d given himself the chance to try something new without disappointing his ex-brother-in-law. 

Or brother-in-law.

“Do you want me to…?” you begin calmly, trying not to cross his boundaries or make him think you want anything more than sex with him. You clear your throat and think about rephrasing it better. “Would you like us to slip away, pretend something’s going on… and head to the bedroom?”

“I’ll go first, and then you’ll go.”

Before leaving, Leon gives you a quick kiss on the lips and whispers that he loves you.

I love you.

You lean against the wall for a few seconds, trying to relax while you process everything that’s happened. More than Leon fingering you… the fact that he asked you for a second chance.

He confessed he loves you…

You take your phone out of your purse and check the hour, making sure enough time has passed. Before leaving, you look at yourself in the mirror in the stall: your hair’s a mess, your lips are slightly swollen, and your cheeks are flushed. You’re grateful that your dress still looks the same as when you walked in, except for a few wrinkles.

As you’re heading back to the ballroom to go to the area leading to the bedrooms, again with your head down and walking quickly, you bump into someone who immediately grabs your shoulders firmly, but not too roughly.

You curse under your breath when you realize who it is just from their laugh.

Chris.

“You okay?” he asks, worried. He takes your chin and tilts your face from side to side, looking at the blush on your cheeks. Then he places the back of his hand on your forehead as if to check for a fever. “You’re…” he looks you up and down, “kinda looking weird.”

“I’ve got a headache,” you say quickly, and he seems to get it. When you take a step forward to leave, he grabs your forearm. “Seriously, I just want to go to my room and—”

“Leon’s room, you mean.”

You feel your face go pale. You avoid looking at your older brother as you consider denying it, making up an excuse credible enough to avoid the subject, especially today.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” is all you say.

“Yeah, right…” he chuckles under his breath, shaking his head. “Do you think I’m stupid?”

“Do you think I’m stupid enough to get back into some kind of relationship with my ex-husband? What am I, a teen?”

“I think you were pretty foolish to divorce him for reasons that neither you nor anyone else understood, but what could we say?” he replies sincerely. “So, on that note… I’m glad to see you two leaving the same place seven minutes apart,” he takes your chin in his hand again and smiles widely when he sees the hickies on your neck. “Seriously… it’s obvious you’re having a good time together and that you’re both comfortable with this. Hope so.”

“I don’t want to talk about this right now, Chris,” you say quickly. “Leon’s… he’s waiting for me…” you whisper, embarrassed, once again avoiding his gaze.

“Oh, I know. Did you really think I was going to make him blow out the candles in front of everyone when he’s always done it just with you and your daughter? Even during the years of your divorce.”

That catches you off guard.

“So…”

“I know you and Leon have been doing this for a while,” he confesses. “Just like Claire, Sherry, and your daughter know… Did you know the party was her idea? So that, in some way, I don’t know how she explained it to me, and I can’t explain it to you either, you could… get back together? Or whatever it is you’re doing…”

“She knew?” you ask, referring to your daughter.

“Not exactly… but she suspected it since… never mind,” he says, giving up and sighing. “She told me a couple of months ago that she was tired of seeing you two pretend all the time when it was clear you don’t act like a divorced couple. I mean, don’t get me wrong, you don’t have to hate each other or anything, but…”

You nod, knowing exactly what he means.

“I didn’t want her to think that…”

“Listen,” your brother interrupts you. 

Without hesitation, you look at him, even though you feel quite embarrassed, just like when you were a teenager.

“I don’t know what you two said or did in there, and I don’t care, but… it’s been a long time since I’ve seen Leon as happy as he looks today,” you feel a lump forming in your throat. “And… it’s been even longer since I’ve seen you this happy as well.”

“Chris…”

“Stop overthinking it. Stop coming up with stupid excuses for your older brother and go spend the night with your husband.”

“Ex-husband,” you correct him.

“We’ll see if tonight leads to another wedding,” you can’t help but laugh. “Come on, go on before he starts driving himself crazy wondering if you stood him up or not.”

You give him a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek, and immediately afterward you start running all over the venue, not giving a fuck if you’re suspicious or not.

You weave your way through the guests, apologizing when you bump into someone, and bite the inside of your cheek as you feel your heels hurting more. You keep running without forcing yourself to stop, even when you’re on the verge of falling several times.

You climb the stairs leading to the rooms with your heart pounding. Your heartbeat rises when you stop in front of room 333 and realise it’s the suite where you spent your wedding night.

You take a deep breath, trying not to get swept away by the mixed of emotions you’re feeling, and knock gently on the door.

It opens in a matter of seconds.

Leon’s shirt’s slightly unbuttoned, his hair a bit tousled, and he has an expression of nervousness mixed with happiness that, maybe, only you can recognize after all these years.

When his eyes meet yours, you notice how he gradually relaxes; how the straight line of his lips curves until they part just enough to reveal his lips.

“I ran into Chris,” you say out of the blue. “He knows. He knows we’re—”

Your ex-husband closes the distance between you by wrapping his arms around your waist and drawing your lips to his in a brief kiss, resting his forehead against yours as you pull apart.

“Are you okay?” he asks, stroking your cheek with his hand.

“Me? Better than ever,” you chuckle, giving him a peck on the lips.

“I’ve missed you…” now, it’s his turn to steal a kiss from you. “I’ve missed you so, so much,” and another one, “and I don’t want this to happen to us again…”

Leon picks you up in his arms and shuts the door with his foot, slamming it shut. He carries you straight to the bed without a second thought, gently laying you down and positioning himself on top of you, starting all over again to kiss every single part of you.

“Leon, it’s your birthday…” you insist, once again, between soft moans. You sit up a little and try to reach your hands toward his pants. “I’ve already told you: I want to make you feel good…”

“Come on, let me be the one to start.”

Your stomach flutters as he grabs your neck and brings your lips together for the hundredth time that day. Clumsily, he sits up: now Leon’s on the bottom and you’re on top of him, while you awkwardly slip off your heels and he slides the straps of your dress down until your tits are exposed. He takes his time with them, massaging them and brushing against your nipples, making you escape a few moans from your lips.

You reach a hand to the zipper of his pants without stopping your grinding against him, struggling to pull his pants down. Leon sits up slightly until he finally manages to take them off; then, his shirt, leaving him in nothing but his boxers, revealing his huge erection.

You don’t hesitate to run your hands over the fabric, watching it grow even larger at your touch.

“I need you to take that dress off…” your ex-husband says in a broken voice.

“Go ahead. What did you say your birthday wish was?”

Gently, he grabs your ass and lifts  you up a little. You take the opportunity to lift your dress up a bit, sitting back down on him and increasing the speed of the friction against his cock, which’s now fully erect. 

Leon, after a few clumsy tries, finally takes the bottom of your dress and pulls it up. You raise your arms without even thinking, feeling the slight brush of your hands, noticing how your skin’s getting more tingly and how you’re getting wetter.

“You know what else I’d like?” he says, returning to nibble at your neck. Quickly and with the utmost care, he grabs you by the waist, lifting you up with him and laying you down on the bed with your legs hanging off the edge. His kisses now focus on your stomach. “A baby. I know we already have that amazing young woman at home, and that we’re a bit old, but… Wouldn’t that be nice?”

“You’re crazy,” you say, rolling your eyes in pleasure as you feel his tongue flat against your pussy. “Leon, for God’s sake…”

“Don’t you want a baby?” he insists, sliding two of his fingers inside you in one swift motion.

“I think we’ve got enough on our hands with our daughter…” you tug at his hair, urging him to keep eating you out. “We’ve got enough to worry about figuring out what we’re going to tell her now that—”

“She’ll take it well,” he tells you, looking at you as he keeps thrusting his fingers inside you. “But you’re right. Now… I just want to spend a great time with my wife and think of nothing else.”

He pulls on your thighs and increases the friction even more with his tongue, his fingers moving even faster. You notice your vision becoming a bit blurry as he begins to gently suck on your clit with his mouth and a bit with his teeth. 

You feel the orgasm building in your stomach, and you know that Leon, once again, knows it.

He knows you as well as you know him.

“Do you want…?”

He breaks the contact between his mouth and your pussy, but doesn’t stop fingering you, even though he slows down as he sits up.

“I need you to fuck me right now, love.”

You run your hands around Leon’s neck and pull him toward you as he clumsily grabs his cock and lines it up with your entrance, entering you without previous warning and making you let out a moan of surprise.

“Leon…” you cling tightly to his neck as he thrusts into you mercilessly. “Leon, faster, please…”

You wrap your legs around his waist and feel him even more, specially when he listens to you and picks up the pace of his movements. You feel completely lost when one of his fingers finds its way to your clit to stimulate you more.

You don’t know how long you’ve been like this. You let yourself go, completely losing track of time, feeling incredibly comfortable for the first time in a long time.

“I’m going to come,” Leon whispers in your ear, which turns you on even more. “Where do you want me to—?”

“Inside,” you say without hesitation.

And that’s exactly what he does. 

After fucking you for a while longer, Leon finally cums inside you, keeping going until a few minutes later, and with the help of his fingers stimulating your clit, you come too.

You both end up sprawled on the bed, a total mess, but it’s the least you care about.

For a few minutes, neither of you says a word. You’re resting on Leon’s chest, while he covers both of you with the bedsheets, wrapping his arm around your neck and still planting kisses all over your face.

“Are you okay?”

“You always ask me the same thing,” you reply, looking up at him.

“And I’m going to keep doing it.”

He brushes a strand of hair away from your face and then moves his hand to the small of your back, tracing slow figures slowly.

“I’ve missed you so much,” he confesses in a low voice. “Not this,” he hastens to add, referring to sex, “but… us. All these years I’ve tried to convince myself that if we got divorced, it was for a reason. That if I really loved you, and even we were on good terms… I had to let you go.”

You swallow nervously, though you can’t stop looking at him and feeling regret for having wasted time. For not having fought harder for your relationship when there was nothing but the feeling that you were pulling apart. For feeling that you were missing out on each other’s lives by getting carried away by your own ones.

“The only thing I’ve managed to do all these years, despite following that mantra, is to wake up every morning looking for you on what should be your side of the bed.

“I haven’t… gotten over us either. Call me crazy, but… somehow… I felt like I was making the wrong decision when we got divorced, but, as you said… if I loved you, I had to let you go,” the words come out carefully of your lips, even though inside you’re falling apart. “I always kept making coffee for three, and I always had to lie to my daughter and tell her I was taking it to work,” you say, laughing, with tears already streaming down your face.

Leon closes his eyes for a moment and sighs.

It was ridiculous, and you both knew it.

“Chris told me we have to stop acting like this,” you say, shifting a little. Now you’re sitting, your tits exposed with no shame, and your hands reaching for Leon’s. “I don’t want to get married again tomorrow, much less act as if the divorce or our problems never happened, but…”

“But…?”

“I do want that second chance.”

Leon brings your hands to his lips, kissing them, and then kisses you.

“Well, then, let me get to know you all over again. Let me take you on dates, even if they’re a disaster… because I’m a disaster. I want to take you out to dinner without having the excuse of talking about our college-aged daughter’s grades,” you laugh. “Let me make you fall in love with me for a second time.”

“Are you trying to hit on your ex-wife?” you ask playfully, giving him a light nudge with your elbow.

“If you only knew how long I’ve been doing this… but you know I’m terrible at this kind of thing.”

“You’re so corny, you know that?”

“And I know you like it,” you smile even wider, knowing he’s right. “That’s why you married me, isn’t it?”

“That, and many other reasons. But you probably know them.”

He hugs you tightly, burying his face in the crook of your neck. You can feel him trying to hold back his sobs. You, however, can’t hold back yours.

“I’ve never stopped loving you, Leon. And I’ll never stop.”

Your ex-husband pulls away from you, and the first thing you notice are how red his eyes re. He gently takes your chin in his hands and wipes away the tears that keep streaming down your face.

“This time… if there’s a problem, we talk about it. If we get angry, we talk about it. If we feel like we’re losing each other again… we talk about how to find each other again.”

“I don’t want to lose you again…” you whisper, shaking your head.

“And you won’t,” he says, cupping your face with both hands and kissing you. “I didn’t even have to blow out the candles for my birthday wish to come true… and I’m not going to be stupid enough to waste this second chance. I lost you once, even not at all… so I’m not going to risk it all again. If I risk something…” he kisses you again, “it’s us.”

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING! Feedback, as well as comments and/or reblogs, are very much appreciated! My inbox is also open in case you want to make a request or talk to me! 💖

Not because you remembered losing your own parents. There had never been anyone for you to remember. No faces blurred soft by time, no voices you could almost hear in dreams, no treasured story about where you came from that anyone had been able to give back to you. Your life began, as far as anyone at Haly’s could tell, in a basket left near the performers’ entrance before dawn, wrapped in a blanket too thin for the weather and tucked beneath the faded canvas awning like whoever had left you there hoped the circus might know what to do with unwanted things.

The circus had.

Haly’s had taken you in the way a traveling circus took in anything strange, broken, useful, or lost. Not neatly. Not legally at first. Not with the clean lines adults liked to draw around family. You were passed between trailers and arms, fed from chipped bowls, tucked into spare bunks, watched by whoever was not performing, repairing, rehearsing, or sleeping. The roustabouts taught you knots. The clowns taught you how to make people look where you wanted them to look. The animal handlers taught you patience. Mary Grayson taught you how to braid your hair so it stayed out of your face. John Grayson taught you how to fall without breaking your wrists.

Dick taught you how to be a child.

He had been born into the circus, bright and laughing and fearless, with a last name that meant applause and parents who caught him whenever he leaped. For a while, you thought that made him different from you in some permanent, untouchable way. He belonged to people. He belonged to the air. He belonged to the story everyone told when the lights went up, and the Flying Graysons climbed toward the rigging.

Then he caught you stealing sugared almonds from a vendor’s crate when you were six years old and immediately asked why you had not taken more.

“You’re supposed to tell,” you said, clutching the paper bag to your chest.

Dick looked offended by the idea. “I’m supposed to get half.”

That was the beginning of everything.

By the time you were old enough to understand that the Graysons were not yours in any official way, it no longer mattered. Mary still checked whether you had eaten before shows. John still lifted you onto his shoulders when the crowds got too thick. Dick still came looking for you first whenever he had something funny, stupid, or dangerous to do. You were not a Grayson on paper, but you knew the rhythm of their trailer at night. You knew the smell of Mary’s perfume and rosin. You knew John’s laugh from across the lot. You knew Dick’s hand in the dark without needing to look.

They were still the first people who made you understand what parents were supposed to feel like.

The night they died, the air smelled like sawdust and rain.

You remembered that more clearly than you wanted to. The damp edge of the tent canvas. The crowd murmuring with that restless, eager hunger that came before the big act. The yellow-white glare of the lights. Dick’s shoulder pressed against yours backstage as he bounced on his toes, pretending not to be nervous. He was wearing red, green, and gold, the colors bright enough that he looked almost impossible to hurt.

Mary kissed his forehead before she climbed.

John winked at you.

“Watch closely, little sparrow,” he said. “You’ll miss the best part.”

You did watch.

For years afterward, you wished you had looked away.

There was a particular kind of silence that came after the ropes snapped, a silence too large for the tent, too large for the crowd, too large for your body. It opened like a wound. For one suspended moment, everyone seemed to believe that gravity could still change its mind.

Then Mary and John Grayson hit the ground.

Dick screamed.

You did not remember moving, but you remembered reaching him. He was fighting every adult hand that tried to hold him back, his small body twisting with a violence that made men twice his size flinch. You wrapped both arms around him from behind and held on because you knew he would try to run to them if you let go, and some desperate, practical part of you understood that if he got close enough to see everything, something inside him would never come back.

He elbowed you hard in the ribs. You did not let go.

“Let me go,” he choked.

You pressed your face into his shoulder and held tighter. “I can’t.”

“They’re my parents.”

“I know.”

“You don’t know.”

The words tore out of him before he could think better of them, and the second they were in the air, you felt him go still. Even in the middle of the worst moment of his life, Dick Grayson knew when he had cut too deep.

You closed your eyes. Your chest hurt where he had hit you. It hurt worse where he had not meant to.

“They were mine too,” you whispered.

Dick broke then. Not neatly. Not quietly. His knees buckled, and you went down with him in the sawdust, your arms still locked around his shaking body while the circus collapsed into shouts and footsteps and sobs around you.

You sat beside him on the narrow cot in the back of the medical tent and held his hand while the circus packed itself into whispers around you. Someone had wrapped a blanket around his shoulders. It kept sliding down one side because he would not release you long enough to fix it.

Bruce Wayne arrived in an expensive coat with a face like carved stone and eyes that looked too familiar for a stranger’s. He spoke to the police first, then to Mr. Haly, then to a woman from social services who kept glancing at Dick as if he might shatter if she looked directly at him for too long.

Finally, Bruce came to the cot.

He crouched instead of standing over Dick. That was the first thing you noticed about him. He was rich enough to own the ground beneath his feet, probably, but he crouched in the dirt and mud of the circus lot so Dick would not have to look up.

“Dick,” he said gently. “My name is Bruce Wayne.”

Dick stared at him.

“I knew your parents,” Bruce continued. “Not well, but enough to know they loved you.”

Dick’s fingers tightened around yours until your knuckles ached. You did not pull away.

Bruce’s gaze flicked briefly to your joined hands. “I want to help.”

It was the sort of thing adults said when they had already decided what help meant. You knew that too, though not because you remembered being left. You knew because you had grown up with the knowledge of it sitting under your skin like an old splinter. Adults said help and meant papers. They said help and meant moving. They said “help” and meant a bed in a room that smelled wrong, and a life chosen by strangers who got to go home afterward.

Dick knew it from you.

He had watched you grow up with the vocabulary of being left behind. He had seen the way you went quiet whenever inspectors came too close, whenever someone asked who was responsible for you, whenever an adult with a clipboard looked at you like a problem that had learned to walk and speak. He had followed you around until you either had to talk to him or throw something at him, and when you had chosen to throw something, he had only ducked, grinned, and declared that your aim needed work.

He knew what happened to children who belonged nowhere.

So when Bruce Wayne said, “You can come with me,” Dick did not ask where.

He looked at you.

The woman from social services shifted. “Mr. Grayson—”

“No,” Dick said.

It was the first word he had spoken in hours. His voice was raw and small and still somehow absolute.

Bruce did not move. “No?”

Dick lifted his chin. His eyes were red, but dry. “I’m not going without her.”

The woman started to say your name, then stopped because she had only read it off a file and did not know how to make it sound like it belonged to you.

Bruce looked at you again. Not with pity, exactly. With calculation, maybe, but not the cold kind. His face changed by degrees as he understood that this was not a child asking to bring along a favorite toy or a familiar blanket.

This was Dick Grayson drawing a line around the last piece of home he had left.

“I see,” Bruce said.

“You don’t,” Dick snapped.

You flinched at the sharpness of it, but Bruce did not.

“No,” Bruce agreed quietly. “Probably not.”

Dick looked ready to hate him for that too. He looked ready to hate anything that required less effort than falling apart. Then his hand trembled in yours, just once, and his face twisted before he managed to force it still again.

You leaned closer until your shoulder touched his.

Bruce saw that too.

The argument lasted longer than it should have, though most of it happened above your heads and around corners. There were phone calls. There were questions about guardianship, placement, emergency petitions, and temporary arrangements. You heard the phrase “not related” at least four times, always in the tones adults used when they thought blood was the only thing that made a family hard to separate.

In the end, Bruce Wayne did what rich men in Gotham did best.

He made the impossible bureaucratically inconvenient enough that people stopped telling him no.

You left the circus in the back seat of his car with Dick pressed against your side and both of your lives packed into two bags in the trunk. Wayne Manor rose out of the dark like something from a ghost story, too large to be real and too silent to be kind.

Alfred Pennyworth met you at the door.

He took one look at Dick, then at you, then at the way neither of you had released the other’s hand.

“Master Dick,” he said, as if Dick had always been expected. Then, turning to you, he added your name with the same grave courtesy. “Welcome home.”

You did not believe him.

But Dick breathed for the first time since the circus lot, and because Dick breathed, you tried.

Wayne Manor did not become home quickly.

The manor was too large. That was your first thought, and it remained your strongest impression for weeks. Too many rooms. Too many staircases. Too many windows looking out over grounds that did not pack up and leave at sunrise. The quiet was not peaceful. It pressed against your ears until you missed the generators, the animals, the distant laughter, the familiar arguments over equipment and laundry and pay.

Dick hated it more openly than you did.

He ran through the halls like speed could make the walls less solid. He climbed banisters, chandeliers, bookshelves, anything that allowed him to get his feet off the ground. He argued with Bruce, with Alfred, with tutors, with anyone who tried to tell him what he was allowed to feel. At night, when he thought you were asleep, he left his room and sat on the floor outside yours.

You started leaving the door open.

Neither of you talked about why.

Bruce tried. You would give him that later, when you were old enough to understand the shape of his failure. He cared clumsily, intensely, with the panic of a man who had never learned how to help a grieving child except by giving him a mission. Dick was angry. Bruce had a place to put his anger. That was how Robin was born.

Dick told you the first night. Of course he did. He came to your room before patrol, still pulling at the gloves, trying to look brave and failing because he kept checking your face.

“Bruce says it’s training,” he said.

“Is it?”

Dick looked down at the bright colors beneath his jacket. “It’s something.”

Three weeks later, he came through your window at two in the morning with a split lip, bruised knuckles, and no chance of pretending it was only training anymore.

You stared at him from your bed.

He stared back.

Then you threw a pillow at his head.

“Ow.”

“You’re wearing traffic-light colors.”

Dick, who had clearly expected fear, anger, or betrayal, looked down at himself. “They’re not that bad.”

“You look like Christmas got into a fight.”

He pressed a hand to his mouth, trying not to smile because his lip was bleeding. “Don’t tell Bruce how bad it looks.”

“Bruce was there.”

“Then don’t tell Alfred.”

“Alfred definitely knows.”

Dick sighed and leaned back against the wall beneath your window. His face changed when the joke faded. In the moonlight, he looked younger than he had all day.

“I can do something now,” he said.

You sat up slowly. “Does it help?”

He looked at his hands. “Sometimes.”

That was the first night you cleaned blood from his face.

You did not know what you were doing then. You used too much antiseptic and made him hiss. Your hands shook. Dick sat on the edge of your bed and let you work, his knee bouncing until you slapped it still. He watched you with those huge blue eyes that had once reflected spotlights and now carried rooftops.

“You don’t have to do this,” he said.

“Yes, I do.”

“Why?”

Because Mary was not there to check him. Because John was not there to teach him how to fall. Because Bruce was turning him into something sharp, and Alfred could not be everywhere, and you had already lost too much to sit still while Dick came apart in pieces.

Because he had said she’s with me, and you had never stopped being grateful.

You dabbed at his lip more gently. “Because you’d do it wrong.”

Dick smiled, small and real. “Probably.”

So it began.

Robin came home bleeding, and you learned. Alfred taught you first aid with the weary resignation of a man who knew forbidding you would only make you sneakier. You learned how to clean cuts, how to wrap ribs, how to spot a concussion, how to tell when Dick was joking to hide pain and when he was joking because he was genuinely pleased with himself. You learned that Bruce went quiet when he was worried, that Alfred used sarcasm as a pressure valve, that the Cave was colder than any place under a home should be.

You did not become a vigilante.

Dick asked once, carefully, after you had thrown a practice knife so hard it stuck in the training mat beside his head.

“You could,” he said.

You looked at him. He was fourteen then, all elbows and restless guilt, still growing into his grief. “Could what?”

“Train. Come out with me.”

“No.”

“You didn’t even think about it.”

“I did. No.”

His shoulders dropped, though he tried to hide it. “Why?”

“Because someone has to be here when you come back.”

That shut him up.

You were proud of that for almost two whole days.

Years passed the way they did in Gotham, measured less by birthdays and more by scars. Dick grew taller. His voice changed. His smile became something people followed without knowing why. Robin became a name whispered by criminals and children alike, bright enough to make Batman’s shadow seem survivable.

People started noticing him before either of you knew what to do with it. Girls at school first, then women at galas, then everyone. It was impossible not to. 

Dick Grayson had a way of making attention feel accidental, as if he had only smiled because he could not help it, as if the warmth in his voice belonged entirely to whoever stood in front of him. He could lean against a doorway, flash that grin, and make strangers feel as if they had been chosen. He flirted the same way he fought, quick and graceful and half a step ahead, leaving people blinking after him as if he had taken the light with him when he moved on.

You learned to look away. 

Not all the time. Not enough for anyone to notice. Just when someone laughed too brightly at something he said, or when his hand lingered at a waist during a gala dance, or when he came back from patrol with lipstick on his cheek and blood on his knuckles, grinning like both had been equally harmless.

You told yourself it did not matter. 

You had known him before the charm fit right. Before the smile became practiced. Before Robin turned him into Gotham’s golden boy. You had known the child outside your bedroom door, knees drawn to his chest, too proud to cry where anyone could see.

Somehow, that made it worse.

You watched from the Cave, from the Manor, from the edge of his life where you had always stood, with bandages in one hand and your heart in the other.

Then Dick began to outgrow Robin.

Or Bruce began to outgrow the idea that Robin could belong to anyone who questioned him. Or Gotham asked too much of a name that had been built for a grieving boy in bright colors. Maybe all of it happened at once.

At first, it happened quietly. A costume worn with impatience. A name that no longer fit cleanly in his mouth. Arguments with Bruce that ended with doors closing too carefully, because slamming them would have admitted too much. Dick had spent years turning Robin into something bright enough to survive Batman’s shadow, only to realize brightness could become its own kind of cage.

And you, selfishly, missed the cage.

Not because you wanted him trapped. Never that. But Robin had been the part of him that still came home to the Cave, still climbed through your window, still bled where you could reach him. Whatever came next would belong to the world even more than he already did.

You hated yourself a little for knowing that before he said it aloud.

Their fights got worse before they got quieter. That was how you knew it was serious. Dick and Bruce shouting was unpleasant, but familiar. Silence between them felt like a door closing.

By the time Dick chose Nightwing, it no longer felt like a costume change. It felt like an escape route.

He came home in black and blue for the first time with blood on his jaw and something fragile beneath his smile, as if he had expected the new colors to make him feel free all at once and had been disappointed to discover that becoming yourself still hurt. You stood in the Cave with gauze in one hand and antiseptic in the other, looking at the winged symbol across his chest.

He looked older. Not because of the suit, though the suit helped. Not because of the blood, either; you had seen too much of that for it to mean what it should have. He looked older because, for the first time, he seemed to be standing outside the life Bruce had built for him and deciding whether to come back in. 

“Nightwing,” he said, like he was testing whether the name would hold.

You looked up at him. “That’s what you’re calling yourself now?”

His smile flickered. “You hate it?”

You hated that you didn’t.

You hated that it suited him. The dark, the blue, the clean break of it. You hated that Robin had looked like a boy trying to survive grief, and Nightwing looked like someone who might actually outrun it.

“No,” you said, softer than you meant to. “I don’t hate it.”

Something in his shoulders loosened. Not much. Just enough to hurt.

He stepped closer, holding still while you pressed gauze to the cut along his jaw. “Bruce does.”

“Bruce hates anything he didn’t build himself.”

Dick laughed under his breath, but it did not last. His eyes dropped to your hands. “Do you?”

You knew what he was really asking. Not whether you hated the name. Not whether you hated the suit. Whether you hated that he had chosen a door and walked through it without you.

“No,” you said again.

This time, it cost more.

He sat on the edge of the med table and let you clean the cut along his jaw. For once, he did not fill the silence with jokes. He watched your hands instead, his eyes following the familiar motions like they were the only part of the night he trusted.

“Does it look stupid?” he asked eventually.

You glanced up.

There were a dozen easy answers. You could have teased him about the collar, the symbol, the dramatic little wings. You could have told him the suit was impractical in at least three places and that he still needed better armor around his ribs because, apparently, every criminal in Gotham had decided his torso was a community punching bag.

Instead, you looked at him properly.

He was older than Robin had ever been allowed to become. Not fully grown, not fully free, but closer to himself than he had looked in months.

“No,” you said. “It looks like you.”

Dick went very still.

Then he looked away, blinking too quickly. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He breathed out, and for a moment the Cave did not feel quite so cold.

Then Jason came.

He arrived all elbows and suspicion, a street kid with quick hands, quicker teeth, and the wary look of someone who expected every kindness to come with a bill. Bruce brought him into the manor with that familiar grim certainty he wore whenever he had already decided a child needed saving and had not yet considered whether the child wanted to be saved by him.

Dick did not take it well.

He was older by then, old enough to know that a lonely child deserved food, shelter, training, and someone willing to stand between him and the city. He was also young enough for it to hurt when Bruce looked at another dark-haired boy with bruised knuckles and saw a mission. The manor shifted around Jason the way it had once shifted around Dick, and Dick smiled too brightly through it, which meant he was angry enough to be careful.

Jason noticed, of course. Jason noticed everything. He noticed the Cave, the rules, the silences, the way Bruce gave orders instead of comfort, the way Dick’s name still lived in the walls even after he had started spending more nights away than home. He noticed you too, hovering near the med bay with gauze in your hands and an expression that probably looked too much like pity for his taste.

“I don’t need a nurse,” he snapped the first time Bruce brought him back bleeding.

“Good,” you said, snapping on gloves. “I’m not one.”

Jason eyed you. “Then what are you?”

“Tired.”

Dick laughed from the other side of the Cave, sharp and surprised, and Jason looked deeply offended that anyone had found the exchange funny.

You liked him immediately.

Not because he was easy. Jason was not easy. He bit at every soft thing offered to him and then looked startled when people did not take it back. He argued with Alfred, hoarded food as if he would not be fed again, read books as if he expected someone to confiscate them, and pretended not to lean into the warmth of the manor, even as it slowly sank into his skin.

He was not Dick.

That should have made things simpler. It did not.

Because Jason eventually put on the Robin colors, and the first time you saw him in them, your stomach twisted before you could stop it. The suit had been altered, fitted to a different body, a different stance, a different kind of anger, but the colors were the same. Red, green, yellow. Bright enough to dare the dark to look away.

Dick went very quiet that night.

Jason noticed that too.

“You got a problem?” he demanded, chin lifted like he was ready to swing first and find out why later.

Dick’s smile was pleasant in the way storms looked peaceful from far away. “No.”

“Liar.”

“Jason,” Bruce warned.

“No, he’s been looking at me like I stole something.”

Dick’s face changed.

You saw it happen and stepped forward before Bruce could make it worse. “Jason.”

“What?”

“You’re bleeding on the floor.”

That distracted him for exactly half a second. “So?”

“So Alfred just mopped.”

Jason looked down at the small red drops near his boot, then back at you. “That’s what you’re worried about?”

“Yes.”

“You people are weird.”

“Deeply. Sit down.”

He sat, muttering, and you cleaned the cut across his forearm while Dick stood a little too far away and watched a boy who was not him wear the name he had not realized he still thought of as his.

After that, something in the manor changed again.

Jason became Robin loudly, defiantly, with less grace than Dick and more force. He argued with Batman in the field, swore when he thought Alfred could not hear him, and came to you with injuries he pretended were not bad until you raised an eyebrow and he folded under the weight of being known. Sometimes, when Dick came home, he found Jason in the med bay eating your snacks and insulting your bandaging technique. Sometimes he looked amused. Sometimes he looked like he had walked into his own past and found someone else living there.

You never asked if that hurt.

You knew it did.

Dick was not cruel to Jason. That almost made it worse. Cruelty would have been simple, and Dick had never been simple where lonely children were concerned. He taught Jason holds that Bruce had never bothered to explain gently. He showed him how to land on bad rooftops, how to listen for the difference between a scared witness and a lying one, how to talk Batman down when his silence started turning into something sharper. He complained afterward, of course. He told you Jason was reckless, stubborn, mouthy, impossible.

You always waited him out.

Eventually, Dick would sigh and add, “He’s good, though.”

And you would say, “I know.”

And Dick would look toward the Cave, where Jason’s laughter sometimes echoed too loudly because he had not yet learned that the manor punished joy by making it sound lonely.

“Bruce doesn’t know what to do with him,” Dick said once.

You pressed fresh gauze to the cut above his eyebrow. “Bruce doesn’t know what to do with anyone.”

Dick smiled faintly. “You do.”

“No. I just know where the bandages are.”

“That’s more than most people.”

The problem was not that Jason had taken Robin. Not exactly. Dick had already chosen Nightwing by then, had already stepped into black and blue and tried to tell himself that leaving the old colors behind meant they no longer had the power to hurt him. The problem was that Bruce had let the name move on more easily than he had let Dick move on. Robin could become someone else. Dick was still expected to remain within reach, still expected to answer when Bruce called, still expected to translate silence into need and orders into love.

It wore at him.

Their fights changed shape. They were no longer only about patrol routes, curfews, training, or whether Dick had disobeyed an order in the field. They became fights about who Dick was allowed to be when he was not standing beside Batman. They became fights about distance, independence, loyalty, and the ugly little question Bruce never asked plainly: if Dick was not Robin, if he was not a boy in need of saving, if he was not Batman’s partner first, then what was he to him?

The shouting was unpleasant, but familiar.

The silence after was worse.

When Dick told you he was leaving, he did it on the roof of the manor.

He had always liked heights when he had something difficult to say. You found him sitting near the edge, knees drawn up, the city spread below him in glittering black and gold. He was older than his parents had ever gotten to see him become. That thought hit you sometimes without warning and made you want to sit down.

“Blüdhaven,” he said.

You lowered yourself beside him. “That’s a city, not an explanation.”

“It needs help.”

“So does Gotham.”

“Gotham has Batman.”

“Gotham has you.”

He looked at you then, and there was something tired beneath the familiar warmth. “That’s the problem.”

You did not answer right away. The wind pulled at your hair. Far below, the grounds of Wayne Manor stretched dark and endless, a place that had sheltered you without ever fully becoming yours.

“When?” you asked.

“Soon.”

“Apartment?”

“Crappy.”

“Dangerous neighborhood?”

“Probably.”

“Elevator?”

He winced. “Sometimes.”

You nodded. “I’ll pack light.”

Dick’s head snapped toward you. “No.”

You raised an eyebrow. “No?”

“I’m not asking you to come with me.”

“Good thing I didn’t wait for you to ask.”

“I’m serious.” He turned fully now, one knee tucked beneath him, hands moving the way they always did when he wanted to reach for you and thought better of it. “This isn’t like before. I’m not a kid telling Bruce I won’t go without you.”

“No,” you said. “You’re an adult trying to make my decisions for me. Very different.”

His mouth tightened. “Blüdhaven is dangerous.”

“So is Gotham.”

“I’ll be doing this alone.”

“No, you won’t.”

He stared at you, and for a second, he was twelve again, sitting on the steps of a trailer with your sleeve twisted in his fist.

“You have a life here,” he said.

You softened despite yourself. “Dick.”

“You do.”

“I have a room here. I have work here. I have Alfred threatening me with tea every time I skip breakfast. I have Bruce pretending not to care whether I’m home before midnight. I have all of that because you brought me here.”

His face shifted.

You reached over and took his hand. His fingers closed around yours automatically. They always had.

“You didn’t leave me behind,” you said. “Don’t insult me by thinking I’d do it to you.”

For once, Dick Grayson had nothing clever to say.

The apartment in Blüdhaven was, as promised, crappy.

The heat worked when it felt appreciated. The shower made a sound like a dying animal. The kitchen cabinets had been painted an optimistic yellow by someone who had clearly given up halfway through. The bedroom situation was awkward for exactly fourteen seconds, because there was one actual bedroom and one narrow living room with a couch that looked personally offended by the idea of sleep.

“You take the room,” Dick said.

You dropped a box of medical supplies on the counter. “We’ll switch.”

“No.”

“Then I’ll take the couch.”

“No.”

“Then we’ll both sleep standing up in the hallway.”

He dragged a hand down his face. “Why are you like this?”

“Circus-raised. Poorly socialized. Deeply charming.”

“You forgot stubborn.”

“I assumed that was implied.”

You took the bedroom. Dick took the couch. Two weeks later, after you found him asleep half on the floor with one leg bent at an angle that made your spine ache in sympathy, you bought a secondhand bed frame and shoved it into the bedroom while he was out. He came home through the window at three in the morning, bleeding from the shoulder and halfway through a complaint about someone named Torque, only to stop dead in the doorway.

“Why are there two beds in here?”

“Because your spine is going to turn into modern art.”

He looked from the beds to you.

You pointed at the bathroom. “Shower. Then stitches.”

“You moved furniture by yourself?”

“I had help.”

“From who?”

“The terrifying woman downstairs who smokes on the fire escape and calls you Pretty Boy.”

Dick blinked. “Mrs. Alvarez?”

“She likes me.”

“Everyone likes you.”

“That is demonstrably untrue. Shower.”

Domesticity arrived without either of you inviting it.

It came in the form of grocery lists stuck to the fridge beneath a pineapple-shaped magnet. It came in arguments over whether cereal counted as dinner. It came in Dick leaving escrima sticks on the coffee table and you threatening to hide them in the freezer. It came in your scrubs in the laundry with his compression shirts, your medical textbooks stacked beside his case files, your shampoo in the shower next to the cheap body wash he bought because it had been on sale.

It came in windows left unlocked.

Nightwing was different from Robin. You saw it before anyone else did, maybe because you had known Dick before the masks. Robin had been defiance in bright colors, a child refusing to let grief be the last thing his parents gave him. Nightwing was something else. A choice. A declaration. A man stepping out of Batman’s shadow and building his own silhouette against the skyline.

Blüdhaven did not teach you that Dick was beautiful. You had learned that lesson years ago and suffered through the review often enough. Blüdhaven only removed the distance.

In Gotham, wanting Dick had been something you could fold away between patrols, galas, and all the other people drawn into his orbit. There had always been space if you needed it: the Cave, the Manor, the long hallways, the easy excuse of being busy. Blüdhaven took all of that away.

It put him across from you at breakfast, sleep-warm and shirtless, reaching around you for coffee with his chin nearly brushing your shoulder. It put his laundry with yours, his bruises under your hands, his laughter in the next room, his body in your peripheral vision until looking away became less of a choice and more of a survival skill.

Survival, unfortunately, required practice.

He came out of the shower with towels low on his hips and water running down the lines of his back. He cooked shirtless when the apartment got too hot, which was both often and completely unnecessary. He stretched in the living room after patrol, all long limbs and controlled strength, while you stared aggressively at insurance paperwork and pretended not to notice the way his muscles moved beneath bruised skin.

Worse, he was affectionate.

Dick had always touched easily, but Blüdhaven sharpened it into a habit. A hand on your lower back when he passed behind you in the kitchen. His chin hooked over your shoulder while you stirred pasta. Fingers tugging gently at the end of your braid when he wanted your attention. His body collapsing beside yours on the couch after patrol, head landing in your lap like he had never once considered the possibility that it might be dangerous for your sanity.

“You smell like smoke,” you told him one night.

“Warehouse fire.”

“You were at the docks.”

“And there was a warehouse fire.”

“Convenient.”

“Not for the warehouse.”

You flicked his forehead. He smiled up at you, eyes half-lidded, hair mussed, one cheekbone blooming purple. Your hand was still in his hair because he had put it there ten minutes earlier and then made a pleased sound when you scratched lightly at his scalp.

Your heart did something foolish.

Dick noticed because he always noticed you, even when he missed the obvious thing sitting between you with a neon sign.

“You okay?”

“Fine.”

“You did the thing.”

“What thing?”

“The quiet thing.”

“I’m quiet all the time.”

“No,” he said, and his voice gentled. “You get quiet when something hurts.”

That was the problem with being loved by someone who knew you before language had finished forming around your wounds. Dick had too much access. He knew how to read you by the breath, by the pause, by the angle of your hand on his shoulder. You could lie to anyone else. With him, the lie had to be built around the truth or he would see through it immediately.

“I’m tired,” you said.

That was true enough.

His hand found yours where it rested against the couch. “Go to bed. I’ll clean up.”

“You say that like your version of cleaning up doesn’t involve putting dishes in the sink and hoping they emotionally mature into being washed.”

“I’m giving them room to grow.”

“You’re a menace.”

“Your menace.”

He said it easily. Carelessly.

Your chest ached for the rest of the night.

The years did not stay kind enough to let Jason remain only a complication.

Jason died.

After that, the Manor became a mausoleum of everything no one had said in time. Bruce got quieter. Dick got worse at coming home. Alfred polished silver no one used and set places at tables no one could sit at without feeling the empty chair.

Then Tim came, clever and too young and carrying a camera, a theory, and the terrible conviction that Batman needed Robin to keep from becoming something worse. Bruce let the colors back into the Cave because grief had never stopped him from repeating himself.

By the time Jason came back, he was older than he should have been and crueler than death had any right to make him. 

You and Dick had been in Blüdhaven long enough by then for the apartment to smell like his shampoo, your coffee, and rain off the harbor, long enough for the city to become familiar enough to complain about, long enough for everyone except the two of you to notice what had been sitting in the room for years.

Barbara noticed first, because Barbara Gordon noticed everything and had the decency to pretend she did not until pretending became insulting.

“He’s in love with you,” she said one afternoon, not looking up from the tablet balanced on her knees.

You nearly dropped the mug you were washing. “Who?”

Barbara looked at you over her glasses.

You turned back to the sink. “No, he isn’t.”

“I didn’t say a name.”

“There are a limited number of people you could mean.”

“Mhm.”

“He’s Dick.”

“Yes. Tragically, I’ve met him.”

“He’s like that with everyone.”

Barbara’s expression softened, which was worse than teasing. “No, he performs with everyone.” A pause, brief enough to be mercy. “Some of us learn that the hard way. He rests with you.”

You hated that enough to remember it.

Jason noticed with less grace.

He was in Blüdhaven for reasons he refused to explain, which meant they were either criminal, personal, or both. You found out only because he came through the apartment window just after midnight, bleeding from the eyebrow and carrying a red helmet under one arm, as if proximity had made your kitchen an acceptable substitute for a med bay.

“No,” you said from the kitchen table.

Jason paused with one leg inside. “Wow. Rude.”

“The Cave has med kits.”

“The Cave has Bruce.” 

“You have safehouses.”

“Safehouses don’t have you.”

You blinked.

Jason looked annoyed that he had said it. “And the Cave has Alfred.”

“Alfred knows where the bandages are.”

“Alfred asks questions.”

“And I don’t?”

Jason swung the rest of the way inside and dropped into the chair across from you. “You ask meaner questions, but you don’t make me answer them.”

You stood slowly, already reaching for the kit under the sink. “That better not be arterial.”

“Do I look like I’d climb six floors with arterial bleeding?”

“You look like you’d do it out of spite.”

“Fair.”

You pulled the kit onto the table and looked at him properly. “Why me, Jason?”

His grin thinned into something almost honest. “Because you knew me before the helmet.”

You went still.

Jason looked away first, his jaw working once, as if he regretted saying even that much. “Before I died too,” he added, like he could make the words casual by saying them badly. “And you don’t do the thing.”

“What thing?”

Jason’s mouth tightened. “Look at me like you’re trying to figure out which parts came back wrong.”

For a moment, the kitchen went quiet.

Then he ruined it on purpose. “Also,” he added, “you have the good tape.”

You let him have the deflection because he had already given you more than he meant to. “It’s normal medical tape.”

“Yeah, but you don’t make it feel like a leash.”

That one landed closer to the bone than you expected.

“Jason.”

“What? I said you had good tape.”

You let the lie stand. “You came here because you’re bleeding on my floor.”

“It can be two things.”

You snapped on gloves and stepped between his knees, tilting his chin toward the light. 

Dick was still on patrol, and Jason had clearly counted on that too. Every masked man in your life had the self-preservation instincts of a moth near a porch light, but Jason was the only one petty enough to schedule his bleeding around Dick’s absence.

Jason watched you clean the cut for about thirty seconds before saying, “So, are you and Boy Wonder still doing the world’s saddest foreplay routine?”

You pressed gauze harder than necessary against his eyebrow.

“Ow.”

“Hold still.”

“Hit a nerve?”

“I’m holding antiseptic and you’re bleeding above the eye. Choose your next words carefully.”

Jason grinned. “That a yes?”

“It’s a no.”

“Sure. That’s why he calls you when he’s bleeding, smiles like an idiot when you yell at him, and keeps your favorite cereal on the top shelf where he thinks I won’t find it.”

“You went through my cabinets?”

“It was reconnaissance.”

“It was creepy.”

“It was educational.” His eyes flicked toward the window, then back to you. “He know?”

You did not pretend not to understand. Jason would only get more annoying. “There’s nothing to know.”

“Oh, this is worse than I thought.”

You taped gauze over the cut. “There. Try not to get punched in the same place for at least six hours.”

Jason stood, still grinning, and picked up his helmet. “You know, when he figures it out, he’s gonna be unbearable.”

“He’s already unbearable.”

“Yeah, but he’ll be happy unbearable. That’s worse.”

Tim noticed within three minutes of his first visit and said nothing, which was how you knew he was Bruce’s son in all the most unsettling ways.

Alfred noticed before anyone, probably before there was anything to notice, and handled it by sending care packages addressed to both of you with enough tea, suture thread, homemade biscuits, and pointed silence to qualify as emotional warfare.

Dick noticed nothing.

Or he noticed and chose not to name it.

There were women. Of course there were women. Dick Grayson did not set out to collect devotion, but he drew it the way bright things drew hands. You watched him date because you had watched him do everything. You gave opinions on shirts, traded shifts at the clinic when his dinner plans ran late, listened when things ended, and pretended not to feel relieved when they did.

It was not fair to resent people for wanting him.

You wanted him too.

That was the thing you folded carefully and hid beneath the guise of being useful. You were good at being useful. Useful had kept you fed as a child. Useful had earned you a place in spaces where no paperwork proved you belonged. Useful gave your hands something to do when Dick came home bleeding and your heart tried to climb out of your throat.

Then he came home one night with lipstick still smudged at the corner of his mouth.

It was a stupid thing to break you.

Not the bruises, not the danger, not the years of him smiling at other people. A faint red stain near his lower lip, half-wiped and still unmistakable, where someone else’s mouth had been. He was talking while he climbed through the window, breathless from patrol or maybe from whatever had happened after patrol, and you stood by the counter with a roll of bandages in your hand, staring like the world had narrowed to the shape of his mouth.

“Hey,” he said, slowing. “You okay?”

You looked up. “Fine.”

His brow furrowed. “You’re doing the thing again.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“Dick.”

“What happened?”

You laughed once, softly, and hated the sound. “Nothing happened.”

He stepped closer. “Talk to me.”

“I don’t want to.”

That stopped him more effectively than shouting would have. You rarely refused him directly. Not because you could not, but because the two of you had built your lives on being reachable to each other. Even when you fought, even when you were angry, there was always a door left open somewhere.

Dick looked at you as if he had just heard one close.

“Okay,” he said carefully. “That’s okay.”

It was not okay. You could see him trying to make it okay because he loved you as a friend, because he was kind, because he had no idea that his kindness was another hand around your throat.

You set the bandages down. “I think I should move out.”

The apartment went quiet.

Dick stared at you.

For a long second, he did not seem to understand the words. Then his face changed so quickly it hurt to watch.

“What?”

“I’ve been thinking about it.”

“No, you haven’t.”

Your temper sparked because he was right. “You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do.”

“You don’t get to decide what I’ve been thinking.”

“I know when you’re lying to me.”

“Maybe you don’t know me as well as you think.”

It was cruel. You knew it as soon as you said it, but you were tired and jealous and ashamed, and the lipstick on his face was still there, small and red and damning.

Dick flinched.

You wanted to take it back. You wanted to walk into his arms. You wanted to be ten years old again, small enough to crawl into Mary Grayson’s lap and let someone else decide what happened next.

Instead, you folded your arms over your chest.

Dick’s voice dropped. “Do you want to leave?”

No.

The answer filled your mouth so completely you had to swallow around it.

“I think it would be better,” you said.

“For who?”

“For both of us.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“Dick.”

“No.” His own anger showed then, not loud but bright enough to light his eyes. “Don’t do that. Don’t use the voice you use when you’re trying to get me to hold still for stitches.”

“I am trying to have a conversation.”

“You’re trying to leave without telling me why.”

“Because you don’t need me here forever.”

His mouth parted slightly.

The words kept coming because once you started bleeding, you had never known how to stop neatly.

“You don’t. You needed me when we were kids, and maybe you needed me when you left Bruce, but you have a life here now. You’re Nightwing. You have friends, and teams, and women who don’t spend their nights cataloging your injuries like that counts as intimacy.”

His expression shifted. Something in it sharpened with painful understanding.

You looked away too late.

“Oh,” he said.

You closed your eyes. “Don’t.”

He took one step closer. “Is that what this is?”

“No.”

“You’re upset because I kissed someone?”

“No.”

“No?”

You laughed once, softly and miserably. “I’m upset because you came home with her still on your mouth and asked me what was wrong.”

“Look at me.”

“No.”

“Please.”

That was worse. Dick rarely said “please” like that, careful and quiet, as if he knew he was asking for something you might not be ready to give.

You looked at him.

The red smear on his face was still there. His hair was windblown. There was a bruise forming beneath his jaw and a scratch near his temple. He was too familiar. Too beautiful. Too much the center of the life you had built around him without meaning to.

His voice softened. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

You laughed again, and this time it nearly broke. “Tell you what, Dick? That I get jealous when you date? That I can’t sleep until you come home? That sometimes you touch my back in the kitchen and I think about it for the rest of the day like I’m sixteen and pathetic? What exactly was I supposed to say?”

He stared at you as if you had put your hand through his chest and closed your fingers around his heart.

You wiped at your face angrily, even though you had not realized you were crying. “You’re my best friend.”

“I know.”

“You’re my family.”

“I know.”

“You’re the only permanent thing I’ve ever had.”

His face crumpled for half a second before he caught it. “I know.”

“So no, I didn’t tell you. Because wanting you like this feels selfish and dangerous, and I don’t know what happens to me if I ruin us.”

Dick moved then.

Not fast, not like Nightwing, not with the clean precision of a body trained for impact. He crossed the space between you carefully, as if approaching something wounded, and stopped close enough that you could see the unsteady rise of his chest.

“You think you could ruin us by loving me?”

The words hit so directly that you almost stepped back.

“You don’t have to say it like that.”

“How else am I supposed to say it?”

“Like it isn’t easy.”

“It’s not easy,” he said. “It’s just true.”

You went still.

Dick lifted his hand, then hesitated. That hesitation undid you more than the touch would have. He was asking. After years of casual closeness, after a lifetime of knowing your body in safe, familiar ways, he was asking permission to cross a line neither of you could uncross.

You nodded once.

His fingers touched your cheek.

“I didn’t know how to tell you either,” he said.

Your breath caught. “What?”

He smiled then, but it was a wrecked thing. “Yeah.”

“No.”

“Yeah.”

“Dick.”

“I know.” His thumb brushed beneath your eye. “I know, okay? I know I should’ve said something. I know I’m an idiot.”

“You dated other people.”

“I tried dating other people.”

“That is not better.”

“No,” he admitted. “It’s not. But every time I thought about telling you, I kept seeing you looking at me like I’d taken the only safe thing we had and made it complicated.”

“It is complicated.”

“Everything about us has always been complicated.”

You wanted to argue. You wanted to make him work for it. You wanted to hold on to the thin, miserable shield you had built out of practicality and fear.

Instead, you leaned into his hand.

Dick inhaled like it hurt.

“I don’t know when it changed,” he said quietly. “Maybe it didn’t. Maybe loving you was always there, and I just kept giving it different names because I was scared of wanting the one thing I couldn’t bear to lose.”

Your throat tightened.

“That’s not fair,” you whispered.

“I know.”

“You don’t get to say things like that with another woman’s lipstick on your lips.”

His eyes widened. For one absurd second, he looked almost panicked. Then he dragged the back of his hand over his lips and saw the red smear there.

“It was a goodbye kiss,” he said quickly. “After patrol. I ended it.”

“That is not better.”

“No,” he admitted. “It’s not. But she asked if there was someone else, and I said your name before I could think.”

Oh.

Your heart stumbled so hard it felt like falling.

“I ended it before I knew you felt this way,” he said. “I came home because I couldn’t keep pretending.”

Dick stepped closer, his hand sliding from your cheek to the side of your neck. “I came home to tell you.”

“You came home through the window.”

“I was nervous.”

“You’re Nightwing.”

“I’m still nervous.”

“You flirt with everyone.”

“Not like this.”

The room seemed smaller than it had been a few minutes ago. Warmer. The yellow cabinets, the stacked dishes, the half-open med kit on the counter, the city noise beyond the window. All the ordinary pieces of the life you had built together held their breath.

Dick’s eyes dropped to your mouth.

Your pulse jumped.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked.

You had imagined it before. Of course you had. Quietly, guiltily, in the dark, where wanting him could not hurt anyone but you. You had imagined smooth confidence, cinematic timing, some perfect version of yourself who knew exactly where to put her hands.

In reality, your voice shook.

“If you don’t, I’m going to be really embarrassed.”

Dick laughed, soft and breathless, and kissed you.

It was gentle for about two seconds.

Then your hand fisted in the front of his suit, and his restraint broke with a sound that went straight through you. He kissed like he had been starving for years. Like every almost had been stored somewhere under his skin and was now burning its way out. His mouth opened against yours, warm and desperate, and you made a helpless sound when his hand slid to your lower back and pulled you flush against him.

He froze instantly.

You almost cursed.

“Is this okay?” he asked, voice rough.

“Yes.”

“You’re sure?”

“Dick, I swear to God—”

He kissed you again before you could finish, smiling into it, and you hated how much you loved that you could feel the smile. Your hands slid over the armored lines of his suit, the same ones you had repaired so many times from the outside, and he shivered as if this were the first time you had ever touched him at all. 

When your fingers slid beneath the collar, his eyes went half-lidded, all that careful restraint thinning under your hands.

“You touch me all the time,” he murmured against your mouth. “Why does it feel different?”

“Because this time we’re allowed to want more.”

His eyes went dark.

The next kiss was deeper, slower, less frantic, and somehow more devastating. Dick backed you toward the counter until your hips hit the edge, then lifted you onto it with an ease that made heat pool low in your stomach. He stepped between your knees, and the shape of him there, broad and warm and familiar in an entirely unfamiliar way, nearly stole your breath.

You touched his face.

He turned his head and kissed your palm.

It was so tender that it hurt.

“Don’t be sweet right now,” you whispered.

His mouth curved. “Bossy.”

“I mean it. I’ll cry.”

“Okay.” He kissed the inside of your wrist. “I won’t be sweet.”

“You’re being sweet.”

“I’m trying to stop.”

“You’re bad at it.”

“I’ve had complaints.”

You pulled him back by the collar and kissed him until the teasing dissolved. His hands gripped your thighs, thumbs pressing slow circles through the fabric of your sleep shorts. You had worn them without thinking, one of his T-shirts and shorts, nothing meant to seduce anyone, but Dick looked at you like he was watching a miracle unfold in bad apartment lighting.

His gaze dragged down your body and returned to your face with visible effort.

“You’re killing me,” he said.

You laughed unsteadily. “I’m wearing old pajamas.”

“I know.”

“You’ve seen me in these a hundred times.”

“I know.”

“Dick.”

He leaned in, mouth brushing your jaw. “Do you have any idea how many times I’ve come home and seen you half-asleep in my shirts, or yelling at me with medical tape stuck to your hand, and had to remind myself not to do exactly this?”

His lips touched the side of your neck.

Your fingers tightened in his hair.

“Exactly what?”

He kissed beneath your ear. “Put my hands on you.”

Another kiss, lower.

“Take you apart.”

Your breath left you.

“Make you say my name like you’re not trying to hide it.”

“Dick.”

His grip flexed on your thighs. “Yeah. Like that.”

The room tilted. You had patched bullet grazes with steadier hands than you had now. Dick kissed down your throat with unbearable patience, and every place his mouth touched seemed to wake years of wanting beneath your skin. When his fingers slipped under the hem of your shirt, he paused again.

You pulled back enough to look at him. “I’ll tell you if I want to stop.”

His eyes searched yours. Whatever he saw there made his shoulders loosen.

“Okay.”

“And you’ll tell me.”

He nodded. “I’ll tell you.”

“Good.”

Then you lifted your arms.

Dick took your shirt off like he was trying to memorize the act. His eyes dropped, and for one vulnerable second, you almost crossed your arms over your chest. He caught the motion before you completed it, not by grabbing you, but by leaning down and pressing his mouth to the spot just above your heart.

Your hand settled in his hair.

“Beautiful,” he said against your skin.

You closed your eyes. “That sounds sweet.”

“Then I’m bad at following instructions.”

His mouth moved lower, and your laugh turned into a gasp.

Dick Grayson, as it turned out, applied the same focus to taking you apart that he applied to everything else he truly cared about. He learned quickly. Too quickly. His mouth found your breast, tongue circling your nipple before he sucked gently, and pleasure sparked so sharply through you that your knees tightened around his hips.

He groaned.

That sound changed something in you.

You reached for the closures of his suit with hands that only shook a little, and he helped you because he knew the damn thing better than you did, peeling it down from his shoulders and letting it gather at his waist. You had seen him shirtless more times than you could count. Injured. Tired. Fresh from the shower. Half-asleep at the stove. This was different because you were allowed to look, and because he was looking back.

There were bruises on him. There were always bruises.

You touched one near his ribs, and the old instinct rose immediately. “This is new.”

Dick looked down. “Pipe.”

“Pipe?”

“Bad guy had a pipe.”

“Descriptive.”

“I was distracted.”

“By the pipe?”

“By wanting to come home to you.”

Your fingers stilled.

He covered your hand with his. “Too sweet?”

“Dangerously.”

His smile softened, then faded when you leaned forward and kissed the bruise with featherlight care. His breathing changed. You kissed another mark, then another, mapping the evidence of violence with your mouth until his hand slid into your hair and held there without pushing.

“You’ve been doing this for years,” he said quietly.

“What?”

“Putting me back together.”

You looked up at him. “You always came back in pieces.”

“I always come back to you.”

The words settled between you, heavy and certain.

Then you kissed him again because there were some truths too large to answer any other way.

He carried you to the bedroom.

You were grateful for that, because your legs had become theoretical somewhere between the counter and his mouth on your neck. He lay you down on the bed you had forced him to share the room with, one knee sinking into the mattress beside your hip. For a second, you both looked at the other bed across the narrow space and laughed.

“This room is ridiculous,” you said.

“Our whole life is ridiculous.”

“You’re still half in the suit.”

“That seems fixable.”

It was. Barely. There was a deeply ungraceful moment involving one boot, a curse, and you nearly getting hit in the shin by a knee pad, but then Dick was in his briefs above you, laughing into your shoulder, and the last of your fear loosened its grip.

This was still Dick.

The man you wanted, yes, but also the boy who had stolen sugared almonds with you. The teenager who had bled on your bedspread. The man who forgot to buy dish soap and remembered the anniversary of every terrible thing without you having to say it aloud.

He kissed your shoulder. “Hi.”

You turned your face toward him. “Hi.”

“You still with me?”

“Unfortunately.”

He grinned. “There she is.”

You pushed at his chest, and he caught your hand, kissing your knuckles before pinning it gently beside your head. The shift was subtle, but your body noticed. Heat curled through you as he lowered himself over you, not resting his full weight, just enough to make you feel surrounded.

“You like that?” he asked.

Your face warmed.

His expression changed, not smug exactly, but attentive. Interested. “Oh.”

“Don’t sound so pleased.”

“I’m learning.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“I’ve also had complaints about that.”

You rolled your hips up, just slightly, and his words cut off.

That was satisfying.

Dick looked down at you, eyes dark and mouth parted, and then his hand slid down your body with purpose. Over your ribs, your waist, the soft give of your stomach, stopping at the waistband of your shorts.

He waited.

Your voice came out quieter than you intended. “Yes.”

He kissed you as he pulled them down, and you were glad for it because it gave you something to do with the sudden rush of vulnerability. His hand smoothed over your thigh. He murmured something against your mouth, not quite words, maybe your name, maybe a prayer, and then his fingers slipped between your legs.

You both went still.

You, because the first careful stroke through your wetness made your whole body tighten.

Dick because he felt it.

“Fuck,” he breathed.

You tried to laugh. It came out ruined. “Observant.”

“You’re wet.”

“Again. Observant.”

“For me?”

You opened your eyes. “Who else is in the room, Grayson?”

The look he gave you then was not sweet at all.

He lowered himself down your body, kissing a path over your stomach, your hip, the inside of your thigh. Your breath caught when he settled between your legs, broad shoulders spreading them wider. He looked up at you from there, hair falling over his forehead, mouth kiss-swollen, eyes so blue and intent that you nearly lost your nerve.

“We don’t have to,” he said.

“I know.”

“I want to.”

“I know.”

His hands held your thighs, thumbs stroking once. “Tell me I can.”

The words landed low and hot.

“You can.”

Dick kissed the inside of your thigh.

Then his mouth was on you.

Your head fell back against the pillow. It had been years of yearning, years of telling yourself that the ache was survivable because it had to be, and none of it prepared you for the reality of Dick between your legs, licking into you with a soft groan like he was the one being undone. His tongue moved slowly at first, exploratory, learning what made your breath hitch and your fingers twist in the sheets. Then he found your clit, and your hips jerked.

He made a pleased sound that vibrated through you.

“Dick.”

He looked up without stopping.

The sight of his blue eyes so dilated you could barely see the pretty color nearly finished you on its own.

One of your hands flew to his hair, and he leaned into the grip, eyes fluttering for half a second before his focus sharpened again. He slipped one hand from your thigh and pressed a finger inside you, careful and slow, watching your face as your mouth fell open.

“Okay?” he asked.

“Yes.”

He added his mouth again, and language became difficult.

Dick had always been a performer, but this was not performance. This was attention. This was devotion turned physical. He listened to every breath, every movement, every broken sound you tried to swallow. When he curled his finger and found the place that made your back arch, he did it again, then again, mouth working over your clit until pleasure gathered fast and bright beneath your skin.

You tugged his hair. “I’m close.”

His eyes lifted to yours.

He did not stop.

The orgasm broke over you hard enough to shock you, your body tightening around his finger as you gasped his name. He held you through it, mouth gentling but not leaving, drawing out the aftershocks until you had to push weakly at his shoulder.

He climbed back up your body with a look on his face that could have ruined your life in any context.

“You look proud of yourself,” you managed.

“I’m trying to be humble.”

“You’re failing.”

“I know.”

You kissed him and tasted yourself on his mouth, which should have embarrassed you more than it did. Instead, it made you want him with a sudden, aching intensity that left no room for fear.

Your hand slid down his stomach.

Dick’s breath caught when you palmed him through his briefs. He was hard, hot and heavy against your hand, and his hips pressed forward before he caught himself.

“Sorry,” he said roughly.

You kissed his jaw. “Don’t be.”

His forehead dropped to your shoulder. “I’m trying very hard to be good.”

Something tender and wicked moved through you.

“You are good.”

He shuddered.

“Oh,” you whispered. “You like that.”

He laughed into your skin, embarrassed and turned on and so painfully Dick that your heart squeezed. “Shut up.”

“You do.”

“I’m not above begging.”

Heat flooded you. “That was not the deterrent you thought it was.”

He lifted his head, and the humor between you stretched thin under the wanting. You pushed his briefs down as far as you could reach, and he finished the job with shaking hands. When he settled between your thighs again, bare this time, the feel of him against you stole the teasing from both of your mouths.

Dick kissed you once. Then again.

“We should use a condom,” he said, sounding like the words had physically pained him.

“I have an IUD.”

His eyes closed. “That information is going to kill me.”

“We can still use one.”

“No, I mean yes, if you want, obviously, but if you’re saying—”

“I’m saying I want to feel you.”

He made a sound you had never heard from him before.

Your hands slid up his back. “Is that okay?”

He looked at you, and all the humor, all the heat, all the years of almost seemed to settle into something frighteningly honest.

“Yeah,” he said. “That’s okay.”

He reached between you, guiding himself against you, and paused with the head of his cock just barely pressing inside. Your fingers dug into his shoulders. He watched your face, jaw tight, holding himself back so carefully that you could feel the tremor in his arms.

“Breathe,” he whispered.

You laughed unsteadily. “That’s usually my line.”

“I learned from the best.”

Then he pushed in.

Slowly. Carefully. Inch by inch until the stretch of him filled every thought you had. Your eyes burned, not from pain exactly, though there was an edge of that, but from the sheer intimacy of it. Dick above you, inside you, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath shaking as badly as yours.

He stopped when his hips met yours.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

The city sounded distant beyond the window. A siren somewhere. A car passing below. The old pipes complaining in the walls. Ordinary things continuing while your whole life rearranged itself around the feeling of him buried inside you.

Dick’s voice was rough. “Tell me you’re okay.”

You turned your head and kissed his wrist where his hand braced beside you. “I’m okay.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He moved then, a slow drag out and back in that made your nails scrape down his back. His control faltered. You felt it in the way his hips stuttered, in the low sound he pressed into your neck.

“Sorry,” he gasped.

“If you apologize one more time, I’m kicking you out of bed.”

He laughed breathlessly. “That would be awkward.”

“You’re inside me. Everything is awkward.”

“Not everything.”

Then he moved again, and you had to concede the point.

It did not stay slow for long. Maybe it could not have, not with years behind it, not with both of you already stripped raw by confession before anyone took off their clothes. Dick found a rhythm that made your body arch into his, each thrust deep and deliberate, his mouth moving over every part of you he could reach. Your shoulder. Your throat. Your jaw. The corner of your mouth when you turned your face away because the pleasure was too much.

“No,” he murmured. “Don’t hide.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.” He kissed you, hips rolling into yours until your breath broke. “I want to hear you.”

You moaned before you could stop yourself.

Dick’s composure cracked.

“God,” he said, and then he was fucking you harder, one hand sliding beneath your thigh to hitch it higher against his hip. The new angle made you cry out, and he cursed, pressing his forehead into the pillow beside your head.

“Again,” he said.

You were not sure whether he meant the sound or the movement. It did not matter. You gave him both.

The second orgasm built slower than the first, deeper, tied to the drag of him inside you and the weight of his body over yours. You could feel him losing control by degrees, his breathing rough, his praise turning fragmented against your skin.

“Good,” he murmured. “You feel so good. You’re so good for me. Wanted this so long, you have no idea.”

Your body clenched around him.

His hips stuttered. “Fuck. Do that again.”

“I didn’t do it on purpose.”

“I don’t care. Do it again. Please.”

You laughed, and the laugh became a moan when he slipped a hand between you and found your clit. The pleasure sharpened instantly, almost too much, and you grabbed his wrist.

“Dick.”

“I’ve got you.”

“You always say that.”

“I always mean it.”

That was what undid you.

You came with his name in your mouth, your body tightening around him as he thrust through it, face buried in your neck. He lasted another few seconds, and then he groaned, deep and helpless, and came inside you, his whole body shuddering with the force of it.

Afterward, he did not move for a long time.

You did not ask him to.

His weight was warm and grounding, his heartbeat racing against yours. Your fingers drifted up and down his spine, feeling the old scars, the new bruises, the sweat cooling on his skin. Eventually, he lifted his head enough to look at you.

His hair was a disaster. His eyes were soft.

Your heart hurt.

“Hi,” he said again, softer this time.

You smiled. “You keep saying that.”

“I keep finding you here.”

The words were quiet enough to pass for teasing if you let them.

You did not.

“I’m here,” you said.

His expression shifted. He kissed you once, gentle and lingering, then carefully eased out of you. You hissed softly, and he immediately looked alarmed.

“I’m okay,” you said.

“I’ll get a washcloth.”

“Dick.”

“And water.”

“Dick.”

“And maybe—”

You caught his hand before he could launch himself into post-sex triage like a man possessed. “In a minute.”

He looked down at you, then at your joined hands.

Some of the panic faded.

He lay beside you instead, gathering you in carefully, as if tenderness could bruise if handled incorrectly. You tucked your face against his chest. His hand moved over your hair, slow and reverent.

The other bed sat across the room, empty and ridiculous.

You laughed softly.

“What?” he asked.

“We should just get a bigger bed.”

His chest shook beneath your cheek. “Mrs. Alvarez will be thrilled.”

“She’ll say she knew this would happen.”

“She did know this would happen.”

“Everyone knew this would happen.”

Dick kissed the top of your head, still laughing. “Everyone, apparently, except us.”

You pinched his side. He yelped, then caught your hand and held it against his heart.

Quiet settled again.

Not the manor’s quiet. Not the stunned silence of a circus tent after tragedy. This quiet was smaller. Warmer. Chosen.

Dick’s fingers traced idle shapes over your wrist. “Were you really going to leave?”

You closed your eyes.

“No.”

His breath left him slowly.

“I thought about it,” you admitted. “For maybe five horrible minutes. I thought if I left first, then at least I’d be choosing it.”

His arm tightened around you.

“I don’t want to be another thing you feel responsible for,” you said.

“You’re not.”

“I know you say that.”

“No.” He shifted, making you look at him. “Listen to me. You are not here because I can’t survive without you.”

Your throat tightened despite yourself.

Dick brushed his thumb over your cheek. “I probably could. I’d be worse at it. Miserable. Badly fed. Much more concussed.”

“Obviously.”

“But I don’t love you because I need a medic. I don’t love you because you came with me from the circus, or because you know what it was like before, or because you stayed.”

You swallowed. “Then why?”

He smiled, small and certain.

“Because it’s you.”

The answer was too simple for how much it hurt.

You pressed your face into his chest before he could see everything it did to you. He held you through it anyway, because of course he did.

Dick had always caught you, even when neither of you knew who was falling.

Much later, after he had finally gotten the washcloth and water and fussed enough to satisfy whatever part of him needed to be useful, you ended up tangled together beneath the sheets. Your leg was hooked over his. His hand rested on your hip. The apartment was cooling around you, the city beyond the window still restless, still dangerous, still waiting.

Nothing was fixed.

Bruce would be insufferable in his silence. Alfred would know before anyone told him. Barbara would say something devastatingly mild. Jason would never let either of you live it down. Blüdhaven would still bruise Dick and send him home bleeding. You would still worry. He would still leap before looking. The past would still be there, stitched into both of you, old grief under new skin.

When you opened your eyes, Dick was looking at you like he had, after everything, still ended up exactly where he was supposed to be.

“You know,” he said, voice rough with exhaustion and mischief, “technically, I refused to leave you behind first.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Are you trying to claim credit for our entire relationship?”

“I’m just saying, I had good instincts when I refused to leave without you.”

“You were grieving and concussed.”

“Emotionally concussed, maybe.”

“You also thought your Robin costume was subtle.”

“It was iconic.”

“It was traffic-light cosplay.”

He gasped. “Take that back.”

“No.”

“You wound me.”

“I know how to patch you up.”

His smile softened until the joke became something else. He leaned in and kissed you, slow and sleepy and certain.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.

“You’re my home,” he whispered.

You had been a child left at the edge of a circus with no name anyone could give you. You had been a girl in the sawdust, holding on to a boy whose grief matched yours closely enough to cut. You had been a shadow in Wayne Manor, a pair of hands in the Cave, a woman in a cramped Blüdhaven apartment pretending that waiting was not another word for love.

You had followed Dick Grayson through every version of himself.

Robin. Nightwing. Best friend. Roommate. The boy who refused to leave you. The man who came back to you.

You kissed him once, softly, and felt him breathe you in.

“Then stop leaving your suit on the bathroom floor,” you said.

Dick laughed, bright and helpless, and pulled you closer.

July, 1899. Summer had been taking a toll on the gang, who currently resided in Clemens Point. The air was hot, the ground was dry, and morale at an all-time low. Arthur sighed wearily as he shut his notebook and grumbled under his breath; the sweat from his fingers had smudged the delicate pencil sketch he had been working on for days. He felt salty pearls trickle down his forehead and promptly wiped them off before they could reach his eye — a motion he had become all-too familiar with as of late. Had it not been so excruciatingly hot, he might have enjoyed the view ahead of him: the evening sun doused the camp in a golden hue, crickets began to chirp and he could even spot a crane in the distance, wings glistening as they dried quickly in the heat.

Arthur got up from his bedroll with a groan, deciding that taking a dip in the Lannahechee was the only thing that might beat the heat, unless the river itself had begun to boil by now. He uttered a quick adieu into the general direction of the camp before going off on foot — he would never make his horse move an inch in this weather.

As he trudged along the coastline, the sun had set already but the air felt stuffy and warm still, like a room that hadn't been entered in a long time. Arthur found himself breathing heavily despite the even terrain.

It took some time before he deemed his location to be far enough from prying eyes — the dark would only do so much to obscure him from any curious onlookers. Pleased at the location, a small inlet that seemed to be around hip-depth, he took off his boots and shirt and made his way to the inky water. Just as he was about to enter, already fiddling with the clasp of his gun belt, a sudden noise made his head perk up. The gunslinger was now on full alert; shirtless, barefoot, finger on the trigger.

He listened intently while waiting for his eyes to get used to the dark, trying to make sense of what he had just heard; the sound of water, softly splashing on a surface, followed closely by what sounded like a woman's sigh. After almost a minute of only crickets and the last blue jays mourning the sunlight, he was beginning to think he had imagined the noise; his brain playing tricks on him, knowing it had been a good long while since he had felt the soft touch of a female hand. He cursed himself, muttering under his breath as he felt his cheeks grow hot from shame. The urge to feel the cool sensation of water on his skin outweighed his tired mind eventually, and he submerged his toes, relief washing over him.

"Arthur?"

Oh god, not you.

The sound of your voice made him stop in his tracks; one foot in the water, the other holding him steady on solid ground. He wished he could disappear then and there, or that his mind was still playing tricks on him, but he knew that neither would be the case. If it were anyone else's voice, he'd mouth off on them for startling him, for taking his bathing spot and making it their own — but not you. God, how he despised himself for the way you treated him. For the way he let you treat him; like he was some kind of decent man who just so happened to be stuck in a gang full of outlaws and murderers, as if he wasn't the worst of them all.

Ruefully, he enjoyed every act of kindness you granted him, going out of his way to purposefully run into you at every chance he got. He chased your soft smiles with a greed that sickened him, albeit not enough to get him to stop.

And now, he thought, you would finally see him for what he truly was; a dangerous criminal, following you to get you here alone, after all you had done for him. Arthur did not dare move, much less speak. The time it took you to appear from behind the weeping willow, your hair mimicking the cascading branches, seemed excruciatingly long. He held his breath in anticipation, waiting for you to scream at him.

"Two fools, one thought, huh?"

Your casual tone made the gears in Arthur's head turn. He expected a shouting match, a blow to the head at the very least. Not… whatever it was that was happening right now.

"It ain't what it looks like, Ma'am." he managed to stammer, "I'll be on my way. I ain't-" his voice faltered at his excuse when he saw that a small grin was painted on your face.

"You think I don't know that, Arthur?" His heart skipped a beat when you called his name so casually. Like it was the most ordinary moment in your life to you. "I've been around you long enough that I can trust you."

He didn't reply — didn't really know what to say. Hell, when did he ever? It was then when he realized how ridiculous he must have looked; gunbelt still slung loose around his waist, one foot on land and one in the river. He readjusted himself, feeling something akin to the summer heat rise from his chest up to his cheeks. With both feet on the ground, he felt somewhat more comfortable, taking a moment to assess the situation. You were still in the inlet, water reaching up to your belly button. The delicate fabric of your chemise had turned translucent, leaving little to the imagination of what might lie beneath. Arthur didn't dare to look.

"You can come in if you want to. I don't mind." Your voice was softer now, shakier than before, but the shy smile persisted.

"I- I don't think that's a good idea-" Arthur's cheeks burnt an even brighter red with every word he uttered. "I ain't trying to be like that. I don't want you to see me as that kinda man." His sentences were rushed, all in one breath he had been holding for too long.

"Be like what?" A mischievous look now formed on your face. "It's just a bath. Nothing more."

You held up your hand that had been hidden by the dark river and he noticed the pearly white sheen of a bar of soap reflecting the moonlight. Arthur let out a pained sigh at the view in front of him. Had he believed in god, he would have been certain you were the devil, drawing him in with your taunting eyes. A shiver ran down his spine, despite the heat.

"You got no idea what you're doin' to me, woman." He breathed before unclasping his belt with trembling fingers.

Arthur was about to enter the water with his pants still on in an attempt to retain the ounce of self-preservation he could muster, but you quickly interrupted him

"You're not gonna need these."

Taglist

@questionablylarge @dolliecowboys @sh1tb4g @ivybeeloved @mavollo @roamingtigress @shellyshells8 @akiraaa1239 @makkiiilv @yumbugs @hnybdger3 @rosewoodrevolver @stupidgaynerd @honeycoyotes @queen-ofspades @poisonedcowgirl @tulipsluvs @unusualnewt @arthurmorganssgirl @kikisucks @soupyjoy @reddedmiller @cowboyspones @ficsirec @lilshineythingsworld @ripvanwinkle080 @leclrcg @villagevoid @lifeissmithical @reallythowow

You pictured the toothbrush in their bathroom, the shampoo you had bought once and never had to replace yourself because Dick noticed when the bottle ran low. You pictured the drawer in Dick’s dresser that had started as a place for an emergency shirt after a rainstorm and somehow become home to leggings, socks, sleep shorts, bras, and enough underwear that Wally had once texted you from the laundry room in a panic to ask if the black lace thing could go in the dryer.

He had followed the message with seven question marks, three sweating emojis, and a separate apology that only said: I’M BEING RESPECTFUL BUT ALSO I AM CONFUSED BY FABRIC.

You had laughed so hard you had almost dropped your phone in the sink.

You lived nearby. You slept over often enough that the doorman barely blinked when you came in. You had your own apartment, your own bills, your own life, but the gravity of Dick and Wally’s place had become familiar. Safe. There were two bedrooms, technically. Wally’s room existed, even if it held more laundry baskets and half-disassembled equipment than any reasonable adult man should own. Dick’s room had the biggest bed, which had become everyone’s argument for ending up there whenever a movie ran late or one of you had a bad day and did not want to sleep alone.

Nothing had ever happened in that bed.

That was not for lack of wanting.

You were not stupid. You knew what attraction felt like when it sat under your ribs and refused to behave. You knew what it meant when Dick came out of the shower with a towel low on his hips and your brain forgot the English language for three to five business days. You knew what it meant when Wally sprawled across the couch in sweatpants and an old Keystone State shirt, hair still damp, one ankle hooked over yours like casual contact was a form of breathing.

You also knew what it meant to be careful.

They were your best friends. They were Nightwing and the Flash. They trusted you with their identities, their schedules, their emergency contacts, and the strange civilian pieces of a life built around impossible work. You knew why Dick disappeared during galas, what comm chatter sounded like through a half-open bedroom door, and which cabinet held the protein bars Wally claimed tasted fine because his standards were a public health crisis.

You were not part of the fight, but you were part of the aftermath. You knew how to leave lights on without making it look like waiting. You knew how to ask if a night had gone badly without using the word dangerous. You knew how to sit beside them afterward and let the room be quiet until one of them came back to himself enough to make a joke.

It made lines strange.

Evan laughed at something on his phone, then remembered you existed and put it face down with a look that was probably meant to seem apologetic. “Sorry. Work.”

“You said that,” you said.

“Yeah. Big project. Everyone wants a piece of me right now.” He smiled as if inviting you to be impressed. “You know how it is.”

You did, unfortunately. You knew exactly how it was to sit across from someone who liked the idea of being observed but had very little interest in looking back. Evan had been charming for the first twenty minutes. He had asked about your job, your favorite restaurants, the neighborhood. Then he had asked about your friends.

Not all your friends.

Just the two men whose names came up too easily because you were too used to mentioning them.

Dick had picked you up from work after your car battery died. Wally had helped you build the shelves in your living room, which mostly meant taking over halfway through and then making you pretend to be impressed when one of them leaned left. Dick knew a place with the best soup dumplings. Wally had an opinion about every ice cream shop within a five-mile radius. Dick said this. Wally did that. Dick and Wally, Wally and Dick, their names folded into your life with the intimacy of muscle memory.

Evan had noticed.

At first, he had teased. Then he had probed. Then he had made a joke about you keeping “two guys on retainer,” and your smile had gone stiff enough that a better man would have noticed.

Evan was not a better man.

“So these friends of yours,” he said, reaching for his drink. “They always this involved?”

“They’re my best friends.”

“Sure.” His mouth curved. “Just sounds intense.”

You looked at him for a long moment. There were a hundred things you could have said, and most of them would have been true enough to hurt. You could have said that intensity was not always a red flag. Sometimes it was two men who carried cities on their backs and still remembered to text you when the sidewalks froze. Sometimes it was remembering to leave your balcony unlocked, because Dick and Wally had both taught you that emergencies rarely cared about front doors. Sometimes it was a hand on the small of your back in a crowd, not to claim you, but to make sure you could leave if you needed to.

Instead, you said, “I don’t think this is working.”

Evan blinked. “What?”

“This.” You reached for your bag and stood before politeness could talk you into another twenty minutes of disappointment. “It was nice meeting you.”

His chair scraped as he stood too. “Wait, seriously? Because I asked about your friends?”

Because you asked like they were a problem, you thought. Because you said my name three times and made it sound less personal each time. Because I have spent years being known by men who notice everything and still pretend not to see the way they look at me, and somehow this is the loneliest I’ve felt all week.

“Take care, Evan.”

“You’re really just leaving?”

“Yes.”

Outside, the night had gone damp and silver with the threat of rain. Gotham did not do gentle weather. Even drizzle felt like it had a grudge. You stood beneath the restaurant awning long enough to order a car, then canceled it when the app told you the driver was twelve minutes away and the walk to Dick and Wally’s was eight.

Your phone buzzed before you reached the end of the block.

Dick: Date going okay?

You looked at the message and snorted despite yourself.

Wally, immediately after: DON’T ANSWER THAT IF YOU’RE MAKING OUT.

A pause, and then instantly another message: Actually answer with a thumbs-up so I know you’re alive but emotionally unavailable.

Dick: Please don’t listen to him.

Wally: Please listen to me specifically.

You typed with one hand as you walked.

You: Date ended. Heading to yours unless you’re both busy saving the world.

Dick answered almost immediately.

Dick: We’re home. Door’s unlocked.

Wally: Which means you are legally obligated to come in, eat something, and not touch the dumplings marked WALLY.

Dick: They’re not marked.

Wally: Emotionally they are.

You smiled down at your phone, and the ache of the evening shifted into something more familiar, which was not the same as easy. That was another problem. They could make you feel less alone from across the city with three stupid texts and a threat about dumplings.

The doorman let you in with a nod. Upstairs, the apartment glowed in the low, warm way it always did when they knew you were coming. The lamp near the couch was on, the kitchen light was dimmed, and the television had been muted on some nature documentary Wally watched with the intense investment of someone who had opinions about whether cheetahs were “respectably fast” or “coasting on branding.”

To anyone else, the apartment probably looked chaotic; to you, it was a map of old landings, bad nights, shared blankets, and quiet recoveries.

The faint scuff near the balcony door was from months ago, when Dick had landed badly enough to pretend the floor had offended him. The patched spot on the wall near the hall was from Wally accidentally vibrating through it after sneezing at superspeed. The blanket over the back of the couch was yours, bought during a cold snap because their apartment ran chilly and both of them had tried to offer you their hoodies at the same time.

Wally was upside down on the couch when you came in, one leg hooked over the back cushions, a takeout container balanced on his stomach with criminal confidence. Dick sat at the far end with his laptop open and one ankle crossed over his knee, looking less like Nightwing than he ever did in public and more like the man who sent you grocery reminders because he knew you forgot to eat when work got bad.

They both looked up.

Wally’s eyes moved over your face and softened at once. “Oh, I hate him.”

You paused with your hand still on the door. “You don’t know what happened.”

“I know your face.”

“You’re upside down.”

“That gives me a fresh perspective.”

Dick closed his laptop but did not ask anything immediately. That was his tell. He watched you lock the door behind yourself, watched you toe off your shoes into the little space beside theirs, watched your hand linger near your coat as if you had forgotten what came next. He knew when to step forward and when to let silence do the gentler work.

“Tea?” he asked.

Your throat tightened. “Please.”

“Drawer clothes first?” Wally offered, still upside down. “Or dumpling first? Choose wisely. One path has elastic waistbands. The other has delicious filling.”

You looked at the takeout container on his stomach. “Those are the emotionally marked dumplings?”

“Emotionally, yes. Legally, they belong to the household.”

“You are the one who threatened me over them five minutes ago.”

“I was a different man five minutes ago.”

Dick stood, taking your coat before you could decide where to put it. “Go change. I’ll make the tea.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I know.”

That was the thing about them. They were always making room for you without turning it into a debt.

You went to the bathroom first, because the evening still clung to your skin in the form of expensive restaurant air and Evan’s cologne from when he had leaned too close to show you a photo you had not asked to see. Their bathroom looked less like a bachelor apartment than it had any right to. That was partly because Dick liked order and partly because you had slowly bullied both of them into owning more than one towel. Your toothbrush sat in the cup between theirs. Your cleanser was on the sink. Your hair ties lived in a small ceramic dish Wally had once knocked over, caught, and then bowed to like he had rescued a civilian from certain death.

You washed your face, breathed until your chest stopped feeling tight, and went to Dick’s room because that was where your drawer was.

It should have felt strange. Sometimes it did, but only in moments like this, when you were already raw and tired and too aware of the fact that your underwear sat folded beside one of Dick’s old Gotham Academy shirts.

You peeled yourself out of your date clothes, piece by piece, bra included, and dropped everything into the hamper, as if shedding the evening might make it stop clinging to your skin. Then you dug through the drawer until you found one of Dick’s shirts, soft from too many washes and big enough on you that you didn’t bother with shorts.

It smelled like him in a way that made your chest ache a little: clean citrus, worn leather, cedar cologne, warm skin, and city air after rain. The hem fell halfway down your thighs, familiar enough to loosen something behind your ribs.

Ownership had become a loose concept among the three of you anyway. Half the clothes in this apartment had passed between hands so many times that claiming anything outright felt pointless.

You told yourself not to think about that.

It worked for almost forty seconds.

When you came back out, Dick had made your tea exactly how you liked it and set your mug on the coffee table. Your mug, because of course he knew which one was yours without asking. It sat warm beside the dumplings, filled exactly the way you liked it, and something about that hurt more than the date had.

Wally had righted himself by then, though his hair looked ridiculous from hanging upside down. He patted the cushion between himself and Dick. “Designated recovery spot is open.”

“You’re making it sound dramatic.”

“I’m emotionally preparing to commit crimes against Evan’s router. Let me have my process.”

You picked up your tea instead of sitting. “You don’t even know his last name.”

“I can work with a first name and vibes.”

“That is not reassuring.”

Dick’s mouth curved faintly. “It shouldn’t be.”

You took one of the dumplings.

Wally gasped with theatrical betrayal, then nudged the container closer because he was incapable of committing to the bit if you were actually hungry. Dick shifted on the couch so there was space beside him too, casual enough that it did not look like an invitation you had to accept.

You ate the dumpling standing up because sitting down felt too much like admitting the date had gotten to you. Wally watched you chew with the concerned intensity of someone waiting for a bomb squad report. Dick said nothing at all, which was worse, because Dick knew when silence would get more out of you than pressure.

Eventually, you sighed. “It was just disappointing.”

Wally’s face softened. “That’s worse than hateable.”

“Is it?”

“Yeah. Hateable gives me something to do. Disappointing just makes me want to feed you and maybe commit a small act of Wi-Fi sabotage.”

“That is not a proportionate response.”

“I said small.”

Dick leaned back against the couch, one arm stretched along the back cushions. He was in an old T-shirt and sweatpants, hair still damp from a shower, bare feet tucked beneath the coffee table, already folded into the quiet rhythm of the apartment. He looked warm and human and untouchably handsome in a way that made you want to be irritated with him on principle.

“What happened?” he asked.

“Nothing dramatic.”

“That’s not an answer.”

You looked at him over the rim of your mug. “He was fine. He asked questions. He laughed at appropriate moments. He checked his phone every time I spoke for more than thirty seconds.”

Wally grimaced. “Immediate jail.”

“He was nice enough.”

“Jail.”

You huffed, but the laugh did not last. “Then he started asking about you two.”

Dick’s expression changed first, not dramatically, but enough for you to notice. Wally sat up straighter, the dumpling container tilting until you steadied it with your knee.

“What kind of asking?” Dick said.

“The kind where curiosity turns into suspicion because I mentioned you too much.”

Wally blinked. “You mentioned us?”

“You built my bookshelf, Wally. It came up.”

“I built it beautifully.”

“One shelf leans.”

“That shelf has character.”

Dick’s gaze stayed on you. “What did he say?”

You shrugged, but it felt thin even to you. “He said it sounded intense.”

Wally’s humor faded.

Dick did not move, but the room seemed to shift around his stillness. “And?”

“And I realized I didn’t want to explain you guys to someone who had already decided you were a problem.”

For a moment, neither of them answered.

The silence was not awkward. It was just full. Full of every late-night call they had answered, every time one of them had walked you home, every takeout order split three ways, every old fear you had swallowed when they were out and the news was bad. Full of your toothbrush in their bathroom and your clothes in Dick’s dresser and the fact that Wally knew your favorite cereal changed its recipe six months ago because you had complained about it once and he had treated it like a civic emergency.

You moved to the couch because standing suddenly felt ridiculous.

Wally shifted at once, making space for you between them. Dick did the same from the other side, both of them adjusting without speaking until your usual place was waiting. You sat down with your tea balanced between your hands and tried not to think about how familiar it felt to have Wally’s knee against yours and Dick’s arm stretched along the cushion behind you.

“Did he make you feel unsafe?” Dick asked.

“No.”

“Good,” Wally said, too quickly.

You glanced at him.

He held up both hands. “Emotionally disappointing men are still on thin ice, but I’m glad he didn’t make it worse.”

“He didn’t make me feel unsafe,” you said. “He just made me feel…observed badly.”

Dick’s brows drew together.

“You and Dick observe people professionally,” Wally said, because of course he knew exactly where your mind had gone. “That’s different.”

“It should be creepy that you know that.”

“I contain multitudes.”

Dick’s thumb moved once against the back of the couch, close enough that you felt the motion near your shoulder. “What do you mean by observed badly?”

“I mean he looked at me like he was trying to figure out what role I could play. Good listener. Pretty enough. Convenient. Available.” You stared into your tea. “And I kept thinking that maybe that’s what dating is now. Figuring out which version of yourself someone wants and deciding if you can tolerate being her for a dinner.”

Wally made a quiet sound under his breath, almost angry.

Dick said your name softly.

You hated that. Not because he had done anything wrong, but because he said it like he knew you. Like there was nothing you had to perform for him to care.

You wrapped both hands around the mug before they could give you away. “Can I ask you something?”

Wally’s knee pressed more firmly against yours. “Always.”

Dick’s attention sharpened. “Of course.”

You should have asked something else. You should have asked whether they wanted to watch a movie, whether Wally had eaten anything other than dumplings, or whether Dick’s laptop meant casework or Wayne Foundation work. There were safer questions in the world. You knew plenty of them.

Instead, you held your mug a little tighter and asked, “How do you know if a man really wants you?”

The apartment went quiet.

It was not the ordinary quiet of late night, when the city hummed beyond the windows and the refrigerator clicked on in the kitchen. It was not even the dangerous quiet you knew from them when a case followed them home and sat heavy in the room. 

This was different. This was the kind of silence that came from two men who had both reached for an answer and found it lodged somewhere too close to the heart.

Wally stopped moving first. That was how you knew you had done something terrible. Wally was motion even when he was still, all restless fingers and bouncing knees and little shifts of energy that made the air around him feel alive. Now he sat frozen, his eyes fixed on you like you had said his name in a language he had not expected you to know.

Dick’s stillness was less obvious but more frightening. His hand paused on the back of the couch, fingers curled loosely into the cushion. His face did not change much. Dick had been trained by too many people, hurt by too many people, loved by too many people he had lost. His control was a beautiful, terrible thing. But you were close enough to notice the small things: the slight dip of his chin, the inhale he did not finish, the way his gaze flicked to Wally before returning to you.

You looked between them.

Then, because your mouth had apparently decided to ruin your life, you said, “Wow. I may have asked the wrong men.”

Wally laughed once, breathless and strange. “Yeah.”

Dick’s voice was quieter. “Maybe not.”

The words landed softly. That made them worse.

You stared at him.

Dick looked away first, which he almost never did. He looked toward the window, toward the city beyond it, toward the version of himself that could leap off rooftops and still not know how to answer one honest question in his own living room.

“What do you mean by wants you?” he asked.

It was such a Dick question. Careful. Precise. A way to create structure when the floor had begun to tilt. You could have let him have it. You could have narrowed the conversation into something clinical and survivable.

You did not.

“I mean me,” you said. “Not just sex. Not just attention. Not someone who likes that I’m available or convenient, or that I listen well. How do you know when he actually wants you?”

Wally dragged a hand down his face. “That is a dangerously sincere question for a room where I was just upside down with dumplings.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He looked at you then, really looked, and the humor in him had gone soft around the edges. “He remembers things.”

You blinked. “What?”

“A man who really wants you remembers things he doesn’t get credit for remembering.” Wally’s fingers flexed against his thigh. “The little stuff. The song you skipped three seconds in because it made your face do that thing. The restaurant you said was overrated even though everyone else likes it. The way your voice changes when you’re about to say you’re fine and you absolutely aren’t.”

Your throat tightened.

Wally shrugged like he could make the answer casual if he moved enough. He could not. “He pays attention when there’s nothing in it for him. That’s a big one, I think.”

You looked at Dick because you had to look away from Wally.

Dick’s expression had changed. Something careful had cracked in it, enough for you to see the want beneath. Not lust, though that was there too, impossible to miss now that you were looking directly at it. This was older. Quieter. It had roots.

“He becomes more careful,” Dick said.

Your chest hurt.

“Careful how?”

“With you.” Dick’s gaze held yours. “With what he asks for. With what he takes for granted. Wanting someone is easy. Most people can do that part. But if he really wants you, he cares what his wanting costs you.”

Wally was watching him now too.

Dick’s mouth tightened, like he had already said more than he meant to and still could not stop. “He doesn’t make you responsible for managing his desire. He doesn’t punish you for not returning it the way he hoped. He doesn’t turn your kindness into permission.”

The room felt too small around you.

You thought of all the times Dick had walked you home without making you feel like you were being escorted. The way he always matched your pace, whether you were in heels after an event or slippers on a late-night corner store run. The way his hand hovered near your back in crowded places but never settled unless you leaned into it first. The way he noticed when men looked at you too long and somehow placed himself between you and them without making a scene.

You thought of Wally texting you pictures of six different cereal boxes from the grocery store because you had mentioned once, weeks earlier, that your childhood favorite had changed its recipe and tasted wrong now. You thought of him showing up with soup before you admitted you were sick. You thought of him lying on your living room floor, assembling your bookshelf at human speed because you had accused him of cheating, laughing every time you handed him the wrong screw.

He remembers things.

He becomes more careful.

You had asked for a hypothetical answer.

They had handed you a mirror.

Your laugh came out too soft. “You both got very serious.”

Wally swallowed. “Yeah. Occupational hazard.”

“Is it?”

“No,” Dick said.

Wally shot him a look, half warning and half relief. Dick ignored him, because of course he did. Courage was easier for him when it looked like stepping off a ledge.

“No?” you asked.

Dick leaned forward, forearms braced loosely on his knees. “It’s not an occupational hazard. It’s you.”

The silence after that was different.

Wally closed his eyes briefly. “Well. Okay. We’re doing this.”

Dick did not look away from you. “Only if she wants to.”

Your heart was beating too hard. You wondered if Wally could hear it. Of course he could hear it. He could probably hear your pulse trying to kick its way out of your throat.

“You’re doing what?” you asked, though you knew.

Wally opened his eyes. There was fear in them, which seemed impossible and then immediately made too much sense. Wally West could run faster than light. He could cross cities between heartbeats. He could laugh in the face of gods and monsters and still sit in front of you terrified because this mattered.

“Answering honestly,” he said.

Dick’s gaze flicked over your face with agonizing care. “We didn’t want to put this on you.”

“This?”

“You know what he means,” Wally said, softer than his usual voice. “Us. How we feel. How long we’ve felt it.”

“How long?”

Dick exhaled. “Long enough that I don’t know how to answer that without incriminating myself.”

Despite everything, a laugh escaped you.

Wally looked almost offended. “Oh, he’s being conservative. I can incriminate us both in detail.”

“Wally.”

“What? She asked.”

“I asked how long,” you said.

Wally looked at you, and for once, he did not rush. “For me, it crept up. One day you were asleep on the couch wearing Dick’s sweatshirt and my socks, and you woke up just enough to tell me I had to stop eating chips directly over your head or you were going to haunt me after death. And I thought, oh. This is probably permanent.”

Your heart did something foolish.

Dick looked down, his thumb moving over his knuckles. “For me, it was after the bridge incident.”

You frowned. “That was two years ago.”

“I know.”

Wally’s expression softened, but he let Dick speak.

Dick’s voice remained steady, though not untouched. “You were furious with us.”

“You both disappeared for eighteen hours.”

“We had comms trouble.”

“There was a collapsed building.”

“Also that.” His mouth curved faintly, then faded. “When we got back, you yelled for fifteen minutes. You had three different news feeds open, a first aid kit on the table, and you were shaking so hard you had to put the kettle down because you almost dropped it.”

“I remember.”

“You told me I didn’t get to treat my life like collateral damage just because I was good at surviving.” Dick looked up. “Most people are relieved when we come back. You were relieved too, but you were angry before you were grateful. You loved us enough to be angry.”

You could not breathe properly.

“Dick.”

“I know.” He gave you a small, helpless smile. “Bad timing.”

“Historically, our brand,” Wally said, but his voice was too gentle to turn it into a joke.

You looked between them. The question you had not asked sat in the room with the rest of you, breathing steadily. It should have been the difficult part, maybe. Two men. Two best friends. Two confessions. But there was something in the way they sat, angled not only toward you but toward each other, that made the answer less impossible than it should have been.

“Both of you?” you asked.

Dick nodded.

“We know,” Wally said.

“And you’re…okay with that?”

Wally’s eyebrows rose. “With Dick having taste? Occasionally.”

Dick huffed despite himself.

You stared at them until Wally’s smile softened.

“We talked about it,” he said. “Badly at first. Then better.”

“When?”

“After the bridge,” Dick said.

“Before that,” Wally corrected.

Dick glanced at him.

Wally lifted a shoulder. “You talked after the bridge. I started talking before that. You just did your emotionally constipated Bat thing and pretended my point had been theoretical.”

“There was nothing theoretical about you eating an entire pizza on my fire escape while telling me I was in love with our best friend.”

“Our best friend was inside making tea and wearing your hoodie.”

“You weren’t subtle.”

“Neither were you. You kept looking at her like she was an answer.”

Something in your chest split cleanly open.

Dick’s expression shifted, embarrassment and affection crossing it too quickly to hide. You realized, suddenly, that they had loved you in the same rooms where you had loved them, all of you careful in different directions, all of you pretending the shape of your life was normal because naming it would change everything.

“What about you two?” you asked.

Their silence lasted half a second too long.

Then Wally said, “Also complicated.”

Dick gave him a look. “It doesn’t have to be.”

“You say that now, but wait until I explain it using a metaphor about nachos.”

“Do not.”

You looked from one to the other. The pieces rearranged themselves with quiet, devastating clarity. The closeness that had always seemed natural because it was Dick and Wally. The way Wally’s hand lingered at Dick’s neck when he thought you were not looking. The way Dick knew Wally’s moods before Wally had done anything louder than breathe. The fact that Wally could steal food off Dick’s plate without losing fingers. The mornings you had walked into their kitchen and found them standing too close, both turning toward you with the same guilty-casual energy that had made you roll your eyes and reach for cereal.

“Oh,” you said.

Wally winced. “Good oh or bad oh?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Fair.”

Dick leaned back carefully, giving you space without leaving. That was the worst part. The best part. The impossible part. Even now, with confession lying open between you, his first instinct was to make sure you did not feel trapped in a room where you had always felt safe.

“You don’t have to know tonight,” he said. “You came here after a bad date, and we are all sitting on a couch pretending this hasn’t been years in the making. This is not exactly a neutral environment for a life-changing conversation.”

Wally nodded solemnly. “Also, I’m still upside-down spiritually from the dumpling betrayal.”

“You offered me one.”

“I contain contradictions.”

You laughed again, and this time it broke something loose. Not the tension, exactly. That remained, but it warmed, softened at the edges by how deeply, absurdly yours they were.

“You were both just going to keep this to yourselves?” you asked.

Dick’s eyes returned to yours. “If that was what kept you comfortable.”

“That’s stupid.”

Wally pointed at Dick. “I said that.”

“Repeatedly,” Dick said.

“Because it’s true.” Wally looked at you with a fragile kind of hope. “But we also weren’t going to make you feel like this place came with strings. You sleep here. You have a key. You know the vigilante stuff. You know where we hide the good bandages and the terrible protein bars. That’s a lot of trust to mess with.”

You understood. That was the terrible thing. You understood too well. This apartment was your soft landing. It was where you came when the world had teeth. If they had said the wrong thing at the wrong time, if they had made you feel observed instead of known, the loss would have been enormous.

But they had not done that.

They had waited until you asked a question they could no longer answer without handing you the truth.

“Wally,” you said.

He sat up straighter. “Yeah?”

“Come here.”

Wally was already close, but he still moved like the distance mattered. His knee shifted against yours, his body turning toward you on the couch, and then he stopped with enough space left between you that it made your chest hurt. He was letting you close the last of it. He smelled like detergent, mint gum, and the clean, electric warmth that always seemed to cling to him.

“You’re shaking,” you said.

Wally huffed a laugh, almost embarrassed. “Yeah.”

“That’s unusual.”

“Lots of things are unusual right now.” His eyes searched yours. “But I’m here.”

You reached up and touched the side of his face. Wally went very still. He had leaned into you a thousand times before, his head in your lap during movie nights, his shoulder bumping yours in grocery aisles, his legs tangled with yours under Dick’s comforter after long days and worse dreams. This was different because you let it be different. You watched the realization move through him, bright and startled and almost painful.

“Can I kiss you?” you asked.

Wally’s breath caught. “Yes. Please. Very yes.”

You smiled despite the shake in your chest and kissed him.

For a man who could outrun almost everything, Wally did not rush you. His mouth met yours carefully, warmly, a little unsteady at first, like he had imagined this enough times to be shocked by the reality of it. Then your fingers slid into his hair, and he made a sound against you that turned the entire room molten. His hand came to your waist, stopped there, asked without words. When you leaned closer, his grip tightened just enough to make you feel the restraint in it.

He tasted faintly of mint and soy sauce.

He kissed like he had been waiting so long that patience had become its own kind of hunger.

When you pulled back, his eyes stayed closed for a second.

“Okay,” he said faintly. “That happened. I’m normal about it.”

“You are visibly not normal about it.”

“I’m experiencing multiple emotions at speeds previously unknown to science.”

Dick laughed softly from your other side, but when you looked at him, the humor in his face did not disguise the want. It made it worse, actually. Wally was bright with it, nearly vibrating under your hand. Dick was still, but his stillness had become charged, every line of him drawn tight around the effort not to reach for you before you asked.

You turned toward him.

Dick watched you come closer by inches, your knee shifting against his thigh, your hand settling carefully on the couch beside him. He did not move until you were facing him fully. Then his hands lifted, not touching yet, hovering near your hips. There he was again, careful even while looking at you like restraint was costing him something.

“Can I?” he asked.

You nodded.

His hands settled on you, warm through the borrowed shirt. Your breath left you unevenly.

“You’re sure?” Dick asked.

Your mouth curved before you could stop it. “Do you ask everyone that after they kiss someone you’re in love with?”

Wally made an incoherent sound behind you.

Dick’s mouth curved. “No.”

“Then yes.”

The first brush of his lips was soft enough to undo you. Dick kissed differently than Wally. He kissed like falling with control, like every angle mattered, like he could make gentleness as devastating as force if he paid enough attention. One hand slid to your back, the other staying at your hip. He did not pull. He invited, and somehow that was worse. You shifted closer on the couch until your thigh pressed against his, and his fingers flexed against your spine.

The second kiss was deeper.

Dick made a low sound when your hand found his jaw, and you felt it through his chest because you were close enough now, finally, to know what his wanting sounded like. Wally shifted behind you, and Dick’s hand tightened just slightly, as if the reminder that Wally was watching did not cool the heat but changed its direction.

You pulled away only enough to breathe.

Dick’s eyes were dark. “This can stop here.”

“It can,” you said.

Wally’s voice came from behind your shoulder, quieter now. “Does it?”

You looked over your shoulder at him. He was still on the couch, hair messy from your hand, one knee angled toward yours like he had started to move closer and stopped himself from asking for too much. His eyes stayed fixed on you with an openness that made the choice feel less like stepping into the unknown and more like coming home to a room you had somehow never entered.

You thought of your toothbrush in the bathroom. Your mug on the coffee table. Your clothes in Dick’s drawer. Wally’s texts. Dick’s hands. The bed you had slept in between them so many times, waking warm and safe and pretending your heart did not break a little every morning you had to climb out of it.

“No,” you said. “I don’t think it does.”

Wally inhaled so sharply that it was almost a laugh.

Dick’s hands tightened at your hips, and then he kissed you again, catching the small sound that slipped out of you before you could pretend it had not happened. You let yourself lean into him, let yourself feel the steadiness of his body and the warmth of Wally coming up behind you. Wally did not press in immediately. He waited until you reached back, found his wrist, and drew his arm around your waist.

His breath hit your hair.

“Oh,” he said softly.

You smiled against Dick’s mouth. “You keep saying that.”

“I keep learning things.”

Dick’s mouth brushed the corner of yours. “He’s a very committed student.”

“Top of my class,” Wally said.

“You once put Pop-Tarts in a panini press.”

“They were incredible.”

“They caught fire.”

“Briefly.”

You laughed, and Dick kissed the sound from your mouth.

🐦🗝️⚡

The walk to his bedroom should not have felt like crossing a border, but it did. You had walked that hall half-asleep, tipsy, sick, laughing, furious, worried. You had stumbled through it with a blanket around your shoulders after nightmares you blamed on bad movies and they pretended to believe you. You had leaned against the doorframe watching Dick fold laundry while Wally sprawled across the bed claiming moral support. You knew the creak of the floor, the shape of the room in the dark, the side of the mattress that dipped because Wally threw himself onto it with no respect for furniture.

Tonight, when Dick opened the door, you hesitated.

Both of them noticed.

“Hey,” Wally said immediately. “We can go back to the couch. Or stop. Or make tea. Or I can run to Canada and bring back those maple cookies you like, although I feel like that might be an overcorrection.”

You looked at him over your shoulder. “Canada?”

“Panic suggestion.”

Dick’s hand touched your back gently. “Talk to us.”

The words settled you. Not because they fixed the nerves, but because they made room for them.

“I’ve slept in this bed with you both a thousand times,” you said. “It feels strange that this is the first time I’m nervous.”

Dick’s expression softened. “It’s allowed to feel strange.”

“Good strange,” Wally added. “Hopefully. Eventually. Maybe right now it’s weird strange. We can work with weird strange.”

You smiled. “You are so bad at being reassuring.”

“I’m actually fantastic at it. You’re just seeing me under extreme conditions.”

Dick’s thumb moved once against your back. “Nothing happens unless all three of us want it.”

You looked at him. “All three?”

His gaze moved briefly to Wally, and something passed between them that was so familiar and intimate you wondered how you had ever missed it. “All three.”

Wally came closer, slower this time. “For the record, I want it. You. This. Him. Us. But wanting doesn’t mean I need to have it tonight.”

Your heart twisted. “That was almost smooth.”

“I have hidden depths.”

“You just brought up Canada.”

“Some of my depths are geographical.”

Dick’s laugh was quiet, fond, and beautiful. It loosened the last of the fear sitting beneath your ribs.

You stepped into the bedroom.

The room was exactly as you knew it. Dick’s bed stood against the far wall, too large for one person and too often occupied by three. The comforter was rumpled from the morning, because Dick made his bed only when stress turned him into a machine and Wally took personal offense at tucked corners. Your book sat on the nightstand beside Dick’s, a bookmark halfway through the chapter you had been reading three nights ago while Wally slept sideways across the foot of the bed.

There were pieces of you everywhere.

You turned to face them.

“I want you,” you said, and watched the words land. “Both of you. I don’t know exactly how this works yet, but I want to find out.”

Dick’s eyes closed briefly.

Wally’s smile trembled at the edges. “We can do finding out.”

“Slowly,” Dick said.

“Sure,” Wally said quickly. “Slow is great. Love slow. Big fan.”

You gave him a look.

“I can be slow,” he insisted.

Dick’s mouth tilted. “He can.”

The fact that Dick knew that should not have sent heat down your spine, but it did. Both of them saw it happen. Of course they did. Dick’s gaze sharpened; Wally’s breath hitched.

“Oh,” Wally said.

“Don’t sound so surprised,” you said, though your own voice had changed.

“I’m not surprised. I’m delighted. There’s a difference.”

Dick stepped closer, his hand finding your waist again. “Tell us what you want first.”

You swallowed. “I want you to stop looking like you’re waiting for me to vanish.”

That hurt them. You saw it.

Dick touched your cheek. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Wally came up behind you, close enough that his warmth reached your back without trapping you. “Say that again in like five minutes. My brain needs repetition.”

You leaned back into him. His hands settled at your hips, then paused. You covered one with your own and drew it more securely around you.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you said.

Wally exhaled against your hair, and Dick kissed you again.

There was nothing uncertain in it this time. Dick kissed you like he had been given an answer and intended to honor it thoroughly. Wally’s mouth found your shoulder through the thin shirt, his breath warm, his hands careful at your waist. You were suddenly, dizzyingly aware of being between them. Dick in front of you, steady and beautiful, one hand at your jaw and the other at your hip. Wally behind you, restless energy banked into trembling restraint, his lips moving against the side of your neck as if he was learning what made you sigh.

You had been touched before. Wanted, even. But you understood the difference now with brutal clarity. Wanting, from them, did not feel like being consumed. It felt like being attended to. It felt like every breath you took mattered.

Dick drew back first, his fingers catching lightly at the hem of his shirt where it rested against your hips. “Can I take this off?”

It took you a second to understand.

Then you laughed, a little breathless. “It’s yours, I think.”

“It is,” Dick said, and there was something in his voice that made your stomach dip.

Wally’s mouth brushed your neck. “For the record, I fully support its current use.”

Dick’s gaze stayed on you. “And its removal?”

Wally hummed. “Also that.”

You started to lift your arms, but Wally’s hands tightened just slightly at your waist.

“Wait,” he said, then seemed to regret saying it when both you and Dick went still.

You turned your head enough to look at him. “Wait?”

“Not stop,” Wally said quickly. “Definitely not stop. I just—” He huffed a laugh against your shoulder, embarrassed and helpless. “I need to say something before my brain stops working.”

Dick’s expression softened. “That bad?”

“That bad,” Wally said.

You waited.

Wally’s thumb moved once against your hip, brushing the bare skin beneath the hem of Dick’s shirt. “You know we love how comfortable you are here, right?”

Your breath caught at the sudden softness in his voice.

“This is your place too,” he said. “Not officially, maybe, but in all the ways that count. Your mug is in the kitchen. Your toothbrush is in the bathroom. Your clothes are in Dick’s dresser. You come over and change into one of our shirts like it’s nothing, like you trust us so much you don’t even think about it anymore.”

Dick’s hand stilled at your waist.

Wally swallowed. “And we love that. We really, really love that.” His voice dipped, turning rougher. “But sometimes you walk around in one of our shirts and those little sleep shorts, or no shorts, or you reach up for something and we see the edge of your panties, and I swear to God, I have almost died in this apartment more times than I have in the field.”

Your face went hot.

“Wally,” Dick said, but the warning was ruined by the strain in his voice.

“What? We’re being honest tonight.” Wally’s mouth brushed the corner of your jaw. “You bend over to look for something in the fridge. You fall asleep with the shirt riding up your thighs. You sit on the counter in socks and underwear and one of Dick’s old shirts, drinking tea out of that chipped mug, and we both have to stand there acting like our souls didn’t just leave our bodies.”

You looked at Dick. “Both of you?”

Dick’s eyes met yours, dark and steady and helplessly warm. “Both of us.”

Something inside you tightened.

“It was never just the shirt,” Dick said, his fingers smoothing over the hem as if he had wanted to touch it like this for years. “It was that you trusted us enough to stop guarding yourself here.”

That undid you more than Wally’s words had.

“Oh,” you said softly.

Wally let out a shaky breath. “Yeah. That too. I was getting there.”

Dick’s mouth curved, but his gaze stayed on you. “Can I take it off?”

This time, when you lifted your arms, neither of them stopped you.

Dick pulled the shirt over your head slowly, careful not to let the fabric catch. The air touched your skin, and both men went quiet again. Not silent in that fearful way from the living room, but quiet with attention. Wally’s hand spread over your stomach, warm and reverent. Dick’s gaze moved over you with visible effort, not lingering anywhere you had not invited yet and somehow making that restraint feel more intimate than staring would have been.

“You’re beautiful,” Dick said.

It was simple. It should not have undone you.

Wally kissed your shoulder. “So beautiful.”

Your instinct was to deflect. Make a joke. Tell Wally his taste had been damaged by eating cereal out of a saucepan. Tell Dick he was legally obligated to say nice things because he had known you too long. You had a dozen exits ready, all of them familiar.

Dick seemed to know. His thumb touched your lower lip before the joke could leave it.

“Let us say it,” he murmured.

Your chest ached. “Okay.”

Wally’s arms tightened around you for half a second. “Good. Because I’ve got years of material.”

“Wally.”

“What? I’m pacing myself.”

Dick looked at him over your shoulder, and the warmth in his expression made your pulse skip. “Are you?”

“Badly.”

You turned your head and kissed Wally before he could say anything else. He made a pleased sound, hands flexing at your waist, and Dick’s fingers drifted down your side with aching care. The kiss turned messy faster than the first one. Maybe because there was so little between you already. Maybe because Wally’s self-control had limits, and one of them was apparently you turning in his arms to lick into his mouth while wearing only your panties, with Dick close enough to touch you both.

Dick’s hand slid over your ribs and stopped just below your breast, asking without words.

You broke the kiss with Wally, breath unsteady. “You can.”

Dick lifted his eyes to yours. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

His hands covered you, palms warm beneath your breasts, thumbs brushing softly until your breath caught. Wally watched over your shoulder, eyes dark and bright at once, then lowered his mouth to yours again as Dick touched you. It was too much and exactly enough. Wally kissed like he wanted to swallow every sound you made; Dick touched like he wanted to discover them one by one.

Your hands found Dick’s chest. He was warm under your palms, solid and familiar in a way that made the moment feel more dangerous than if he had been a stranger. You knew this body in a dozen almost-innocent ways. You knew the weight of his arm thrown across your waist in sleep, the pressure of his shoulder against yours in a crowded booth, the warmth of him behind you when he reached over your head for a cabinet because he enjoyed being obnoxiously tall.

Now your hand slid over his heartbeat, and he went still beneath your touch.

“You okay?” you asked.

Dick caught your wrist and brought your hand to his mouth. “Yes.”

“Will you tell me if that changes?”

That made him pause.

Wally, to his credit, did not make a joke.

Dick’s expression changed, and you saw him understand what you were really asking. You had spent too long loving men who treated their limits like suggestions. You were not asking as someone about to sleep with him. You were asking as the person who knew that care had to go both ways, or it would become another kind of burden.

“I will,” he said. “Tonight, I will.”

You searched his face. Then you nodded.

Wally touched your waist. “Me too. For anything. I know I can be a lot.”

“You are a lot.”

“True.” His mouth curved, but his eyes stayed serious. “I’ll tell you.”

“Good.”

“Hot when you boss us around,” he said, then immediately looked like he had startled himself.

Dick’s eyebrows rose. “Is it?”

Wally pointed at him. “Do not psychoanalyze me while she’s topless.”

You laughed, and the sound turned into a gasp when Dick dipped his head and kissed the curve of your breast. Wally’s humor dissolved at once. His mouth parted against your temple, and his hand slid up your ribs, stopping just below where Dick’s mouth moved. Dick looked up at you through his lashes, checking. You nodded, and then his tongue touched your nipple.

Your knees nearly failed you.

Wally caught you with a soft, reverent curse. “Okay. Bed. Bed is good.”

Dick smiled against your skin. “Slow?”

“Slow can happen horizontally.”

That made you laugh again, but your laugh broke when Dick did it again, warmer this time, lips closing around you before Wally guided you carefully back toward the bed. Dick moved with you, one hand steady at your hip, unwilling to let the contact break until the mattress touched the backs of your legs.

You had climbed into Dick’s bed in every state except this one.

That thought followed you down onto the mattress. It was familiar beneath your back, the comforter soft against your skin, the pillows smelling like Dick’s shampoo and Wally’s habit of stealing them. How many nights had you lain here between them, your body relaxed in sleep while your heart carried secrets your waking self refused to name? How many mornings had you woken with Wally’s arm thrown over your waist and Dick’s hand near yours, all of you pretending it was only comfort?

Now Dick knelt beside you with want written plainly across his face, and Wally settled near your other side, vibrating with the effort to give you time.

You looked at them and felt something in you steady.

“Pants,” you said.

Wally looked down at himself. “Mine?”

“Both.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Dick shook his head, smiling as Wally nearly tripped getting out of his sweatpants. Dick moved more deliberately, his gaze never leaving yours as he hooked his fingers in the waistband of his own. He stopped before pushing anything down.

“Still okay?”

“Very okay.”

Wally had his pants off already because of course he did, all lean muscle and restless heat, his confidence lasting approximately one second before he noticed you looking and flushed. “Assessment received.”

Dick laughed, and you smiled despite the heat crawling up your neck.

“You’re both ridiculous,” you said.

“You knew that before you invited us to take our clothes off,” Wally said.

“Some mistakes deserve commitment.”

Dick’s mouth curved. “Is that what this is?”

You looked at him, at the softness under the teasing. “No.”

The answer changed the room again.

Dick pushed his sweatpants down. His underwear followed a moment later, and your breath caught despite yourself.

Dick noticed. Of course he noticed.

His eyes darkened, but he did not touch you. “Still very okay?”

“Yes.”

Wally popped up beside him, naked now and visibly trying to look patient. “Can I also get an assessment? For fairness.”

You looked at him.

Then lower.

Wally’s confidence abandoned him completely. “I am never going to survive this.”

“You run faster than light.”

“Emotionally, I am a Victorian maiden.”

Dick climbed onto the bed and kissed him, slow and familiar enough that your pulse kicked hard. Wally melted into it with a sound that told you more than any explanation could have. They kissed like people who had already crossed some lines privately and were now learning how it felt to let you see. When Dick drew back, Wally’s mouth stayed parted for half a second, his eyes opening slowly.

You stared.

Dick looked at you. “Good oh?”

You realized you had made a sound. “Very good oh.”

Wally beamed. “Excellent. Love to contribute.”

You reached out and touched Wally’s knee. “Come here.”

He came immediately, but the joking faded as soon as your hand slid up his thigh. His skin was warm, almost feverish, muscles tense beneath your touch. He watched you like he could not decide whether to move closer or hold himself perfectly still.

Dick shifted behind you, gathering you with him as he settled back against the headboard and drew you gently between his legs. You leaned against his chest and felt his breath shift near your ear. His hands came to your waist, then lower, stopping at the edge of your panties like even now he was giving you time to change your mind.

“Can I take these off?” he asked.

“Yes.”

Wally’s gaze followed the movement as Dick slid them down your legs. The room went quiet again, not with hesitation this time, but with the weight of both of them finally seeing what they had been careful not to want too openly for years.

You started to close your thighs on instinct.

Wally’s hand touched your knee, not forcing, just there. “Hey. You don’t have to hide from us.”

The words went through you with embarrassing force.

Dick kissed the side of your neck. “He’s right.”

“This is new,” you whispered.

“I know.” Wally’s thumb moved gently over your knee. “We’ll earn it.”

Your eyes stung. You wanted to blame the long night, the bad date, the adrenaline crash, the way Dick’s mouth felt against your skin and Wally’s hand felt warm on your leg. But it was not only that. It was the tenderness. The promise beneath it. The sense that they had already decided your comfort was not a pause before desire but part of it.

You let your thighs relax.

Wally’s eyes dropped, and the breath he took was unsteady enough to make Dick’s hands tighten on you.

“Beautiful,” Wally said, softer this time. “God, sweetheart.”

The pet name slipped out like an accident.

You felt Dick go still behind you.

Wally’s eyes snapped to yours. “Too much?”

“No,” you said quickly, then softer, “No. I liked it.”

His smile came back slowly. “Yeah?”

Dick’s mouth brushed your ear. “She liked it.”

The words sent heat rolling through you.

Wally noticed that too. His pupils widened, and some of the carefulness in him sharpened into hunger. “Oh, this is going to be fun.”

“Wally,” Dick warned, but there was no real reprimand in it.

“What? I’m observing.”

“You can observe closer,” you said.

Wally’s gaze flew to your face.

Your pulse pounded. “If you want.”

His laugh was almost disbelieving. “If I want.”

Then he was between your thighs.

Still slow. Still careful. He settled on his stomach with his arms hooked beneath your legs, but he did not put his mouth on you right away. He kissed your inner thigh first, warm and lingering, then the other. His stubble grazed your skin. Your fingers twisted in the comforter, and Dick’s hands slid up to cover yours, lacing your fingers together.

“You can touch him,” Dick murmured. “He likes it.”

Wally’s eyes flicked up. “I like it a lot.”

Your hand found Wally’s hair.

His lashes fluttered.

“Oh,” you whispered.

Wally’s smile turned wicked and soft at once. “Yeah. That.”

Then his mouth touched you.

The first stroke of his tongue made your back arch against Dick’s chest. Dick held you through it, not pinning you, just anchoring you as Wally groaned like he had been the one given pleasure. His mouth was warm and wet, the pace unhurried in a way that made you think of his earlier insistence that he could be slow. Apparently he could, when it mattered. He learned you with devastating focus, licking gently at first, then firmer when your hand tightened in his hair and your breath broke around his name.

Dick’s mouth moved along your throat. “Tell him what feels good.”

“Keep doing that.”

Wally made a muffled sound of approval.

“More specific,” Dick said, and you could feel his smile against your skin.

You would have elbowed him if you had been capable of coordination. “You’re annoying.”

“You’ve said.”

Wally lifted his head just enough to speak, lips wet, eyes bright. “You can pull my hair. For specificity.”

You did.

His eyes closed, and the sound he made was obscene enough that your entire body clenched. Dick inhaled sharply behind you.

“Wally.”

“I’m good,” Wally said, already lowering his mouth again. “I’m so good.”

He proved it.

There was no room left for embarrassment after that. Wally ate you out like attention was devotion, like every reaction mattered, like he had all the time in the world and intended to spend it between your thighs. Dick held your hands and whispered praise against your neck, his voice low and rougher than usual. Good. Like that. You’re doing so well. He loves that sound. We both do.

We.

The word sent you over the edge.

You came with Wally’s name in your mouth and Dick’s hands holding yours. Pleasure rolled through you in bright waves, your thighs trembling around Wally’s shoulders as he worked you through it with gentler strokes until you tugged at his hair because it was too much. He stopped immediately, pressing one last kiss to your thigh before lifting his head.

His mouth was shiny. His expression was wrecked.

“Okay,” he said, voice hoarse. “So. That’s my new favorite thing.”

Dick laughed against your shoulder. “You look proud of yourself.”

“I am proud of myself. Did you see that?”

“I was here.”

“You should compliment me.”

“You did very well.”

Wally looked delighted. “Thanks, babe.”

The casual endearment between them hit you almost as hard as the orgasm had. Dick seemed to feel you react, because his fingers stroked over your knuckles.

“Still with us?” he asked.

You nodded, breathing unevenly. “Very much.”

Wally crawled up your body, stopping when his face was near yours. He hesitated, suddenly uncertain. You understood a second later and pulled him down into a kiss. You tasted yourself on his mouth, and the intimacy of it made him shudder.

Dick’s hand slid into Wally’s hair from behind you, drawing him closer. Wally broke from your mouth only to turn toward him, and then they were kissing over your shoulder.

You stopped breathing.

You had seen them touch before. You had seen Wally throw himself onto Dick’s back, Dick catch Wally by the wrist, the two of them lean into each other with the exhausted ease of men who trusted each other down to the bone. But this was not that. This was Wally kissing Dick with your taste on his tongue, Dick’s hand firm at the back of his neck, both of them making quiet sounds they had never let you hear before.

It should have made you feel like an outsider.

It did not.

Dick’s free hand found your waist, drawing you more securely against him even as he kissed Wally. Wally’s hand spread over your thigh. The circle held. The desire moved through all three of you, not divided but multiplied.

When they separated, Wally rested his forehead against Dick’s for a moment.

“Still okay?” Dick asked him.

Wally smiled. “Yeah. You?”

Dick nodded.

Then both of them looked at you.

You swallowed. “I need a second.”

“Of course,” Dick said immediately.

Wally started to move back, but you caught his wrist.

“Not away. Just a second.”

His face softened. “Okay.”

Dick reached for the water bottle on his nightstand and handed it to you. It was yours, actually, one you had left there after a movie night and never taken home. That fact nearly made you laugh. Even during sex, this room kept offering evidence of how long you had belonged here.

You drank, then passed it to Wally. He drank too, then offered it to Dick, who took it with a grateful nod.

The domesticity of it settled your nerves more than anything else could have.

Wally wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then seemed to realize what he had done and reached for the tissues. “Sorry. Not my most suave moment.”

“You had your mouth between my legs thirty seconds ago.”

“Great point. I’m suave again.”

Dick shook his head, but his smile was affectionate enough to make Wally glow.

You shifted carefully and turned between them. “We should talk before anything else.”

Both of them sobered at once.

“Okay,” Dick said.

Wally nodded. “Talking is good. Love informed consent. Big supporter.”

You took a breath. “Birth control is current. You both know that.”

They did. Not because it was erotic. Because they were part of your life in all the inconvenient, practical ways that made intimacy possible long before anyone got naked. Dick had driven you home after an appointment when a medication change made you nauseous. Wally had picked up your pharmacy order once when work trapped you late and then called from the aisle to ask if you wanted the good chocolate or the emergency chocolate, because apparently those were separate categories. They knew because you told them things. They knew because they listened.

Dick’s expression remained careful. “We know.”

“And you both get tested.”

“Regularly,” Dick said. “Last panel was clean.”

“Same,” Wally said. “Two weeks ago. I can show you the results if you want.”

“I trust you.”

Wally looked touched, then immediately tried to hide it. “I mean, I have a very trustworthy face.”

“You have a ridiculous face.”

“And yet.”

Dick’s hand covered yours. “We have condoms. We can use them, or not. Your choice. That choice can change at any point.”

Your throat went tight again. “I don’t want to use them.”

Wally inhaled.

Dick’s hand stilled.

“I want to feel you,” you said, and somehow that was more exposing than being naked between them. “Both of you. But if either of you wants barriers, that’s okay too.”

Wally’s voice was rough. “I don’t. I want what you want.”

Dick’s gaze stayed locked on yours. “Same.”

The word carried weight because Dick never gave agreement he did not mean.

You nodded, heat rising again now that the practicalities had been named. “Okay.”

Wally’s mouth curved. “Okay.”

Dick touched your chin, turning you gently back toward him. “One more thing.”

You smiled a little. “That sounded ominous.”

“It isn’t.” His thumb brushed your lower lip. “If we do this, tomorrow matters.”

Your chest softened.

Wally shifted closer, his hand warm on your thigh. “And the day after. And the day after that.”

“We don’t have to figure out every detail tonight,” Dick said. “But this isn’t just sex for us.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

You looked at him, then at Wally. Their faces were open in different ways, Dick’s fear disciplined into tenderness, Wally’s hope bright enough to hurt.

“Yes,” you said. “I know.”

Dick kissed you then, and the conversation ended because the answer had been given.

You moved with him until he was propped against the pillows and you were straddling his lap. Wally sat beside you, one hand on your back, the other low on Dick’s thigh. The sight of them together beneath you nearly stole your nerve. Dick naked, hard against your stomach, his hair mussed and his mouth soft from kissing you. Wally close enough to touch you both, his mouth still swollen, his body tense with want he was trying very hard not to let run away with him.

You reached between you and wrapped your hand around Dick.

His head tipped back against the headboard.

Wally swore softly. “That’s unfairly pretty.”

Dick’s laugh broke into a groan when your thumb moved over the head of him. He was hot and heavy in your hand, controlled until he was not, hips twitching up before he caught himself.

“You’re going to let me do the work,” you said.

His eyes opened. “Bossy.”

“You like it.”

Wally made a strangled sound. “He does.”

Dick looked at him. “Wally.”

“What? We’re being honest tonight.”

You smiled and lifted your hips.

Dick’s hands came to your waist. “Slow.”

“I know.”

“No, I mean—” His breath caught when you rubbed him against you, both of you slick from Wally’s mouth and your own arousal. “God.”

Wally’s hand slid to your hip beside Dick’s, not guiding, just feeling the moment with you. “You okay?”

You nodded, lowering yourself just enough for the head of Dick’s cock to press into you. The stretch made your mouth fall open.

Dick’s hands tightened. “Breathe.”

You did, forehead dropping to his. He kissed you softly, again and again, until your body eased enough to take more of him. Wally’s mouth found your shoulder, his praise spilling warm against your skin.

“That’s it. Take your time. God, you look—fuck, you look so good.”

Dick made a sound like Wally’s words had gone through him too.

You sank down slowly, inch by inch, until Dick was fully inside you.

For a moment, nobody moved.

There were things you had imagined. Late at night, alone in your own bed. In their shower, feeling guilty and helpless and hungry. Half-asleep between them, Wally’s hand accidentally under your shirt and Dick’s thigh warm against yours. You had imagined Dick’s body over yours, Wally’s mouth at your neck, both their hands, both their voices. You had imagined enough to know desire.

Reality was different.

Reality was Dick trembling beneath you because you were wrapped around him and he was trying not to take more than you were giving. Reality was Wally pressing his forehead to your shoulder, breathing hard, as if watching was its own kind of contact. Reality was your own body clenching around Dick while your heart struggled to hold the impossible tenderness of having both of them here, wanting you, waiting for you.

Dick’s voice was nearly gone when he said your name.

You lifted your head. “Yeah?”

His eyes met yours. “I love you.”

The words struck all the air from the room.

Wally went still.

Dick looked like he had not meant to say it there, like the truth had slipped past every careful defense because his body was full of you and his heart had finally stopped obeying orders. For half a second, panic flashed across his face.

You kissed it away.

“I love you too,” you whispered against his mouth.

Dick’s hands shook on your waist.

Behind you, Wally made a small sound.

You reached back for him without looking. He caught your hand immediately, fingers threading through yours with almost painful force.

“You too,” you said, turning your head enough to see him. “I love you too.”

Wally’s face changed.

He had always been expressive, always bright, always too alive to hide much for long. But you had never seen this expression before. It was relief and hunger and disbelief and joy so raw it looked almost wounded.

“You can’t just say that while Dick is inside you,” he said, voice wrecked.

A laugh broke out of you, wet at the edges. “Why not?”

“Because now I’m going to cry while this hard, and I don’t know what to do with that emotionally.”

Dick’s laugh turned into a groan as your body clenched around him.

“Don’t laugh,” he said, strained.

“You started this.”

“I did.”

Wally kissed your hand, then your shoulder. “I love you. Obviously. Embarrassingly. To a degree that has made me annoying at multiple gatherings.”

Dick’s mouth brushed yours. “He was already annoying.”

“True, but love gave me range.”

You rolled your hips experimentally.

The joking shattered.

Dick’s head dropped back, throat exposed, a sound leaving him that you felt everywhere. Wally’s hand slid to your stomach, fingers splayed low as if he could feel where Dick was inside you. The pressure made you gasp.

“Okay?” Wally asked quickly.

“Yes. Don’t stop.”

His eyes darkened.

You moved again, slow because the stretch was still intense, because the softness of the moment had turned every sensation sharp. Dick’s hands helped you find a rhythm, careful but firm, his mouth moving over yours whenever you leaned close enough. Wally touched everywhere you let him. Your breasts, your thighs, your hips, the place where your body took Dick again and again. He watched with awe so naked it made you feel worshipped.

“Wally,” you breathed.

“I’m here.”

“Touch me.”

His fingers found your clit, slick and careful.

You cried out, folding forward into Dick. Dick caught you, one arm around your back, his mouth at your throat. Wally adjusted immediately, reading your body with the same attention he brought to everything that mattered. He touched you in slow circles while Dick moved beneath you in shallow thrusts, all three of you caught in a rhythm that felt less like performance and more like discovery.

Pleasure built differently this time. Deeper. Slower. Dick filled you, Wally’s fingers worked you higher, and both of them kept talking to you in broken, reverent fragments that made heat gather low in your belly.

So good.

There you are.

Beautiful.

We’ve got you.

That last one did it.

Your orgasm tore through you hard enough that your vision blurred. Dick held you while you shook, his own control breaking a second later as you clenched around him. He buried his face against your neck with a low, helpless sound and came inside you, his hands gripping your waist like you were the only solid thing in the world.

Wally’s hand slowed but did not leave you until you stopped trembling.

For several seconds, the room was nothing but breath.

Then Wally said, very quietly, “I think my soul left my body, and I wasn’t even the one inside you.”

You laughed into Dick’s shoulder. “You are such an idiot.”

“An emotionally supportive idiot.”

Dick’s laugh was quiet and wrecked. “He’s right.”

You lifted your head and looked at Wally. He was flushed, painfully hard, and trying very earnestly to look patient. It made your heart ache.

“Come here,” you said.

Wally blinked. “You need a minute.”

“I need you.”

His composure did not stand a chance.

Dick’s hands stroked your sides as you lifted off him carefully, both of you shivering at the loss. Wally vanished and was back almost immediately with tissues and a warm cloth, so fast you barely registered the absence before he was kneeling beside you again. The gesture was so tender, so practiced in its thoughtfulness, that you nearly dragged him down and cried into his shoulder.

He cleaned you gently, checking your face the whole time.

“Too much?” he asked.

“No.” Your voice came out soft. “Thank you.”

Wally kissed your knee. “Anytime. I mean, hopefully many times. But also anytime.”

Dick rested back against the pillows, watching you both with an expression that made you want to crawl back to him and never leave. “Wally.”

“Yeah?”

“Slow.”

Wally looked at him, then at you. His throat moved. “Yeah. I know.”

You reached for him. “I trust you.”

His eyes closed for half a second.

When he opened them, some of the frantic brightness had settled into something steadier. He kissed you as he moved over you, and for all his speed, for all his energy, he lowered you back against the mattress like you were something precious. Dick shifted beside you, one hand coming to your hair, his body warm along your side. He was not removed from this, not watching from a distance. He was with you, with Wally, kissing your temple while Wally settled between your thighs.

Wally pressed into you slowly.

Your breath caught at the new stretch, your body sensitive from Dick and still slick with him. Wally froze instantly.

“Okay?”

“Yes.” You touched his face. “Just slow.”

His laugh shook. “I can do slow.”

“I know.”

He eased in with visible effort, inch by careful inch, jaw clenched, arms trembling beside your shoulders. Dick’s fingers stroked through your hair, grounding you as Wally filled you. He was different from Dick, his body hotter, his restraint more visibly fragile. When he was fully inside, Wally dropped his forehead to yours and shuddered.

“Holy shit,” he whispered.

You smiled. “Romantic.”

“I’m sorry. My brain just left my body.”

Dick’s hand slid to the back of Wally’s neck. “Breathe.”

Wally obeyed. The sight of it, the trust in that single word, made you clench around him.

Wally groaned. “That was mean.”

“I didn’t do it on purpose.”

“Do it again on purpose later.”

Dick laughed, then pressed his mouth to your shoulder. “Move when you’re ready.”

It took a moment. Not because you were unsure, but because you wanted to feel it. Wally inside you, Dick beside you, both of them close enough that every movement belonged to all three of you. Then you lifted your hips.

Wally’s restraint nearly cracked at once.

He moved slowly because he had promised, but slow did not mean gentle in the way you had expected. It meant controlled. It meant every drag of him inside you was deliberate, every thrust measured by your breathing, every kiss pressed to your mouth like he was trying to keep himself tethered. His hand found yours and pinned it loosely to the mattress, fingers intertwined. Dick’s mouth moved over your neck, your shoulder, the curve of your breast, his hand returning to your clit when you started to whine with the need for more.

“You can take it,” Dick murmured. “We’ve got you.”

Wally’s rhythm faltered. “You can’t say things like that.”

“She likes it.”

“I know she likes it. I like it. That’s the problem.”

You laughed, but it turned into a moan when Dick’s fingers circled faster. Wally lowered himself more fully over you, careful not to crush you, his breath hot against your mouth.

“I’ve wanted this so long,” he said, the words rough and unguarded. “Wanted you. Wanted us. God, sweetheart, you have no idea.”

“I have some idea now.”

“Not enough.”

His hips snapped forward a little harder, and your eyes rolled shut.

Dick’s hand paused. “Good?”

“Yes. More. Wally, please.”

Wally made a sound that was almost pained. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ve got you.”

He gave you more.

Not too much. Never that. But enough that the bed creaked beneath you, enough that Dick’s hand tightened in Wally’s hair and your nails dug into Wally’s shoulder. Enough that the careful, domestic room turned hot and damp and filled with the sounds of skin, breath, praise, the headboard tapping lightly against the wall with each controlled thrust.

Your third orgasm built too quickly. You tried to warn them, but the words dissolved. Dick understood anyway, because of course he did. Wally did too, because his mouth found yours and he swallowed the broken sound you made when you came around him.

He lasted maybe four seconds after that.

Wally buried himself deep and came with your name on his lips, shaking hard enough that Dick had to steady him with a hand at his back. You held him through it, legs wrapped around his hips, one hand in his hair and the other reaching blindly for Dick.

Dick caught it.

For a while, none of you moved.

Then Wally said into your neck, “I think I saw another dimension.”

Dick, exhausted and fond, said, “That was sex.”

“Agree to disagree.”

You laughed weakly. “Get off me before you crush me, speedster.”

Wally moved so fast he almost fell off the bed. “Sorry. Sorry. Are you okay? Did I—”

You caught his hand. “I’m okay.”

Dick looked at you, checking anyway.

You gave him a tired smile. “I’m okay.”

Only then did both of them relax.

🐦🗝️⚡

Aftercare, you discovered, was where their existing habits became almost unbearable.

Wally vanished and returned with warm cloths, water, one of Dick’s soft shirts, your sleep shorts, and a granola bar he seemed to have grabbed in a panic. Dick sat up enough to help you clean up, his touch careful and unselfconscious. There was nothing awkward in it. Or rather, there was awkwardness, but it did not come from shame. It came from the enormity of the change and the fact that Wally kept trying to do six helpful things at once.

“Stop vibrating,” Dick said.

“I’m not vibrating.”

“You’re making the lamp buzz.”

Wally looked at the lamp. It was, in fact, buzzing faintly.

He put both hands on his knees and inhaled. The buzzing stopped.

“Sorry.”

You reached for him. “Come here.”

He came.

Dick opened the shirt and helped you into it. It was one of Wally’s this time, old and soft, the collar stretched from years of use. Wally tucked the blanket around your legs with the solemn concentration of a man disarming a bomb.

“I can do that,” you said.

“I know.”

“You don’t have to fuss.”

Wally looked at you, startled. “Of course I do.”

Dick’s smile was small and helpless.

You looked between them and felt the truth of the night settle over you, quieter now but no less real. They loved you. They had loved you through laundry and takeout and bad dates and grocery lists. They had loved you in all the ordinary spaces where people usually missed the extraordinary. Sex had not created that. It had only opened the door.

Wally handed you the granola bar.

You stared at it. “Why?”

“Blood sugar.”

“I’m not the speedster.”

“No, but you did just have a very athletic evening.”

Dick closed his eyes. “Wally.”

“What? Accurate.”

You took the granola bar and threw it lightly at his chest. He caught it, grinning.

“Fine,” he said. “Water first.”

You drank because he looked like he needed you to. Then Dick drank. Then Wally finished the bottle and zipped out to refill it before either of you could object.

When he came back, you had settled under the blanket with Wally’s shirt falling soft against your thighs.

Wally paused at the edge of the bed, holding the full water bottle like an offering. “I’m still allowed back in, right?”

Your heart squeezed.

Dick’s expression changed too, something tender and pained moving across his face before he reached out and caught Wally by the wrist.

“You’re ridiculous,” Dick said softly. “Come here.”

Wally came.

He climbed into the bed with exaggerated care, like one wrong movement might disturb whatever fragile new thing had settled between you. You pulled him down by the shoulder until he was stretched out on your other side, warm and solid, his face tucked near your neck. Dick shifted closer behind you, his chest against your back, his hand settling over your waist.

The bed that had always fit three people now seemed to understand the difference before you did. Your body recognized them. The warmth, the weight, the steady presence of them on either side.

Tomorrow would require talking. Not the soft, breathless kind between kisses, but the real kind. Logistics. Boundaries. What changed in public, what stayed private, how to handle the fact that your best friends were also heroes with enemies and you were still the civilian with a key. There would be complications. Jealousy, maybe. Fear, certainly. Dick had enough trauma around love to fill a city. Wally felt things with his whole body and then tried to outrun the consequences. You had your own habits, your own defenses, your own fear of needing too much.

But tonight, you were in the bed you had already come home to a hundred times.

Tonight, Wally’s thumb moved slowly over your hip. Dick’s fingers threaded through yours. The rain finally started outside, tapping softly against the windows.

“I have a question,” Wally said.

You opened one eye. “If it’s about nachos, I’m leaving.”

“It’s not about nachos.”

Dick’s voice was dry. “That’s new.”

Wally ignored him. “What happens with the drawer?”

You frowned sleepily. “What?”

“Your drawer. In Dick’s dresser.” Wally’s expression was earnest enough that you almost believed this was a serious concern. “Does it remain your drawer? Does it expand? Do I get partial drawer custody? Because I would like to formally offer space in my dresser, but full disclosure, one drawer is mostly chargers and mystery cables, and one might have Halloween candy from last year.”

“Last year?” Dick asked.

“It’s sealed.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“I’m prepared.”

You laughed into the pillow. “My drawer stays where it is.”

Wally clutched his chest. “Favoritism.”

“You can have sock custody.”

His eyes lit up. “I do love your socks.”

“You stretch them out.”

“I have long feet.”

“You have normal feet at high velocity.”

Dick looked at you with a warmth so deep it almost hurt. “You know this is our life now.”

You smiled. “Arguing about drawer custody?”

“Among other things.”

Wally’s joking faded just enough. “Good?”

You looked at him, then at Dick. “Good.”

Dick squeezed your hand.

Wally pressed a kiss to your shoulder. “Say the staying thing again.”

Your chest softened.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Wally exhaled against you like the words had given him somewhere to rest.

Dick’s eyes met yours over the top of your shoulder. In the dim light, with rain on the windows and love finally unhidden between you, he looked younger and older than usual. Less like Nightwing. More like the man who had left the lamp on for you. The man who had given you a drawer before he could give himself permission to say why.

Wally’s arm tightened gently around your waist, his thumb still moving in slow circles against your hip. He looked less like the Flash too, less like motion and lightning and impossible speed. More like the man who remembered your cereal, stole your socks, marked dumplings emotionally instead of legally, and asked you to say you were staying because he needed somewhere safe to put the hope.

Your chest ached with it.

You reached for Dick, and he came willingly, easing down until he could kiss you. Wally shifted with you instead of letting go, his hand staying linked with yours as Dick’s settled over both of them, fingers interlocking there against you.

Three bodies. One bed. The city beyond the glass.

For the first time all night, the silence did not ask anything of you.

It only held.

🐦🗝️⚡

You stared at the door.

Your keys were inside. Your phone was inside. Your shoes were inside, which felt personal. You had gone downstairs for one quick laundry run because your phone was charging and your keys were on the kitchen counter and you had, apparently, mistaken yourself for the kind of person who could be trusted with a door.

Across the hall, apartment 4B was quiet.

You looked at it, then away, then back again.

That was the worst part. There was an obvious solution, and it was standing directly across from you in the form of a dark-painted door, an expensive deadbolt, and a plain black doormat that said WELCOME with far too much confidence. Behind that door lived Tim Drake and Conner Kent, your neighbors, your hallway acquaintances, and the source of several months’ worth of increasingly inconvenient thoughts.

Tim kept terrible hours, drank coffee like sleep had personally offended him, and noticed things with the quiet precision of a man who could probably tell you what you had for lunch based on the look on your face. He was careful in a way that made care feel like strategy. He remembered that you hated the elevator’s flickering light, that you did not drink anything with caffeine after five, that you always checked the mailroom twice because the delivery drivers in your building treated package labels like riddles.

Conner, on the other hand, was the kind of man who turned taking out the trash into an event. He was broad-shouldered, unfairly charming, and constantly on the verge of saying something that made your dignity consider moving out. He flirted with you by the mailboxes, in the stairwell, while carrying groceries, while holding the elevator, while barefoot at midnight with a carton of milk in one hand and a grin that suggested he knew exactly what he was doing.

Together, they were a problem.

You had watched Conner lean into Tim’s space and watched Tim pretend not to like it. You had watched Tim hand Conner his keys before Conner asked, watched Conner draw a laugh out of Tim like he was stealing something precious and getting away with it. You had watched them come home bruised at odd hours and learned not to ask questions when Tim’s sleeves were torn, or when Conner’s smile came in late.

You had also spent months doing a very respectable job pretending the tension between the three of you was harmless.

The sock fell the rest of the way onto the carpet.

“Traitor,” you muttered.

Then, before you could talk yourself out of it, you shifted the laundry basket higher against your hip and knocked on 4B.

For a few seconds, nothing happened. Then there was movement inside, soft enough that you would have missed it if you had not been listening too hard. A step. A pause. The small shift of a lock.

Tim opened the door.

He was barefoot, wearing dark sweatpants and a faded gray shirt, his hair damp and pushed back from his forehead in a way that had not survived drying. There was a faint bruise near his collarbone, partly hidden by the stretched neckline of his shirt, and a thin healing cut along his jaw.

His eyes dropped to the laundry basket, then to your socks, then back to your face.

“You’re locked out,” he said.

You hated him a little for getting there first.

“I was going to say hello.”

“You knocked like someone who was either locked out or being chased.”

“Those are weirdly specific categories.”

“You’re holding laundry, and you’re not wearing shoes.” His gaze flicked over you again, quick and clinical until it softened into something closer to concern. “Are you hurt?”

“No. Just embarrassed.”

“That I can’t fix.”

“You could pretend you didn’t notice.”

“I could,” Tim said. “I won’t.”

From somewhere behind him, Conner called, “Is that our favorite neighbor?”

Tim’s eyes stayed on yours. “That depends on how many neighbors you’ve been flirting with.”

“Just the one across the hall.”

Your pulse did something deeply unhelpful.

Conner appeared over Tim’s shoulder a moment later, wearing a black T-shirt and low-slung pajama pants, his hair a mess in a way that looked better than effort had any right to. His grin spread the second he saw you.

“Well,” he said. “This is a nice surprise.”

“It’s not a surprise. It’s a lockout.”

“I didn’t say it was nice for you.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re enjoying this.”

“I’m being supportive.”

“Try harder.”

Conner leaned against the doorframe above Tim’s shoulder, looking entirely too pleased with the universe. “You look very brave.”

Tim sighed, but his mouth twitched. “Ignore him. Come in.”

You glanced between them and the warm light of their apartment. “Just until I can call a locksmith.”

“Obviously,” Conner said.

Tim gave him a look.

Conner widened his eyes. “What? I agreed.”

“You sounded insincere.”

“That’s because I’m hoping the locksmith is terrible and late.”

“Conner.”

“I didn’t say I was going to sabotage anyone.”

You stepped inside before you could smile too obviously.

Their apartment was warmer than the hallway and smelled like coffee, clean cotton, and something metallic you couldn’t place. The living room was tidy without feeling staged: a couch with a blanket thrown over one arm, books on the coffee table, a pair of sneakers kicked half beneath a chair, a laptop closed beside a mug. Near the door sat a tray with keys, sunglasses, a roll of athletic tape, and a compact flashlight. There was also a folded piece of black fabric you very deliberately did not inspect.

Tim noticed you noticing and closed the door.

Conner noticed Tim noticing you noticing and looked delighted.

“Laundry can go there,” Tim said, nodding toward the armchair.

You set the basket down. “Sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize for laundry.”

“I’m bringing chaos into your home.”

Conner glanced around. “You think there wasn’t chaos before you got here?”

Tim went to the kitchen counter and picked up his phone. “Keys?”

“Inside.”

“Phone?”

“Also inside.”

“Shoes?”

You looked down at your socks.

“Right,” Tim said.

“I’m not at my best right now.”

Conner leaned against the back of the couch. “I disagree.”

You refused to look at him too quickly. “Do you flirt with all distressed women, or am I getting special treatment?”

“Special treatment,” Conner said immediately.

Tim unlocked his phone. “He flirts with a lot of people.”

“Betrayal.”

“But this is special treatment.”

You looked at Tim.

He was studying his phone like he had not just said something that had no business sounding intimate.

Conner grinned. “See? Tim’s honest. Terrifying, but honest.”

“I regret knocking.”

“No, you don’t.”

You did not. That was becoming an issue.

Tim called the locksmith with the same smooth efficiency he seemed to bring to everything: apartment number, floor, no pets or children inside, stove off. His eyes flicked to you for confirmation at the stove part, and you nodded quickly because your brain had apparently decided that being locked out was the least dangerous thing happening tonight.

Conner drifted into the kitchen. “Tea?”

“That’s okay.”

“It wasn’t a courtesy offer. You’re standing in our living room looking like your door personally betrayed you.”

“It did.”

“Decaf,” Tim said, phone still at his ear. “She doesn’t drink anything with caffeine this late.”

You blinked.

Conner opened a cabinet and took down three mugs. “He remembers things.”

“I said that once.”

“Three months ago,” Conner said. “Mailroom. You had a cup from the cafe on Sixth and said caffeine after five makes you feel like you’re about to receive a prophecy.”

Tim turned slightly away, but the back of his neck went faintly red.

You stared at Conner. “Why do you remember that?”

His grin softened at the edges. “You were funny.”

“That’s your explanation?”

“Do you want a worse one?”

Tim ended the call before you could answer. “Forty-five minutes if the person before you is quick. Ninety if they’re not.”

“Forty-five minutes isn’t terrible.”

Conner put the kettle on. “Barely enough time to be neighborly.”

“Conner,” Tim said.

“What? I’m devastated by the limited window of hospitality.”

Tim set his phone down and looked at you. “Sit down.”

It should not have sounded like anything. It was practical. Calm. Barely even a command.

Your stomach dipped anyway.

Conner’s eyes narrowed with interest.

You sat.

The couch was softer than it looked, and sinking into it made the apartment feel more intimate than it had a moment ago. Tim came back with a folded blanket and held it out to you.

You stared at it.

His brow creased. “Are you cold?”

“A little.”

“You were trying not to show it.”

“It’s July.”

“The hallway has terrible circulation, and you’re in shorts.”

Conner set a mug on the coffee table. “He does this.”

“Hands people blankets?”

“Acts like knowing you’re cold is the same as knowing the weather.”

Tim still held the blanket out. “Do you want it or not?”

You took it. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

The blanket smelled like them, and that was its own problem.

Conner sat beside you with just enough space to be polite and not enough to be innocent. Tim took the armchair angled toward the couch. For a few minutes, the three of you managed something close to normal conversation. Conner asked how the lockout happened and looked personally delighted when you confessed you had trusted the door not to latch. Tim asked if your landlord kept a spare and looked unsurprised when you said the landlord’s emergency preparedness began and ended with a voicemail inbox no one checked.

Then Conner told you he had once walked into a glass door because he forgot it was closed.

“At speed,” he said.

Tim closed his eyes. “Normal walking speed.”

“Emotionally, I was moving very fast.”

You laughed before you could stop yourself, and Conner looked so pleased that warmth climbed the back of your neck.

This was the problem with them. They were easy together. Worse, they were easy with you. Conner made room for you in the rhythm of his teasing as if you had always belonged there. Tim watched the exchange with a private little curve at his mouth, quiet until he said something dry and perfectly aimed. They didn’t make you feel like an intruder, even when you were sitting in their apartment wearing borrowed warmth and waiting for a locksmith to return you to the life you had accidentally left across the hall.

You looked at the bruise near Tim’s collar again before you could stop yourself.

Tim saw.

Of course he did.

Conner saw Tim seeing.

Of course he did.

“You’re wondering,” Conner said.

You looked down at your tea. “I wasn’t going to ask.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“No,” you admitted. “It’s not.”

Tim leaned forward slightly, mug between his hands. “Later.”

The word landed carefully. Not a dismissal. Not an answer either.

You glanced up. “Later?”

“If you still want to know.”

Something about that made the room feel smaller.

Conner’s knee bumped yours. “For the record, his version of later means he will prepare a twenty-slide slideshow explanation and somehow still make it sound like he’s hiding eighty percent of the facts.”

Tim gave him a look. “Your version of later is telling a story out of order and leaving out the important parts because you got distracted by a dog.”

“It was a very good dog.”

“The dog was irrelevant.”

“The dog was emotionally relevant.”

You smiled into your mug. “I’m starting to understand a lot about how this household functions.”

Conner turned to you. “Please explain it to us when you figure it out.”

Tim’s gaze stayed on your face. “You don’t have to make yourself smaller around us.”

The words came so quietly that for a second you thought you had misheard him.

You lowered the mug. “What?”

“You do it when you think you’re interrupting.” Tim’s eyes were steady. “You fold in on yourself and look for an exit. You’ve done it twice since you walked in.”

Conner’s teasing faded, though his hand remained warm near your knee. “You’re not interrupting.”

“I am literally here because I locked myself out.”

“We invited you in,” Tim said.

“Because you’re nice.”

Conner made a face. “Nice.”

“You object to nice?”

“Nice is what people call you when they don’t want to say anything interesting.”

Tim’s mouth twitched. “He wants you to call him charming.”

“I am charming.”

“You’re fishing.”

“I don’t have to fish. I’m right here.”

You shook your head, but you were smiling. “You’re impossible.”

Conner brightened. “That one I’ll take.”

The laughter faded slower this time. Tim still watched you, careful and intent, and Conner was closer than he had been a few minutes ago. Not touching. Close enough that you knew he was choosing not to.

You felt the shape of the silence before anyone spoke.

It had been there all night, under the jokes and the tea and the easy domestic warmth of their apartment. Maybe it had been there for months. It lived in the way Conner flirted like he was daring you to notice that he only did it this much with you. It lived in the way Tim remembered things that should have been forgettable. It lived in the way they looked at each other and then at you, as if they were having a conversation just beneath the one you could hear.

You set your mug down. “You both keep doing that.”

Tim’s gaze sharpened. “Doing what?”

“Looking at each other.”

Conner leaned back slightly. “We do live together. Looking happens.”

“You know what I mean.”

Tim’s expression became very careful. “Do we?”

That was worse than denial.

You could take it back. You could laugh, blame the lockout, say you were tired and embarrassed and unused to being in their apartment after midnight. Tim would let you. Conner probably would too, though he would find some gentle joke to cover the retreat.

But Conner’s flirtation had never felt careless, and Tim’s attention had never felt accidental.

“You’ve been flirting with me for months,” you said, looking at Conner because he was the easier one to accuse.

His grin returned, smaller and warmer. “Yeah.”

Just like that.

No evasion. No joke. No easy escape.

You looked at Tim. “And you’ve been…”

“Flirting badly?” Conner offered.

Tim ignored him. “Carefully.”

Your breath caught.

Conner’s grin softened into something fond. “That was pretty much my reaction too.”

“Why?” you asked, though you were not entirely sure which one of them you meant.

Conner shifted, turning toward you. “Because you’re gorgeous and funny, and you look at Tim like you’re trying to solve him.”

“I do not.”

“You do. It’s very cute. Doomed, obviously, because he comes with too many footnotes, but cute.”

“I’m right here,” Tim said.

“You’re the footnotes.”

“You said gorgeous first,” you said, because apparently your mouth had decided to make a record of the most dangerous part.

Conner’s eyes warmed. “I did.”

Tim leaned forward, forearms resting on his thighs. “Because you’re kind. Because you pay attention without making a performance of it. Because you asked if I needed help before you asked what happened when you saw blood on my shirt.”

You remembered that night too well: the elevator doors opening after two in the morning, Conner’s arm around Tim’s waist, Tim’s sleeve torn and dark at the cuff. You had asked if they needed help. Tim had said no. Conner had looked like he wanted to say yes.

“You said no,” you said.

“I lied.”

The admission sat between you.

Conner looked down at his hands.

Tim’s voice was quieter when he spoke again. “We like you. Both of us. We’ve been trying not to make that your problem.”

Your fingers tightened in the blanket.

Conner looked back up. “And if it is a problem, we go back to tea, and I make fun of your door until the locksmith gets here.”

“You can’t just say that and then insult my door.”

“I can. I contain multitudes.”

“You absolutely don’t.”

“I contain at least three.”

Tim’s mouth twitched, but his eyes stayed on you. He looked calm, except his hands had gone very still.

You drew in a breath. “I like you too.”

Conner’s face changed.

“Both of you,” you added, because there was no dignified way out now and therefore no point trying to invent one. “Which is probably obvious because you both notice everything.”

Tim’s gaze softened. Conner looked delighted enough to be dangerous.

“You’re not subtle,” Conner said.

“I’m going to leave.”

“You don’t have shoes.”

“You would stop me over shoes?”

“Yes,” Tim and Conner said at the same time.

Then Tim added, “Because of the shoes.”

Conner added, “Sure. Shoes.”

You covered your face with both hands. “This is humiliating.”

Conner moved closer, still not touching you. “It isn’t.”

“It feels like it is.”

“That’s because you’re not used to getting what you want.”

The words landed too precisely, and from Conner of all people, delivered without the grin that usually softened the blow.

You lowered your hands slowly. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Be perceptive. That’s Tim’s thing.”

“I have depths.”

“You have dimples and poor impulse control.”

“You noticed my dimples?”

Tim’s voice was low when he said, “She notices everything she pretends not to want.”

You turned to him.

The room seemed to hold its breath.

“What happens now?” you asked.

Tim stood and crossed to you. Conner stayed beside you, quieter now, watching Tim with a familiarity that made heat curl low in your stomach. Tim crouched in front of the couch, bringing himself level with you.

“That depends on what you want,” he said.

You looked at him, then at Conner. “I want to stop pretending.”

Conner’s breath changed.

Tim’s hand settled on your knee over the blanket, warm and steady. “For tonight?”

You swallowed. “For tonight. Maybe even after.”

Tim’s thumb moved once. “Good.”

Conner made a quiet sound beside you, almost a laugh and almost not. You glanced at him, and he lifted both hands.

“I’m being very patient,” he said.

“You?”

“I know. Growth.”

Tim’s mouth curved faintly. “Can I kiss you?”

It was a simple question. It still rearranged the air in your lungs.

“Yes.”

Tim kissed you carefully at first.

That should have been expected. Tim had been careful all night. Careful with the blanket, careful with the call, careful with the space he gave you to choose. His mouth brushed yours once, light enough to let you change your mind, then again with a little more pressure when you did not pull away. His hand came up to your cheek, his fingers warm along your jaw, and you made a small sound before you could stop yourself.

Conner exhaled beside you.

Tim heard it. You felt the second he did, the brief pause against your mouth, the way his thumb shifted against your cheek.

Then he kissed you deeper.

Your hand lifted to his shirt, fingers curling in the soft fabric. Tim made a quiet sound into your mouth, and Conner muttered something under his breath that sounded like half a curse.

Tim drew back first, though not far. His eyes had gone dark.

Conner’s gaze dropped to your mouth. “My turn?”

You looked at him. “You’re asking?”

“I can be respectful.”

“That keeps surprising me.”

“And you keep wounding me.”

Tim shifted back enough to give Conner room. Conner turned toward you on the couch, one knee folding onto the cushion. His grin was there, but it shook at the edges.

“You nervous?” you asked.

“Don’t sound so happy about it.”

“I’m trying to be supportive.”

Tim said, “You look very brave.”

Conner pointed at him. “That was mean.”

You laughed, and Conner kissed the sound right out of your mouth.

There was nothing careful about Conner’s kiss except the way he held you. His mouth was warm, eager, and smiling for the first second, then hungry when you kissed him back. His hand found your waist, fingers flexing like he had to remind himself not to press too hard. He kissed like he had spent months thinking about it and had decided restraint deserved credit but not loyalty.

Tim rose from the floor.

Conner pulled back just enough to glance at him. “Don’t go far.”

“I wasn’t planning to.”

Tim sat on your other side.

The couch became too small immediately. Tim’s thigh pressed lightly against yours. Conner’s hand stayed at your waist. You were between them with your mouth wet from both of their kisses, the forgotten locksmith somewhere in the city and your laundry cooling in their chair.

Tim touched your chin, turning your face gently back to him. “Still okay?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

The word went through you.

Conner noticed. Of course he did.

“Oh,” he said softly. “That one?”

Your face heated. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Be smug.”

Conner smiled against your shoulder. “I’m not smug. I’m delighted.”

Tim’s eyes searched your face. “You like praise.”

“Maybe.”

Conner laughed, low and pleased. “That means yes.”

Tim kissed you again, and Conner’s mouth found your neck. His lips moved beneath your ear, teasing at first, then more deliberate when you tipped your head without thinking. Tim swallowed your gasp, his hand sliding to the back of your neck.

“There,” Conner murmured against your skin.

Tim’s voice was calm, but there was heat under it now. “You like him talking.”

You opened your eyes.

Tim was watching you.

“You do,” Conner said, delighted. “That is useful information.”

“You’re not supposed to use it against me.”

Conner kissed your neck again. “Sweetheart, we are absolutely going to use it against you.”

Tim’s thumb moved along your jaw. “Only if you want us to.”

You looked at him. “I do.”

Conner’s hand tightened at your waist.

The words changed the room. It had been warm before. Now it was something else, something focused and charged. Tim’s carefulness did not vanish, but it shifted, turning sharper at the edges. Conner’s grin became more intent.

Tim’s gaze flicked toward the door a second before Conner’s head turned.

You blinked. “What?”

“Elevator,” Conner said, irritation flashing across his face. “Fourth floor.”

A knock came a moment later.

Tim’s mouth tightened. “Locksmith.”

Conner stared toward the door like the man had personally wronged him. “I hate being responsible.”

“You’re not responsible,” Tim said. “You’re annoyed.”

“I contain multitudes.”

Tim looked at you. “Stay here. I’ll handle it.”

“You don’t have to pay.”

“I know.”

“Tim.”

“You can argue with me tomorrow.”

Conner leaned toward you as Tim went to the door. “He says that because he knows he’ll win tonight.”

“He will not.”

Conner smiled. “He might.”

Tim opened the door, and his voice shifted into polite efficiency. You heard the locksmith confirm the unit number, then the low murmur of Tim explaining the lockout from the hallway. A minute later, Tim glanced back toward you.

“He needs you to confirm it’s your apartment.”

You stood, setting the blanket aside before Conner could make another comment. “I know. I’m coming.”

Conner followed you only as far as the doorway, leaning against the frame with his arms folded while you crossed the hall. The locksmith was waiting beside your door with a small tool case in one hand and the bored patience of someone who had rescued half the city from its own deadbolts.

“ID inside?” he asked.

“Phone, keys, dignity,” you said. “All inside.”

Conner made a strangled sound behind you.

Tim’s mouth twitched. “Her ID is inside too.”

The locksmith only nodded, apparently unmoved by tragedy. “I’ll get it open, then you can show me.”

It took less than five minutes, which somehow made the whole thing worse. The lock gave with a neat little click, and your apartment opened like it had not caused any trouble at all.

You stepped inside first.

Your phone was exactly where you had left it, charging on the counter beside your keys. Your shoes were by the door. Your laundry basket was still across the hall in Tim and Conner’s living room, because apparently part of your life had already defected to 4B.

You grabbed your phone and keys, showed your ID to the locksmith, and tried not to look too mortified while Tim paid him before you could get a word in.

“Tim,” you said.

He slid his wallet back into his pocket. “Tomorrow.”

“You’re very bossy for someone doing me a favor.”

Conner, still in his doorway, grinned. “She’s learning.”

Then the locksmith left, and the hallway settled into silence. Your apartment stood open behind you. Their apartment stood open across from you. The problem was solved, which should have made leaving simple.

It did not.

You glanced back into their living room, where your laundry basket still sat in the armchair.

“I should grab that,” you said.

Conner picked it up before you could cross the room. “Here.”

“Thank you.”

You took the basket from him, the weight of warm laundry suddenly feeling like the least important thing in the world. Tim said nothing. He only watched you, giving you enough room to choose and making the choice impossible to ignore.

Your fingers tightened around your keys.

“I’m going to put this inside,” you said.

Conner’s expression flickered, though he covered it quickly. “Yeah. Of course.”

Tim nodded. “Okay.”

You looked between them, your pulse beginning to climb again for an entirely different reason. “And then I’m coming back.”

Conner went very still.

Tim’s lips parted slightly, the closest you had ever seen him come to being caught off guard.

You swallowed. “Unless that’s not what you want.”

Conner laughed once, breathless and disbelieving. “Are you kidding?”

Tim stepped closer, stopping just before touching you. “That’s what we want.”

You nodded before your nerve could fail, then stepped back into your apartment with your keys and your laundry basket.

Everything looked exactly as you had left it. Shoes by the door. The kitchen counter empty now except for the charger you had abandoned there. Phone and keys in your hand this time, because apparently you were capable of learning from recent trauma when properly motivated.

You set the basket down in your bedroom without putting anything away because there were limits to how responsible one person could become in a single night. Then you stepped back into the hallway and locked your apartment carefully behind you.

You checked the handle twice.

From across the hall, Conner called, “Proud of you.”

“Shut up.”

His laugh drifted from inside 4B, warm and pleased.

Tim was waiting in the open doorway. He did not lean like Conner would have. He stood with one hand on the door, posture easy only because he was choosing it. His eyes moved over you, slower now, no longer checking for injury or embarrassment.

You lifted your keys slightly. “I brought them this time.”

Tim’s gaze returned to your face. “Good.”

The word was quiet. It still made heat slide through you.

From inside, Conner called, “Was that flirting? Because that sounded like flirting.”

Tim’s mouth twitched. “Come in.”

You stepped inside.

This time, the door closing behind you did not sound like a mistake.

For a moment, nobody moved.

That was the difference, you thought. Before, you had crossed the hall because you needed help. Now your apartment was open, your phone was in your hand, your keys were safely curled in your palm, and there was no practical reason to be standing in Tim and Conner’s living room again.

No practical reason at all.

Conner seemed to understand it at the same time you did. The teasing look on his face softened into something more intent, his gaze dropping briefly to your mouth before lifting again.

Tim closed the door behind you. The sound was quieter than your own door had been earlier, but it still felt final in a way that made your pulse climb.

Conner broke first, because of course he did.

“He thought you were cute with the laundry basket,” Tim said.

“Tim.”

“He did.”

Conner gave him an offended look. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

“I am.”

“You’re exposing me.”

“You were going to expose yourself eventually.”

Conner stopped. “That was either very innocent or very dirty.”

Tim walked past him. “Yes.”

You laughed, and Conner looked at you like the sound was a reward. It eased the tension without getting rid of it. If anything, it made the room feel warmer, because now the joke was not covering uncertainty. It was circling something all three of you had already chosen not to step away from.

Tim stopped in front of you. “Still okay?”

“Yes.”

“Tell us if that changes.”

“I will.”

Conner came up behind Tim, close but not crowding. His gaze stayed on you, but his hand slid around Tim’s waist like it belonged there.

“Can I kiss you again?” he asked.

Your pulse climbed. “Yes.”

Conner’s smile softened for half a second before it sharpened into something worse. “Good.”

Tim glanced over his shoulder. “You’re being patient.”

“I’m showing off.”

“For her?”

Conner’s eyes flicked back to you. “Obviously.”

Your breath caught.

Tim did not move away when Conner stepped closer. If anything, he leaned back by barely a fraction, just enough for you to see it.

Conner noticed. So did you.

“You’re helping,” Conner murmured.

Tim’s gaze stayed on you. “Maybe.”

Conner smiled slowly and pressed his mouth to Tim’s shoulder, his eyes still on you. “You like that?”

“Yes,” you said, because there was no point pretending now.

Tim’s pupils darkened.

Conner’s smile sharpened. “Come here.”

You did.

Conner caught your hand and tugged you in, careful despite his obvious strength. Tim’s hand settled at your back as soon as you were close enough, and then you were between them, Conner in front of you and Tim behind you, the heat of both their bodies making the apartment feel suddenly too warm.

Conner bent his head and kissed you.

This time, the kiss knew you had chosen to come back. His mouth opened against yours almost immediately, his hand sliding into your hair, his other arm wrapping around your waist. Behind you, Tim’s palm moved slowly up your spine and down again, his touch firm enough that you felt guided rather than merely held.

Conner pulled back just enough to speak against your mouth. “You came back.”

“Yes.”

“No lockout. No excuse.”

Your breath caught.

His grin softened for half a second before turning dangerous again. “Just you.”

The words hit harder than they should have, because there was nothing accidental left to hide behind now.

Tim’s hand pressed flat against your back, his voice low near your ear. “Good girl.”

You went still.

Conner’s grin vanished, his eyes searching your face. “Too much?”

Your face burned. “No.”

Tim’s voice was near your ear. “You liked that.”

You closed your eyes. “Maybe.”

Conner laughed softly. “Still means yes.”

“You’re enjoying this too much.”

“I have been flirting with you for months. I earned this.”

Tim’s mouth brushed your shoulder. “We can use that?”

You nodded, then remembered his insistence earlier. “Yes.”

Conner’s voice roughened. “Fuck, sweetheart.”

Tim’s hand slid from your back to your hip. “And that?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

The word sank under your skin, warm and devastating. Conner watched it happen like he had discovered a new favorite thing.

“You two are going to kill me,” you said.

Conner smiled. “Probably not. Tim would get stressed about the paperwork.”

Tim bit lightly at your neck.

You gasped, and Conner’s smile turned triumphant.

“Careful,” Conner murmured, though he sounded anything but sorry. “You’re going to make him forget he’s pretending to be patient.”

Tim’s hand tightened at your hip. “You talk too much.”

“You love my mouth.”

“I do.”

Conner’s grin softened for half a second before turning wicked again. “Want to show her?”

Tim went still behind you.

Your heart kicked.

Conner’s gaze stayed on Tim, but his hand came up to cup your cheek. “Only if she wants.”

Tim’s mouth hovered near your ear. “Do you?”

You wanted to see them kiss properly, wanted it so badly that embarrassment felt pointless. You wanted to see the proof of them together while standing between them, not outside it.

“Yes,” you said.

Conner’s eyes flicked to yours. “Yeah?”

“Please.”

That changed him too.

Conner leaned past you, and Tim met him halfway.

Watching them kiss from inches away was different from imagining it. Conner’s hand remained on your face while his mouth found Tim’s, and Tim’s arm stayed around your waist. You felt the shift in Tim’s body when Conner opened his mouth against his. You heard Conner’s low hum of satisfaction. You saw Tim’s hand come up to Conner’s jaw, holding him still while the kiss turned slower and deeper.

It made your knees weak.

Conner pulled away first, breathing harder. His thumb moved over your cheek.

“Still watching?”

“Yes.”

Tim’s hand slid lower on your hip. “Bedroom.”

The single word emptied your head.

Conner’s grin returned, but his eyes were dark. “Still with us?”

“Yes.”

Tim’s voice was lower when he said, “Say it clearly.”

You looked at him over your shoulder. “I want you to take me to bed.”

Conner’s hand tightened.

“Both of you,” you added.

Tim kissed the side of your neck once, almost gentle. “Then come with us.”

Their bedroom was down a short hallway, past a bathroom with an open door and a glimpse of more first-aid supplies than any normal household needed.

You noticed. Tim noticed you noticing.

Neither of you said anything this time.

Conner pushed the bedroom door open with his shoulder. “For the record, this is going much better than the lockout.”

“Conner,” Tim said.

“What? Important context.”

You laughed, nerves loosening, and let them pull you into the room.

The bedroom was neater than you expected, but not impersonal. That surprised you more than it should have. A large bed sat against the far wall, dark sheets rumpled, two pillows clearly in use and a third half-buried near the headboard. A chair in the corner held a hoodie. One nightstand had a closed laptop and a glass of water. The other held a small ceramic dish with rings, loose change, and something that looked suspiciously like a lockpick.

You did not comment.

Conner noticed anyway. “You’re very polite.”

“I have survival instincts.”

Tim closed the door. “Debatable. You knocked on our door.”

“You invited me in.”

“Also debatable judgment.”

Conner turned to face you, walking backward toward the bed. “Hear that? He’s flirting again.”

“I’m starting to recognize the signs.”

Tim’s eyes stayed on you. “Good.”

The room warmed around that word.

Conner sat on the edge of the bed and tugged you gently between his knees. His hands settled on your hips, fingers slipping beneath the hem of your shirt just enough to touch bare skin. He looked up at you with all that smug confidence softened by want.

“Can I take this off?” he asked.

You looked at Tim.

He stood a few feet away, watching you with that impossible attention. “You can look at me if you need to,” he said. “But answer him.”

Your pulse stumbled.

“Yes,” you said, looking back at Conner. “You can.”

Conner smiled. “Thank you.”

He pulled your shirt up slowly, giving you time to lift your arms before he tossed it aside. The cool air made you suddenly aware that you had not planned any of this. Your bra was plain. Your shorts were soft and ordinary. You were standing in their bedroom dressed for an accidental night, not a seduction.

Conner’s hands tightened gently at your waist. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Try to disappear.”

Tim moved behind you, his hands settling on your shoulders. “You’re beautiful.”

You believed he meant it, which made it worse.

Conner kissed your stomach just above the waistband of your shorts. “So beautiful.”

Your hand found his hair before you could stop yourself. Conner’s eyes fluttered for a second, and his smile turned pleased.

“Yeah,” he said. “You can do that.”

You threaded your fingers deeper into his hair and tugged lightly.

Conner’s mouth parted.

Tim’s hand slid down your arm. “He likes that.”

Conner looked past you. “Whose side are you on?”

“Hers.”

Heat twisted low in your belly.

Tim’s fingers found the waistband of your shorts. “Can I?”

“Yes.”

He pushed them down slowly, his knuckles brushing your hips as he went. You stepped out of them, one hand on Conner’s shoulder, Tim’s body warm behind you. Conner kissed your thigh, then your hip, then looked up at you with his hands still at your waist.

“You have no idea how many times I thought about this,” Conner said.

“Conner,” Tim said, though his voice had roughened.

“What? She should know.”

You looked down at him. “You thought about undressing me?”

Conner’s grin flashed. “Among other things.”

Your face heated. Tim’s mouth brushed your shoulder.

“He likes making you flustered,” Tim said.

“I noticed.”

“You get mean when you’re flustered,” Conner said. “I like it.”

“You would.”

“Absolutely.”

Tim’s hands moved to the clasp of your bra. “Can I?”

You nodded. “Yes.”

He opened it with one hand because apparently he believed in efficiency as a personal attack. Conner saw your expression and laughed.

“I know,” he said. “It’s annoying.”

Tim slid the straps down your arms and removed the bra. Conner’s gaze dropped, and his amusement faded into open hunger. The sudden silence from him felt better than a compliment.

Tim’s voice was low by your ear. “Still okay?”

“Yes.”

“Good girl.”

Your breath caught.

Conner’s eyes brightened. “Oh, she really likes that.”

“Stop talking like I’m not here.”

Conner kissed your stomach again. “I’m talking because you are here.”

Tim’s hands settled at your hips. “On the bed.”

Conner shifted back, giving you room. You climbed onto the mattress with less grace than you would have preferred, and Conner followed, stretching out beside you on one elbow. Tim stayed standing for a moment, eyes moving over you with quiet intensity.

“You still have too many clothes on,” you said, because if you did not say something, you were going to combust.

Conner made an approving sound. “Good point.”

Tim pulled his shirt off.

He did not make a show of it. That made it worse. The fabric went over his head, his hair fell messier afterward, and then he was bare from the waist up, lean muscle, pale scars, and fading bruises visible in the low light. Some were ordinary enough. Some were not.

Your eyes moved over them before you could stop yourself.

Tim let you look.

“Later,” he said again, softer this time.

“I’m holding you to that.”

Conner grinned. “She’s bossy.”

Tim’s gaze returned to your face. “I noticed.”

Conner pulled his own shirt over his head and tossed it aside, and whatever clever reply you had been preparing disappeared. You had known he was built. It had been hard not to know. Seeing him shirtless still felt unfair.

Conner leaned back on his hands. “Hi.”

“Shut up.”

His grin widened. “You’re staring.”

“You have a terrible personality. I’m balancing the scales.”

Tim huffed a laugh. Conner looked deeply pleased with both of you.

You sat up on your knees between them, pulse thudding hard. The plan of the moment seemed to form only when your eyes dropped to Conner’s waistband, then Tim’s. Want moved through you, not neat or patient, but eager enough to make you brave.

“I want to touch you,” you said.

Conner’s expression sharpened.

Tim’s eyes darkened. “Both of us?”

“Yes.”

Conner’s grin returned, though there was strain beneath it now. “That sounded promising.”

You looked at Tim. “Is that okay?”

Tim stepped closer to the bed. “You don’t need permission to want.”

Conner’s voice dropped. “But you have it.”

The heat of that settled low in your body.

Tim sat against the headboard, and Conner stretched out beside him, both of them facing you with an attention that made your skin feel too sensitive. You moved between them, kneeling, and reached for Conner first because he was looking at you like he might die if you did not.

“Impatient,” you murmured.

Conner laughed, but it came out rough. “I have been patient for months.”

Tim said, “He has not.”

“I have been patient by my standards.”

“That’s fair,” Tim allowed.

You tugged at Conner’s pajama pants. “Can I?”

“Yes.”

Conner lifted his hips, helping you push the fabric down. He was not wearing anything beneath them, which made your breath catch. He noticed, of course. He was Conner.

“Convenient, right?”

“You planned this?”

“I didn’t plan for you to get locked out. I did hope.”

“You hoped I’d get locked out?”

“I hoped you’d knock.”

Tim’s voice softened. “Conner.”

Conner’s smugness faltered into something honest. “What? I did.”

Your chest tightened.

You wrapped your hand around him before the moment could become too tender to survive. Conner groaned immediately, head falling back against the pillows. The sound gave you courage. He was hot and hard in your hand, heavier than you expected, his hips lifting slightly into your touch.

Tim watched the movement with dark, focused eyes.

“Like this,” he murmured, reaching over to cover your hand with his.

Conner swore.

Tim guided your grip, adjusting the pressure, the pace, the small twist of your wrist that made Conner’s thighs tense. It was obscene and intimate, Tim teaching you Conner’s body with quiet confidence while Conner tried and failed to look anything but wrecked.

“You look good like that,” Conner said, voice strained.

“Touching you?”

“With Tim showing you how.”

Your breath caught.

Tim’s fingers tightened over yours. “You like that?”

“Yes.”

Conner made a rough sound. “Fuck.”

You leaned down and kissed the head of Conner’s cock, tentative at first. He went still beneath you.

Tim’s hand left yours and moved to the back of Conner’s neck, fingers slipping into his hair. “Breathe.”

Conner laughed unevenly. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“No, I don’t.”

You took Conner into your mouth.

His hand fisted in the sheets. Tim’s fingers tightened in his hair, and Conner groaned, low and broken, as you worked him slowly. You were careful at first, learning what made his breathing change, what made his hips twitch, what made his hand lift toward your hair and stop because he was trying very hard not to push.

You pulled back enough to look up at him. “You can touch me.”

Conner’s eyes were dark. “Yeah?”

You nodded.

His hand slid into your hair gently, cradling rather than guiding. For all his flirting, all his smugness, there was something almost reverent in the way he touched you now. It made your stomach flutter.

Tim watched you both. “Good girl.”

You hummed around Conner without meaning to.

Conner’s hips jerked. “Jesus.”

Tim’s mouth curved faintly. “She likes hearing it.”

“I noticed,” Conner breathed.

You drew back, heat in your face. “You’re both impossible.”

Conner’s grin was dazed. “And yet you came back.”

“You’re never going to let that go, are you?”

“No,” Conner said. “Best mistake you ever made.”

Tim’s hand moved from Conner’s hair to your cheek, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth. “Do you want me too?”

Your eyes dropped to his sweatpants.

“Yes.”

Conner exhaled hard. “Yeah, she does.”

Tim’s gaze stayed on you. “Come here, then.”

You shifted toward him, and Conner moved behind you, his chest warm against your back as if he could not stand to be far. Tim pushed his sweatpants down, and the sight of him hard and flushed made your mouth go dry.

Tim was quiet where Conner was shameless, but his restraint had cracks in it now. You could see them in the tension of his jaw, the way his fingers curled against the sheets, the intensity in his eyes as you wrapped your hand around him.

He inhaled sharply.

Conner kissed your shoulder from behind. “There.”

Tim’s eyes flicked to him.

Conner smiled against your skin. “Let her hear you.”

Tim looked back at you, then exhaled slowly. When you stroked him again, he let the groan out.

The sound went straight through you.

You leaned down and took him into your mouth.

Tim’s hand came to your hair, careful at first, barely resting there. Conner stayed behind you, one arm around your waist, his mouth moving lazily along your shoulder while you worked Tim with your mouth and hand. The contrast between them was dizzying. Conner was warm and restless against your back, still hard, still wanting. Tim was taut beneath your hands, controlled and quiet until you did something right and his breath caught.

“That’s it,” Tim said, voice low. “Just like that.”

Conner’s hand slid over your stomach. “You look so pretty with your mouth full.”

The words made you clench around nothing.

Conner felt the change because his hand was low enough to catch the movement of your body.

“Oh,” he murmured. “You liked that.”

Tim’s fingers tightened gently in your hair. “She likes you talking.”

Conner’s grin pressed against your shoulder. “I can do that.”

You moaned around Tim, and his hips shifted before he forced himself still.

“Careful,” Conner said softly, and there was no tease in it this time.

“I am.”

“I know.”

The trust in those two words made something inside you ache.

Tim stroked your cheek with his thumb. “Tap my thigh if you need a break.”

You did not need one yet, but you touched his thigh once to show you understood. His expression softened for a second.

“Good.”

Conner’s hand dipped lower, slipping beneath the waistband of your underwear. You startled around Tim, and he groaned, his head falling back for a moment.

Conner’s fingers found you wet.

“Tim,” Conner said, rough with delight. “She’s soaked.”

You pulled off Tim with a gasp. “Conner.”

“What?” His fingers moved slowly, teasing. “You are.”

Tim’s eyes dropped to where Conner’s hand disappeared between your thighs. “Because she likes being watched.”

Your face heated.

Conner circled your clit lightly, and your breath broke. “And praised.”

Tim’s hand slid along your jaw. “And told what to do.”

You looked up at him, helpless.

Tim’s control thinned into something darker. “Open your mouth.”

You did.

He guided himself back between your lips, slow enough to let you adjust, his eyes never leaving yours. Conner’s fingers kept moving between your thighs, gentle but devastating, while Tim fucked your mouth in shallow, controlled thrusts that made your head spin.

It was not rough yet. It was more restraint than force, Tim testing your limits while Conner touched you through it. Your body responded as if it had been waiting for exactly this: Conner’s fingers, Tim’s cock on your tongue, both of their voices low and focused around you.

“Good girl,” Conner murmured. “Taking him so well.”

Tim’s breath hitched. “Conner.”

“What? She is.”

You moaned around Tim again, and his hand tightened in your hair.

“Tap if you need me to stop,” he said, voice strained.

You touched his thigh once again, not a stop. An answer.

Tim understood. His eyes darkened further.

“Good.”

Conner’s fingers slowed, then withdrew, and you made a sound of complaint that came out muffled around Tim.

Conner laughed softly. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. We’re going to take care of you.”

Tim pulled out of your mouth slowly, his thumb brushing your lower lip. Your jaw ached pleasantly, your breath uneven, your whole body warm and wanting.

Conner’s arms wrapped around your waist, and he pulled you back against him. “Our turn.”

You blinked. “Your turn?”

Conner kissed your neck. “We got your mouth. You get ours.”

Tim’s gaze dragged over you. “On your back.”

Your body obeyed before you could overthink it.

You lay back against the pillows while Conner pulled your underwear down your legs and tossed it aside. Tim moved to one side of you, Conner to the other, both of them looking down at you with expressions that made your thighs press together.

Conner caught the motion and grinned. “Shy now?”

“You’re both staring.”

“Yeah,” Conner said. “We’re going to keep doing that.”

Tim’s hand settled on your knee. “Open your legs.”

You did, slowly.

Conner made a low appreciative sound that nearly made you close them again. Tim’s grip tightened just enough to stop you.

“Don’t hide,” Tim said.

The command was quiet, but it sank deep.

Conner kissed the inside of your thigh, his mouth warm and teasing. “He says that because he wants to look too.”

Tim’s eyes flicked to him. “Conner.”

“You do.”

“Yes,” Tim said, and the honesty made your stomach clench.

Conner looked delighted by Tim’s lack of denial. Then he bent and licked into you without warning.

Your back arched.

Tim’s hand pressed to your hip, steadying you. Conner ate you out like he had been waiting all night to prove a point, messy and eager, his hands hooked beneath your thighs. He made soft pleased sounds against you every time you reacted, like your gasps were encouraging him. You grabbed at the sheets, then at Tim’s wrist, and Tim let you hold on.

Conner lifted his head just enough to look at you. “You taste so good.”

You made a sound that was barely words.

Tim’s thumb stroked your hip. “She likes when you tell her.”

Conner smiled. “I know.”

Then he put his mouth back on you.

Tim leaned down and kissed you while Conner worked between your thighs. The kiss was slower than Conner’s mouth, deep and steady, giving you somewhere to put the sounds you could not hold back. Conner’s tongue moved over your clit, then lower, then back again, learning quickly, greedy when your thighs trembled around his shoulders.

You broke the kiss. “Conner.”

He hummed against you.

Tim’s hand slid into your hair. “What do you need?”

“I don’t know.”

Conner lifted his head, lips wet, eyes bright. “You need more?”

“Yes.”

Tim looked at Conner. “Move.”

Conner’s brows rose. “Bossy.”

“You like it.”

Conner grinned and shifted aside. “Yeah, I do.”

Tim moved between your thighs, and the change in him was immediate. Where Conner had been hungry and teasing, Tim was precise. His hands held your hips, his mouth lowered to you, and the first slow stroke of his tongue made you gasp so hard Conner laughed near your shoulder.

“Oh, he found it.”

Tim’s eyes flicked up.

Conner kissed your breast, smiling against your skin. “I’m complimenting you.”

Tim’s tongue moved again, exact and merciless.

Your hand flew to his hair. Tim groaned against you, and the vibration nearly broke you. Conner’s mouth closed over your nipple, his hand kneading your breast while Tim ate you out with controlled, devastating focus.

“Tim,” you gasped.

Conner lifted his head. “Yeah, sweetheart. He’s good, isn’t he?”

You nodded desperately.

Tim’s fingers pressed into your thigh, holding you open when you started to shake. Conner kissed up your chest, your neck, your jaw, then caught your mouth in a messy kiss as Tim pushed two fingers into you.

You cried out against Conner’s mouth.

Conner smiled against your lips, voice rough with approval. “That’s it. Come on. Let Tim have it.”

Tim curled his fingers.

The orgasm hit hard enough to blank your thoughts. Your hips bucked into Tim’s mouth, your fingers tightening in his hair while Conner kissed you through it, murmuring praise against your lips. Tim didn’t stop until you were shaking and oversensitive, his mouth gentling only when you tugged at his hair and whimpered.

He kissed your thigh once before lifting his head.

Conner looked at him, eyes dark. “That was unfairly hot.”

Tim wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, gaze fixed on you. “She’s not done.”

Your body, traitorous and desperate, tightened at the words.

Conner saw. His grin spread slowly. “No, she’s not.”

You tried to catch your breath. “I might be.”

Tim moved up your body, kissing your stomach, then your sternum, then your mouth. You tasted yourself on him and moaned, too overwhelmed to be embarrassed.

“You’re not done,” Tim said against your lips. “But you can be if you want.”

Conner’s hand moved soothingly over your thigh. “Your call.”

You looked between them. Conner’s face was flushed, his mouth swollen, his smugness tempered by want. Tim’s eyes were dark and steady, his control frayed just enough to show you what waited beneath it.

“I’m not done,” you said.

Conner exhaled. “Thank God.”

Tim’s mouth curved faintly. “How do you want us?”

The question made your stomach flip.

You knew what you wanted, or at least the shape of it. It had been forming since the couch, since Conner’s mouth and Tim’s hands and the unbearable way they looked at each other before looking back at you. Saying it out loud still felt like stepping off a ledge.

“I want Conner inside me,” you said, voice quieter than you meant it to be.

Conner went still.

Tim’s eyes sharpened. “And me?”

Your face burned, but you held his gaze. “I want you in my mouth.”

Conner cursed under his breath.

Tim’s hand came to your jaw, thumb brushing gently along the hinge. “At the same time?”

Your pulse kicked hard.

You had thought about it. You had wanted it. That did not make it any less intimidating when Tim said it plainly, careful and controlled and watching for the first sign that wanting had become too much.

“Yes. Please,” you said.

Conner’s hand moved over your thigh, warm and grounding. “We don’t have to.”

“I know.”

Tim’s thumb stilled against your jaw. “Have you done anything like that before?”

You shook your head.

His expression did not change, but the focus in his eyes sharpened. “Then we go slow.”

Conner nodded immediately. “Really slow.”

“I don’t want you to stop,” you said, embarrassed by how quickly it came out.

Conner’s mouth parted, his hand tightening on your thigh. “Fuck.”

Tim’s gaze dropped to your lips, then returned to your eyes. “Stopping and going slow aren’t the same thing. We’ll need a signal.”

That made your stomach twist.

Conner reached for the condom, tearing the packet open with less teasing than you expected from him. His hands were steady when he rolled it on, but his breathing was not. Tim watched him, then watched you watching Conner, and something silent passed between them before Conner moved behind you.

One hand settled at your hip. The other slid down your spine, warm and steady, guiding you onto your hands and knees.

The position made your pulse jump before Conner was even inside you. Tim was in front of you now, kneeling near the edge of the mattress with his hand at your jaw and his eyes fixed on your face.

“Still okay?” Conner asked, his voice lower than before.

“Yes.”

Tim’s thumb brushed the corner of your mouth. “Tap my thigh twice if you need me to stop. If you can’t reach me, tap the mattress. Conner will see.”

Conner’s hand tightened at your hip. “I’ll see.”

You nodded, throat already tight with nerves and want.

“Once means okay,” Tim said. “Twice means stop. If I’m not sure, I stop.”

“Okay.”

Conner leaned over you, pressing a kiss between your shoulder blades. “We’ve got you.”

Then he pushed into you slowly.

The stretch made your breath catch. Conner leaned over your back for a moment, his breath rough against your shoulder as he eased in inch by inch. He was thick, and you were already sensitive, but the ache of it was good, deep and full and made gentler by the way he held himself back.

“That’s it,” Conner breathed. “You’re doing so good, baby.”

Tim’s hand stroked your hair. “Breathe.”

You did, shakily.

Conner bottomed out with a low groan, his hips pressed to yours, his body trembling with restraint. “Fuck, sweetheart.”

You reached for Tim’s thigh with one hand and touched once.

Tim’s eyes darkened, understanding. “Okay?”

“Yes.”

Conner’s hand moved over your hip. “You ready?”

“Yes.”

He began to move.

At first, Conner’s thrusts were slow and deep, one hand sliding up your spine. He made soft sounds every time you tightened around him, his hands braced on either side of you. Tim stayed near your head, fingers moving gently through your hair, letting you adjust to Conner before asking for more.

The tenderness of it nearly undid you.

Then Conner found the angle that made pleasure spark hot through your spine, and your hand tightened on Tim’s thigh.

Conner’s grip tightened at your hips. “There?”

“Yes.”

He did it again.

You gasped, and Tim’s hand paused in your hair.

“Ready for me?” Tim asked.

You looked up at him, Conner still moving inside you. “Yes.”

Tim shifted closer, one hand wrapping around himself. His other hand cupped your jaw, thumb brushing your lower lip.

“Open.”

You did.

He guided himself into your mouth slowly, the first slide of him over your tongue making Conner groan above you. Tim watched your face, controlled and intent, feeding you only as much as you could take. Conner’s rhythm slowed as if he was trying not to overwhelm you all at once.

Tim pulled back. “Good?”

You tapped his thigh once.

His expression softened for half a second. “Good girl.”

Conner’s hips stuttered. “Tim.”

Tim’s mouth curved faintly. “You like watching too.”

Conner laughed breathlessly. “Yeah. I really fucking do.”

Tim slid back into your mouth.

This time, he went deeper. You relaxed your throat as much as you could, eyes watering a little as he pressed forward. Conner bent over you just enough for his voice to reach your ear, murmuring praise while his hips rocked into you with slow, grinding thrusts.

“There you go,” Conner said. “Taking both of us so well.”

Tim’s hand held your jaw, gentle but firm. “Tap if you need to.”

You touched once again.

His control shifted.

The next thrust into your mouth was deeper, still careful, but with more force behind it. Conner felt your body tighten around him and groaned, his own rhythm picking up. You were full in every possible way, Conner stretching you open while Tim fucked your mouth, both of them close enough to touch, close enough to speak over you and around you.

“That’s it,” Tim said, voice rough. “Breathe through your nose.”

You tried, and he slowed when you needed it, then pushed deeper when you tapped once again. Your eyes watered. Your jaw ached. Pleasure pooled hot and heavy between your legs, sharpened by Conner’s cock inside you and the sight of Tim’s control cracking every time your throat tightened around him.

Conner’s hand slid between your bodies, finding your clit.

You moaned around Tim.

Tim groaned, his hips jerking before he caught himself. “Conner.”

“She liked it.”

“I noticed.”

Conner circled your clit again, slower this time, then faster when your thighs trembled around his hips. “You’re close, aren’t you?”

You could not answer, but your body did it for you.

Tim drew back enough for you to breathe. Saliva connected your mouth to him for a second before it broke, and the sight made Conner swear softly.

“Say it,” Tim said.

“I’m close,” you gasped.

Conner’s fingers kept moving. “Good. Come on my cock while Tim fucks your throat, sweetheart.”

Your elbows nearly softened beneath you.

Tim’s hand returned to your jaw, thumb brushing the hinge like he was reminding you he was still watching. “Do you want that?”

You nodded as much as his touch allowed, breath catching when Conner pushed deep again.

“Words first,” Tim said.

“Yes,” you managed. “I want it.”

His thumb brushed your cheek, almost tender. “Good.”

Then he pushed back into your mouth.

The rhythm changed. Conner fucked you harder now, his hips snapping into yours with enough force to move you up the bed if Tim’s hands had not held your head steady. Tim’s thrusts into your mouth stayed controlled but rougher, deeper, turning your breathing into something broken and wet. Conner’s fingers worked your clit, and his voice came low and wrecked above you.

“Fuck, look at you. You wanted this, didn’t you? Wanted both of us using you like this.”

Tim’s hand tightened in your hair. “Conner.”

“She did.”

Tim’s voice went dark. “Yes. She did.”

The agreement shattered something in you.

Your orgasm hit while Tim was still in your mouth, the sound of it muffled around him as your body clenched hard around Conner. Conner groaned, hips faltering, his hand still working you through it. Tim pulled out just enough to let you gasp, then pressed back in when you tapped once, your own permission eager and trembling beneath his hand.

“Good girl,” Tim said, rough and breathless. “Just like that.”

Conner’s hand slid up your spine, warm and possessive, while he fucked into you from behind. “Fuck, you feel so good.”

He lasted only a few more thrusts. His grip tightened on your hips, his rhythm breaking as he came with a rough, broken sound behind you. He stayed buried inside you through it, body trembling with the effort of holding himself up, one hand sliding up your spine like he needed somewhere to put all of it.

Tim pulled out of your mouth slowly.

You gasped for air, dazed and oversensitive, your arms shaking beneath you. Conner’s hand moved over your back, warm and grounding, while Tim’s thumb brushed the corner of your mouth.

“You okay?” Tim asked, voice rough.

You nodded, then tapped his thigh once.

Tim’s eyes closed for a second. “Can I?”

Your voice was hoarse. “Yes.”

Conner was still behind you, catching his breath, his hand firm at your hip. “Where?”

Tim looked at you.

You reached for him with a shaky hand. “Mouth.”

Conner made a low sound. Tim’s jaw tightened.

He moved carefully, giving you time to take him again, one hand cupping your cheek while the other settled at the back of your head. He was close. You could tell from the tension in his body, the rough edge of his breathing, the way his control had gone thin and frayed.

“Let go,” Conner said softly from behind you.

Tim looked past you at him, then down at you.

You hollowed your cheeks and took him as deep as you could.

Tim came with a low, broken sound, his hand tightening in your hair before he forced it loose. You swallowed what he gave you, eyes watering, body still trembling around Conner’s softening cock. Tim withdrew slowly, thumb brushing your lower lip as he looked at you with something too tender to be only lust.

For a moment, nobody moved.

Then Conner said, hoarse and awed, “Best lockout in human history.”

You laughed, though it came out weak and breathless.

Tim closed his eyes. “Conner.”

“What? I’m right.”

“You usually are after you stop talking.”

Conner kissed your shoulder. “That felt affectionate.”

“It was.”

You smiled, exhausted and overwhelmed, as Conner carefully pulled out and Tim moved immediately to help. There was no awkward scramble, no sudden distance. Conner disposed of the condom while Tim returned with a damp cloth and a glass of water. He cleaned you gently, his hand steady, his expression focused in that practical way that somehow made care feel more intimate than anything else.

“Too rough?” he asked quietly.

You shook your head, then remembered. “No. It was good.”

His eyes searched yours. “Your throat?”

“A little sore. Good sore.”

Conner came back to the bed and sat beside you, brushing your hair away from your face. “You’ll tell us if that changes?”

“Yes.”

Tim handed you water. “Drink.”

You took the glass and obeyed, because the alternative was admitting how much you liked that tone. Conner noticed anyway and grinned.

“Don’t,” you warned.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were going to.”

“I’m showing restraint.”

Tim sat on your other side. “He finds it difficult.”

“I am a model of restraint.”

“You came the second she did.”

Conner pointed at him. “That was private.”

“I was there,” you said.

Conner looked at you, wounded. “You too?”

You laughed again, and some of the intensity broke into warmth.

Aftercare with them felt strangely natural. Tim checked in too much, but not in a way that made you feel fragile. Conner joked, but his hands stayed gentle when he helped tug the blanket over you. Tim brought another glass of water. Conner found your shirt, then decided his was closer and softer, and helped you into it with such a pleased expression that you did not bother arguing.

The shirt hung loose on you and smelled like him.

Tim’s eyes moved over you when you settled back against the pillows.

Conner saw. “Yeah?”

Tim’s mouth curved faintly. “Yeah.”

You tucked your face briefly into Conner’s shoulder. “You’re both staring again.”

Conner kissed the top of your head. “We’re enjoying the view.”

Tim’s hand found yours beneath the blanket. “Regrets?”

“No.”

Conner’s answer came immediately. “Absolutely not.”

Tim glanced at him. “I asked her.”

“I answered for myself with enthusiasm.”

You squeezed Tim’s hand. “No regrets.”

His fingers tightened around yours.

The quiet that followed was different from the earlier silences. Softer. Sleepier. Your body felt heavy and used in the best way, your throat still tender, your thighs pleasantly sore. Conner was warm against one side of you, Tim steady against the other, and the room felt less like a place you had entered by accident than a place that had been waiting.

“My laundry is still in the basket,” you said eventually.

Conner hummed against your shoulder. “Tragic.”

“In my apartment,” you added. “Where it belongs.”

“That part is less tragic.”

Tim said, “We can fold it in the morning.”

You turned your head. “That sounds suspiciously like you offering to help.”

“He likes folding laundry,” Conner said.

“I like things put away correctly.”

“That is not the same thing.”

“It’s close enough.”

“You came back,” Conner said, smiling against your skin. “With keys this time.”

“I did.”

“Proud of you.”

“Do not make this a thing.”

“It’s already a thing.”

Tim’s mouth curved faintly. “It is a little bit a thing.”

You groaned, but it came out too soft to be convincing.

Tim’s thumb stroked over your hand again. “You can stay tonight.”

The offer was careful enough that it almost hid the vulnerability beneath it.

You looked at him. “Is that what you want?”

“Yes,” Tim said.

Conner’s answer came at once. “Very much yes.”

You looked between them, at Conner’s open warmth and Tim’s quiet intensity, at the bed you had just shared and the door across the hall that no longer felt like a boundary so much as a distance easily crossed.

“I want that too,” you said.

Conner’s grin softened. Tim leaned in and kissed you, gentle now, his hand cupping your cheek with the same care as the first time.

After a while, the three of you rearranged beneath the covers without much discussion. Conner tugged you toward the middle like the decision had already been made, and Tim settled on your other side, close enough that his shoulder brushed yours beneath the blanket. It should have felt crowded. Instead, it felt deliberate, the two of them warm around you in a way that made leaving seem even more impossible than it already had.

Conner’s arm slid over your waist. Tim’s hand found yours beneath the blanket.

You turned your head toward him. “So.”

Conner groaned softly. “That’s a thinking so.”

Tim’s mouth curved. “It is.”

“You said later,” you said.

They both went quiet.

You did not push immediately. The room was too soft for interrogation, too tender for demands. But you looked at the cut near Tim’s jaw, the bruises you had seen, the first-aid supplies in the bathroom, the way Conner had heard the elevator before anyone else could. You thought about blood on Tim’s sleeve at two in the morning and the hallway light fixed outside your door the next day.

“I’m not asking for everything tonight,” you said. “But I don’t want to pretend I don’t see things.”

Tim exhaled slowly.

Conner’s arm tightened around your waist. “Yeah.”

Tim looked at you for a long moment. “Our lives are complicated.”

“I guessed.”

“I don’t want you hurt because of us.”

“That sounds noble. It also sounds like a decision you’re making for me.”

Conner made a quiet sound against your shoulder. “Told you she was dangerous.”

Tim glanced at him.

Conner lifted one hand. “I’m on her side.”

“You’re always on the side causing me problems.”

“Exactly.”

You smiled, but you did not let Tim off the hook. “I’m not asking to know everything before breakfast. I’m asking you not to lie to me if this is going to be something.”

Tim’s expression softened at the edges. “This is something.”

Your chest tightened.

Conner kissed your shoulder. “Definitely something.”

“Then don’t lie to me.”

Tim nodded once. “Okay.”

Conner’s voice was quieter. “Okay.”

The simplicity of it felt like a door opening.

You let out a breath you had not realized you were holding. “Good.”

Conner’s grin returned slowly. “Bossy.”

“You like it.”

Tim’s thumb stroked over your hand. “We do.”

That was enough to make you hide your face briefly against the pillow. Conner laughed, delighted, and Tim kissed the back of your hand like he was not the reason you needed to hide in the first place.

The building was quiet around you. Across the hall, your apartment door was locked, and your laundry was still sitting unfolded in the basket you had abandoned in your bedroom. Your keys and phone were here, resting on Tim and Conner’s nightstand, proof that you had left yourself a way back and chosen not to take it yet.

In the morning, there would be things to decide. There would be coffee for them and tea for you because Tim remembered. There would be teasing from Conner, careful questions from Tim, and a conversation about what this meant. There would be secrets too, maybe dangerous ones, and the strange truth that the two men across the hall were not ordinary in ways you had only begun to understand.

But tonight, Conner was warm against your back, Tim’s hand was in yours, and nobody seemed in any hurry for you to leave.

You fell asleep between them, with your keys safely within reach and no door left closed between you.

🐦 🔑 ☀️

Nonetheless, you settle with the pit in your stomach; feeling as if something is tearing apart your insides for the pure sake of self-deprecation.

Ellie had provided you with a love you could only describe as infectious—a love that consumes you wholly, till you are nothing but the map of your lover. A love that can only be described as unfathomable and selfish to the outside narration—but on the inside, it is one of worship. A love that creeps up your spine like fire does oxygen, until all you see left is flames. A love that threads through your ribs like light through lattice. Until every little thing reminds you of her presence. Until there is no life worth living, if your lover is nigh existent.

You suppose that’s where it went wrong, your worthy life, seeing as you’d awoken to an empty side of the bed.

Usually sunrays would filter through the curtains of the farmhouse, the sheep blabbering about, and the peaceful slumbering of your girlfriend's side profile filling your vision. A restful, content surrounding.

The sunrays do not shine.

The outside world is unusually quiet.

And worst of all—Ellie’s absence seems everlasting, an indefinite, terrible, terrible, thing.

Yet you remain still, as though by some cruel miracle she might rematerialize if you but refuse to breathe.

Your hand drifts across the hollow where she ought to be. The linen greets you with a chill so unkind it near burns. Not the warmth of a body newly risen, not the fleeting absence of one who tends sheep ere dawn—but a vacancy long settled. Long decided.

“Ellie,” you murmur, though the name finds no witness.

No answer comes.

Oft she wakes before you. Oft she slips from your embrace to chase the sun or quiet the restless flock. You tell yourself this must be such a morning. That she is naught but outside, sleeves rolled, brow knit in that stubborn concentration you adore beyond reason.

And yet.

The house is too hushed.

No footfall upon the boards. No kettle set to boil. No off-key humming drifting through the rafters like some broken hymn.

You rise.

Each step from the bedroom feels a trespass, as though you intrude upon a truth you are not meant to see. The corridor yawns long and unfamiliar. The air tastes of absence.

Her boots are gone.

You pause.

They are never gone.

Her knife too—missing from its accustomed place upon the table by the door. The guitar case no longer rests against the wall. The space it once claimed stands accusatory, dust disturbed in the shape of farewell.

Something ancient and feral coils within your gut.

You descend the stairs.

And there, upon the kitchen table—so deliberate it wounds you to behold it—rests a small, trembling bouquet of forget-me-nots, cradled in a chipped mason jar. Their blue is gentle. Their stems still cling to the earth from whence they were torn. Handpicked. Not bought. Not careless.

Chosen.

Beneath them lies a letter.

Not a note.

A letter.

Pages upon pages, folded thrice and pressed flat as though weight alone might keep them from flying after her.

You do not at once reach for it.

Your gaze lingers instead upon the flowers. Forget-me-nots. A cruel jest, or a plea. You know not which is worse.

Your fingers tremble ere they dare unfold the parchment.

The handwriting is hers—sharp, impatient strokes, ink pressed so deep in places it near rends the page. There are blots where the nib lingered too long. A line struck through. Another begun and abandoned.

My love,

If you’re reading this, it means I’m gone—and I hate that. I hate that I’m not there beside you now, tangled up in the sheets, whispering some sharp, silly thing to make you roll your eyes. I hate that I’m not there to trace the morning light on your skin or to see you blink at me with that look you always wore when you didn’t want to smile, but did anyway—because of me.

And I’m sorry.

I’m sorry for leaving without a goodbye, without one last kiss, without even the courage to watch you cry. I didn’t want you to beg me to stay—I knew I would’ve stayed. And you, Y/N, would have let me. You would’ve loved me until the end, and you would’ve broken yourself to do it.

But you don’t deserve to be broken.

You deserve to dance barefoot in that little kitchen, to press your palms against the fogged glass of the windows and breathe in the life we never thought we could have. You deserve to be kissed every morning and every night, to write poetry on napkins and burn bread and laugh about it. You deserve years. You deserve decades full of love and happiness, without the need of outrunning my past.

Everytime I close my eyes, I see him. There is not a world that exists in which he won’t ever flood my memories. If there is anyone to blame—please, blame me. He is dearer to me than anything else in this world, for if he is gone I must avenge, as he did for me.

I see his face in the quiet. I hear his voice when the wind hits the porch just right. I wake up reaching for a gun that isn’t there because for a second I forget I’m safe. And then I remember that I’m not. Not while she walks free. Not while the weight of it sits on my chest like a stone I can’t swallow.

I tried, baby. God, I tried. I planted seeds with you and told myself that was enough. I watched you laugh with the sheep and told myself this—this soft, stupid, beautiful life—was enough. I held you at night and counted your breaths instead of counting the ways it all went wrong.

But it doesn’t leave. It festers. It rots. It whispers that I’m a coward for choosing peace when he didn’t get to. It tells me I don’t deserve this—don’t deserve you—while the score is still unsettled.

I don’t sleep. I can’t eat. I can’t find a bit of peace. When you look at me, I see the future you’re offering, and it terrifies me. Not because I don’t want it—but because I do. And wanting it makes me weak. Wanting it makes me consider letting her live.

And I can’t.

I must make it stop. I have to find her. Abby was the start of this, and she will be the end of it. She has to be.

If I stay, I will wither into something resentful. I will wake up one day and look at you and see all the ways you saved me—and hate myself for needing saving. I will poison the very thing that kept me alive. I won’t let that happen. I won’t let my ghosts crawl into our bed and make a home between us.

So I’m choosing the only thing I know how to choose. I’m choosing the path that feels like fire instead of the one that feels like forgiveness.

Please don’t follow me.

That’s the one selfish thing I’m asking of you. Don’t come after me. Don’t trade the softness we built for the brutality I’m walking back into. If there’s any part of you that loves me still when you finish this letter, let it love me from here. Let it love me enough to let me go.

If I come back—God, if I come back—I swear I’ll try to be better. I’ll lay it down. I’ll bury it for good. I’ll spend the rest of my life earning the peace you offered me so freely.

And if I don’t…

Then remember me like this: in the golden light of the fields, mud on my boots, guitar slightly out of tune. Remember the way I looked at you like you were something holy. Because you are. You always were.

You saved me in every way a person can be saved. I just don’t know how to live like someone worth saving.

I love you. In every lifetime. In every version of this broken world.

Don’t forget me.

— E