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You're on the couch.

You're bedazzling your phone case.

This is a true and accurate picture of the situation, and you are aware of how it looks, and you sit with how it looks for longer than you should.

Raven says something. Damian responds. The shorthand continues. At one point, she makes a gesture over a diagram, and he nods with the specific quality he has when he respects something, the real respect, not the performed kind.

You press a rhinestone onto your phone case.

It catches the light.

You look at Raven.

You look at your phone case.

You look at Damian.

You don't say anything for three days.

This is, in retrospect, the problem — you are not the type to say nothing for three days, you are the type to say things immediately and at full volume, and so when you go quiet Damian notices in the way Damian notices everything, which is completely and without announcement.

He doesn't ask immediately.

He waits.

He is, when it matters, patient in a way that surprises people who only know the surface of him.

On the third day he comes to your apartment and sits on your couch — the pink one, the one with the throw pillows you'd made from fabric you found at a market, the one that has a small collection of plushies at one end that he has never once commented on negatively — and he looks at you.

"Tell me," he says.

"Tell you what," you say, from the other end of the couch.

"Whatever you've been not telling me for three days."

You look at your hands.

On the coffee table in front of you is your current project — a journal you've been decorating, floral stickers and washi tape and little star-shaped pieces of gold foil that you press on with a toothpick. It's half-finished. It's very pretty.

It is also, in this moment, extremely visible evidence of who you are.

"It's nothing," you say.

"It's not nothing," he says. "You haven't been yourself. I've been waiting for you to bring it to me, and you haven't, which means it's something you think I won't want to hear."

You look at the journal.

"At the Tower," you say. "The other day. You and Raven."

Damian is quiet. Listening.

"You were — good together," you say, carefully. "Like, working together. You understood each other. The shorthand and the — she knew exactly what you needed, and you knew exactly what she was saying, and it was very — " you stop. "She's like you. She's serious, and she's capable, and she does real things that matter, and I was sitting on the couch putting rhinestones on my phone."

The words are out now.

You wait.

"I see," Damian says.

"I'm not — I know it's stupid — "

"I didn't say it was stupid."

"I'm saying it's stupid." You pick up a star sticker. Put it down. "I put stickers on things, Damian. I have a pink couch. I cried at a dog food commercial last week. I'm not — I'm not like her. I'm not like anyone in your world. And sometimes I wonder if you'd be — if someone like Raven would be better suited to — "

"No," he says.

Just that. Clean and immediate.

"Damian — "

"No," he says again, same quality. Not dismissive. Certain. "The answer is no, and I'd like you to hear it before you finish that sentence."

You look at him.

He looks back with the expression that is fully Damian — direct, no performance, the one that means he's decided something and is stating it as fact.

"Raven is a capable ally and a person I respect," he says. "What you observed was a professional dynamic that has been built over years of combat. It has nothing to do with what I want from my personal life. Those are not competing categories."

"But she's — she's more like you — "

"She is not more like me," he says, with the particular precision of someone who has considered this and knows the answer. "She's more like the version of me that existed before I began to understand what I'd been trained to value and what I actually value." He pauses. "Those are different things."

You're quiet.

"What does that mean?" you say.

Damian looks at the coffee table. In the journal. At the stickers, the washi tape, and the gold foil stars.

"I was raised to believe that the only things worth valuing were capability and strength and precision," he says. "Everything decorative was considered excess. Everything soft was considered a weakness." He says it evenly, like he's recounting a fact he's made peace with. "I spent the first fourteen years of my life in an environment where what you are — the colors and the softness and the — the stickers — would have been considered worthless."

You look at him.

"And then I met people who were none of those things," he says. "Dick. Your family. You." He meets your eyes. "And I began to understand that the things I'd been taught to dismiss were not weaknesses. They were things I didn't know how to access. Things I'd been told not to want."

"Damian — "

"You put stickers on things," he says, and his voice has shifted slightly, the way it shifts when he's saying something that costs him something. "You make everything around you look like it's worth looking at. You cried at the dog food commercial because you feel things fully, and you don't apologize for it. You have a pink couch because you wanted a pink couch, and you don't require external validation to want what you want." He holds your gaze. "Do you understand what it is to be near someone like that when you have spent your entire life being told that softness is a liability?"

You don't answer.

"It's not a deficit," he says. "What you are is not less than what Raven is. It is entirely different from what Raven is. And it is — " he stops, and this is Damian stopping because the word he needs is one that doesn't come easily, one that requires him to reach for it. "It is what I want. Specifically. Not as a consolation for something more serious. As the actual thing."

The apartment is very quiet.

You look at the journal on the table.

"I decorated your sketchbook," you say, after a moment. "The new one. I put a little star in the corner. I wasn't sure if you'd — "

"I know," he says.

"You didn't say anything."

"I didn't want to make you think you'd done something wrong." He pauses. "I kept the star."

You look at him.

"You kept it," you say.

"It's in the corner of the cover. I could remove it if — "

"Don't you dare remove it," you say.

Something in his expression. The thing that happens when he's pleased about something and doesn't know how to hold it conventionally.

"I wasn't going to," he says.

You look at each other for a moment.

Then you reach over to the coffee table and pick up a small sticker — a flower, pink and yellow, the kind you put everywhere without thinking — and you hold it out.

He looks at it.

He looks at you.

"Don't," he says.

"You just said — "

"I said I kept the star in the sketchbook. That doesn't mean you can — "

"One sticker," you say. "Very small."

"Absolutely not."

"Damian."

"I am not — "

"You literally just gave a speech about softness being a thing you value now — "

"A speech that did not include consenting to being stickered — "

"It's a flower," you say. "Very small flower."

He looks at the sticker.

He looks at you.

"If you tell anyone," he says.

"I would never," you say, which is a complete lie, and he knows it.

He holds out his hand.

You press the flower sticker onto the back of his hand with the toothpick, carefully, the way you do all of them. It's small and pink and extremely visible, and Damian looks at it with the expression of someone who has made a choice and is currently experiencing the full consequences of that choice.

"There," you say.

"This is — "

"You look great."

"I look like I've been attacked by a craft store."

"You look like someone who is loved," you say, and then you hear yourself say it, and the air goes slightly different.

Damian looks at his hand.

At the flower.

"Yes," he says, very quietly. "I suppose I do."

He doesn't remove the sticker.

Not that evening. Not when he leaves. You find out later — from Dick, who finds out from Alfred, who says nothing but whose expression said everything — that Damian wore it until it fell off on its own.

Which takes four days.

You put a new one in the front cover of his sketchbook.

He doesn't say anything about it.

A familiar chime sounds from the spot next to you and you look up from your sudoku book with an excited gasp.

“Guys! I got a text!”

You scramble for your phone, opening it quickly as the other Islanders rush over to hear the message. Your eyes scan over the words and you read them quickly, your excitement doubling—nay, quadrupling. You let out a happy shriek, your feet moving in a giddy half-dance half-jumping routine that has Garrett chuckling fondly.

“Girl, read the damn text!” Allie laughs, though the suspense is obviously getting to her.

You quell your excitement enough to clear your throat dramatically.

“‘Y/N & Garrett, Today you’ll be going on your first date together! Please get ready to leave the Villa #OneOnOne #SeasTheDay’”

As soon as you finish reading the text, the girls crowd you with overlapping squeals and demands that they have to help you get ready, while the guys hype Garrett up like he just won a championship. You barely have time to look at him before the girls are dragging you away to the dressing room.

“Girl!” Hannah grabs you by the shoulders as soon as you enter the room.

You match her enthusiasm. “I know!”

“Okay!” Allie stands up on one of the chairs to demand your attention, wobbling slightly. Dionne immediately rushes to her side to stabilize it with an exasperated look. “The time for celebrating is over! Now is the time that we must come together and focus on what’s important—Making sure you look so hot that Garrett malfunctions.”

You laugh along as the girls cheer in excitement, though Allie’s demeanor hasn’t dropped. She commands you all like a general, pointing at each of the girls as she barks out orders. “Dionne, you’re on bikini duty, preferably something that holds up the girls, but prioritize bottoms that make her ass look insane.”

You snort, though heat rises to your cheeks when all the girls just look at you knowingly.

“Kendall, you’re makeup. I want it minimal, waterproof, and sexy.” Kendall salutes teasingly. “Hannah, you’re on hair and perfume. She needs to smell like the most fuckable piña colada Garrett’s ever had the honor of smelling—And for the love of God, someone plug in a curling iron!” 

Hannah moves to do just that as Allie climbs down from her chair.

Kendall crosses her arms in amusement. “And what exactly will you be doing, Captain?”

“The pièce de résistance.” Allie rummages through her suitcase before pulling out a bottle of shimmery body oil and holding it up triumphantly. “They shall see you sparkle from Mars.”

Four bikinis, three different perfumes, and an entire bottle of body oil later, you’re finally ready for your date with Garrett. You and the girls dance around excitedly—loud enough that the boys can hear you from downstairs—as you show off your chosen bikini.

“We definitely did it,” Hannah says with a satisfied smile as the girls high five. 

Allie pretends to wipe a tear from her cheek. “I feel like a proud mother.”

Before you can say anything back, there’s a loud knock on the door.

“Can I come in now?” Garrett’s voice sounds muffled, but the grumpiness in his tone travels just fine.

Perhaps you and the girls had gone a bit overboard, which left Garrett waiting right outside the door for you for 25 minutes because Allie refused to let him in until you were done.

“One second!” Allie shouts back, rolling her eyes teasingly.

The girls all pull you into a group hug and you thank them—for probably the 50th time—for all their help as you squeeze your arms around them. Hannah fixes a bit of your hair and Kendall does a quick pull up of your bikini top and then they’re all heading to the exit.

“Have fun!”

Allie finally opens the door and Garrett takes them in with a tired expression that they all fully ignore.

Dionne glances back at you and then looks him up and down. “You don’t deserve her.”

The girls leave the dressing room and you suddenly feel nervous, turning to the mirror to fix your perfectly fine lip gloss as Garrett enters the room.

 “Hey—Holy…” 

You turn to face him and Garrett’s lips remain parted as he takes you in. He blinks. And then blinks again. And then blinks for a third time.

You light up with a bright smile when you see his outfit. “We’re matching!”

He’s wearing a pair of purple swim trunks that match pretty closely the violet color of your bikini and a fully unbuttoned linen shirt that you’re sure will be left behind as soon as you get to your destination. 

“Yeah… I, um…” His mouth moves weakly, but no words come out.

You reach for the short wrap around skirt that came with your swimsuit and tie it around your waist. When you finish and look back at him, Garrett still hasn’t found his voice.

You raise your brows slightly. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m—Holy shit.” He looks up in an attempt to collect himself. “I asked Dionne what color you were wearing.”

“...Why are you saying that to the ceiling?”

“I need a minute.”

A slow smile of realization grows on your face as you take a step closer. The tantalizing scent of pineapple, coconut, sea salt, and fresh vanilla that Hannah layered onto your pulse points follows you. 

“You know, you haven’t even complimented me yet,” you pout playfully. “Do you not think I look pretty, Garrett?”

“You’re not playing fair right now.” Garrett’s voice comes out strained.

You let out a flirty giggle and take another step, cocking your head and batting your lashes with feigned innocence. “I’m just asking if you think I look pretty or not. Me and the girls spent a long time getting—,”

A yelp slips past your lips when Garrett’s hands dart out suddenly and grip onto your hips. He pulls you into him so quickly that you stumble, connecting your lips in a heated kiss before you even have time to find your footing. Any teasing you have left gets swallowed by him as he slips his tongue into your mouth and you wrap your arms around his neck to pull him closer.

His hands feel up your ass before dropping down to your thighs, gripping them as he lifts you up and makes you wrap your legs around his waist. Without breaking your kiss, he lets go of you with one hand, using it to clear off whatever is on the vanity, and sets you down on the table.

You pull away when you hear the clatter and look down at the objects that have fallen to the floor. “My moisturizer…”

“I’ll get you a new one,” Garrett waves off, cupping your face with both of his hands as he tries to bring your lips back to his.

“How? We’re in a secluded villa in Fiji—,”

He cuts you off with another deep kiss, thumbs brushing against your cheeks as he slots himself farther between your legs. Your moisturizer is quickly forgotten as you tangle your fingers into his hair, the heels of your feet digging into his back as you try to get him closer. His lips pull away from you suddenly and you heave a breath as he attaches them to your neck, his hands falling to the spot just above your hips as he sucks and bites against your skin.

You look down at him, as much as you can, when you hear a small noise. “Are you sniffing me?”

“Yes,” Garrett states unapologetically, taking another deep breath of you as he goes back to pressing rushed, open-mouthed kisses along your skin.

Your legs tighten around him when his mouth reaches the tops of your breasts, shivering when his teeth sink into them gently, before he traces over the shallow mark with his tongue. It’s only when his fingers move to pull your top farther down that you grab his face with your hands and pull him away from you.

You squish his cheeks together, giggling when his lips pucker. “We’re gonna be late for our date.”

“You’re kidding!”

When the SUV finally arrives at your date location, you’re practically racing out of the car.

“Garrett, it’s a waterpark!”

“I can see that.” Garrett smiles in amusement, following after you—though not quite with your same level of urgency. 

“We get a whole waterpark to ourselves,” you gush, taking in all the water slides excitedly. “This is so awesome!”

You untie your wrap skirt and Garrett discards his shirt and then you’re grabbing him by the hand and dragging him to the nearest slide.

The two of you start by going down the tube slides together, your shrieks of joy mixing with Garrett’s laughter as you both slide down in the inner tube. Then you challenge Garrett to a race down the two straight slides—where the two of you stay for the next half hour because you both can’t agree on who actually won. 

(On one of your runs, Garrett gets a five second penalty because he jumped the start on the last race and then you also get a five second penalty because you do the same thing on the next one—this back and forth continues quite frequently. At one point, Garrett gives you a 10 second penalty for having a “bad attitude”. He’d already reached the bottom of the slide before you even finished serving it.)

“Just admit that I won,” Garrett’s slightly out of breath as you both exit the water.

You are much more out of breath. “Admit? I think you mean lie. Because you definitely did not win.”

“What are you talking about?” He laughs. “I literally finished a foot ahead of you!”

“Yeah, because you have gross, Bigfoot sized feet.”

Garrett’s jaw drops in disbelief, but he can’t stifle his amusement. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” You lift your chin up defiantly. 

“That’s it—,”

“Garrett—!”

You scream when Garrett grabs you suddenly, lifting you up and holding you out over the pool. He pretends to drop you and the slight jerk makes you let out another scream and cling to his arms.

“Put me down!” You demand, struggling in his grip.

“I won. Say it.”

“No, you’re taller. Which we agreed we’d account for–for fairness–and I accounted for it. I won.”

“You sure?” Garrett gives you one more chance.

You stick your tongue out. “Positive, Bigfoot.”

“Fine.” He shrugs. And then he drops you into the pool.

Your screech gets swallowed by the water and you kick your feet to bring yourself back up to the surface, wiping water from your eyes before they suddenly widen in panic.

“Garrett,” you say much more seriously.

He’s still chuckling at you from the pool deck.

“Garrett, my top came off.”

Your treading water quickly becomes you kicking your feet rapidly to keep your head up as you wrap your arms to cover your bare chest. You turn your head to see the offending fabric floating next to you. You can tell the exact moment Garrett spots it too because he starts chuckling harder.

“Stop laughing!” You shout at him—though it loses a lot of its intimidation when you’re barely treading water in a pool without a top on.

“Okay, okay.” He’s still laughing, but Garrett jumps into the water too.

When he comes back up, he pushes his wet curls back against his head and grabs your bikini top. “C’mere.”

It’s a bit more difficult to move through the water without using your arms so as soon as you’re close enough, he grabs your bent elbow and pulls you to him faster. He bends a leg so that you can rest on his thigh and angles himself wordlessly so that his body is shielding yours as much as he can. He looks at the strapless top in slight confusion, before deciding to just stretch it with both hands and pull it over your head.

“If I just flashed my tits to all of America, I will kill you,” you grumble, keeping your arms wrapped tightly around your boobs as Garrett shimmies the top down your shoulders.

He grins. “I just can’t believe it came off now and not all the times we went down the slides.”

“Shut up.”

Once Garrett gets the top over your breasts, you pull each arm out slowly as he keeps it in place, until you’re finally wearing it properly again.

“There.” He presses a short kiss to your lips. “Modesty preserved.”

You glare at him. “I hate you.”

“Yeah… You’re still gonna kiss me though,” Garrett teases.

Not even your pride can stop you from wrapping your legs around his waist and kissing him again as he holds you both up in the water.

The two of you stay in the pool for a bit longer before you’re led to a poolside set up of drinks and towels that acts as the final part of your date. Garrett offers you one of the towels to dry off with, but you, somewhat shyly, ask if you can share his instead, and you end up resting against his chest as he wraps a towel around the both of you.

You’re tired in the best way, drained from a day in the water and sleepy from the sun warming your skin. You snuggle deeper into Garrett’s arms.

“This was so fun,” you say quietly.

“Yeah?” Garrett takes a sip of his drink before passing one to you.

You take a small sip before setting it down and looking up at him with a drowsy smile. “Yeah. Like, top ten days of all time.”

“Damn, of all time?” Garrett smiles teasingly, though it’s too soft around the edges to actually have that effect. “That’s a pretty great day.”

“Mhm.” You nod against his chest. 

Garrett takes another sip of his drink. “I had a great day too... I’m glad it was with you.”

You smile, reaching for his hand and interlocking your fingers together.

“What do you think our first date on the outside would look like?” You wonder aloud.

“Will,” Garrett corrects.

“Hm?”

“You should ask what it will look like, because it’s definitely happening,” he gently brushes a small fleck of mascara from under your eye. “And it’ll look like whatever you want it to look like.”

You let out a small yawn. “That’s a cop out.”

“Nah, it’s me giving my girl whatever she wants,” Garrett grins.

You twist slightly to look at him and you're close enough that some of the water dripping from his wet curls lands on your shoulder.

“Even a private waterpark?”

“Mm.” He hums in agreement, dipping his head to peck your lips. He lets his lips linger against yours for a moment longer and you feel his smile grow against your mouth. “I’ll even pretend like you won every slide race.”

You lift a hand to caress his cheek, affection sparkling in your eyes. “I’ll let you win some too.”

“Oh yeah?” Garrett turns slightly to kiss your palm. “Careful, or I might think you really like me.”

You reach your hand around to the back of his head to play with the hair at the nape of his neck, and kiss him again, letting your lips move against his lazily. 

“That’s okay. I do.”

By the time you and Garrett make it back to the Villa, you’re almost entirely dry and you feel like you’re glowing—thanks to Allie’s body oil, both inside and out. 

You both look at each other in mild confusion when the other Islanders don’t immediately come out to greet you. But a loud laugh from the fire pit and an unfamiliar head of blond hair quickly gives you a possible answer.

You cock your head. “Wait, did a bombshell come in while we were gone?”

“I guess so,” Garrett shrugs.

Hannah finally spots you, leaping up from the fire pit and rushing over and you catch the attention of the other Islanders as the rest of the girls follow her.

“You’re back! How was it?”

You lean against Garrett with a smitten smile as the girls crowd around you. “It was really fun.”

The girls let out small ‘aw’s when Garrett nods in agreement, his expression just as soft.

“I’d say you missed out on what happened in the Villa today, but something tells me you would’ve preferred this anyway,” Kendall teases.

“I noticed.” You glance at the guys still by the fire pit. “Did we get a new bombshell?”

The girls all nod, pulling you from Garrett’s embrace and telling you snippets about him excitedly as they lead you over to the rest of the group, Garrett trailing slightly behind.

Once you get to the fire pit, you’re able to see the new bombshell more clearly. He’s tall, with blond hair and striking green eyes. In a different villa, you might have been interested, but after the day you just had, it wouldn’t matter how cute he is, he doesn’t stand a chance.

“I’ve been hearing a lot about you. I’m Dean.” He introduces.

“Hi,” you give him a friendly smile. You don’t miss the way Allie is looking at him like he’s either the best or worst thing to enter the Villa. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Dean lets his eyes travel down your body, taking in your bikini and appearance with a cocky grin. “The pleasure’s all mine. You’re very… sparkly.”

An arm suddenly wraps around your shoulder and you’re pulled into Garrett’s chest. 

“So am I,” he deadpans.

Behind Dean, Allie stifles a giggle.

From your various activities throughout the day, much of your shimmery body oil had transferred onto Garrett—notably on his chest, neck, and hands and, most visibly, around his mouth. 

Dean holds up his hands placatingly. “Just makin’ an observation.”

“Mhm.”

When Garrett doesn’t offer anything else, you pinch his side teasingly.

“This is Garrett.” You make the introduction for him. “I promise he’s usually nicer.”

Dionne lets out a disbelieving laugh and the other Islanders just glance at each other, knowing you’re either being funny or totally oblivious. And, but the look on your face, it’s definitely the latter.

Dean chuckles. “I don’t know. From what I’ve seen, I think he’s only nice to hot girls in purple bikinis.”

Your cheeks heat at the implication and even more so when everyone else seems to agree with him.

 “Just this one actually.” Garrett says it so casually your stomach flutters, before tilting his head so he’s only looking at you. “Can we go now?”

“Garrett, don’t be rude.”

He pulls you closer into his side. “What? We’re still in our swimsuits from the waterpark. I don’t want the chlorine to irritate your skin...”

You snort. “Yeah right.”

Garrett grins at you and his fingers trace over the waistband of your bikini bottoms.

“Chlorine’s no joke,” Dean ruins the moment when he suddenly chimes in, nodding solemnly before his lips pull into a flirty smirk. “If you need any help taking your suit off, I’d be more than happy—,”

Garrett’s smile drops instantly and his grip tightens around your waist. “We’re leaving now.”

You laugh as he herds you away from the group and towards the bedroom, throwing a happy wave over your shoulder.

“See you guys later! And welcome to the Villa, Dean!”

please don't copy, repost, or feed my work into ai, thanks!

You exist without justification in the space of Gotham Academy. You laugh at things that are not particularly funny, and people turn toward the sound as if they were moths to a flame.

Today, in the west courtyard, you shared your lunch with a first-year who had dropped theirs. You did not make a production of it, you simply knelt, gathered the scattered fruit, and offered half of your own sandwich as though it were the most logical conclusion in the world. The first-year smiled and you smiled back with ease. I was thirty-seven feet away, pretending to read, and I could not look away.

This is inconvenient.

I do not know your name yet. I have not decided if I should ask. But I know the way you tilt your head when someone is speaking to you, as though whatever they have to say matters more than anything else in that moment. I know that you walk with your hands in your pockets when you are thinking, and that you hum when you are not. I know that you are kind in a way that appears effortless, which means it is anything but.

Nothing I've been through has prepared me for the moment you glance in my direction and I have to remember how to breathe like a normal person.

This is, I assure you, entirely your fault.

- D.W.”

“09/28/20XX

You wore that sweater again. You look… good in it. I spent the entire lecture memorizing the way the sleeves fall past your wrists. I did not retain a single fact about the French Revolution. I am failing history because of you and I cannot bring myself to care.

- D.W.”

“10/06/20XX

You laughed at something I said today. It was not even funny, yet I am still replaying the sound in my head. This is a problem.

- D.W.”

“10/19/20XX

I made a fool of myself today. I am choosing to document this so that future me may look back and wince appropriately.

It was raining. I was at the main entrance, waiting for my father to come and pick me up as we had agreed every Thursday, when you appeared beside me. You were not under the awning, you were standing in the rain, hair damp, collar turned up, and you looked at me with that expression, the one that makes me feel as though I have been caught in a trap I did not see being set.

You asked if I had an umbrella and I said yes.

You smiled (the one that I have yet to decipher why it does something unspeakable to my composure) and you said, "Good. I was worried you didn't." And then you walked away. Into the rain. Without asking to borrow my umbrella. Without any apparent need for it at all.

I stood there for a full eleven seconds before I realized what had happened. You were not asking for shelter; you were offering it. You wanted to know if I was prepared, if I would be alright. You asked not because you needed something from me, but because you were concerned for my well-being, while you were getting soaked.

And I did not react appropriately. I said "yes" automatically. I did not offer to walk with you. I did not ask why you cared, I did not even manage to produce a full sentence. I simply stood there, umbrella in hand, watching you disappear into the grey, and felt the distinct and humiliating sensation of being utterly outmatched. You looked at me and asked about my umbrella, and in that single, idiotic question, you implied that my comfort mattered to you.

I have no idea what is going on in your mind. You are a complication I did not ask for and cannot seem to eliminate. You are in my head now, standing in the rain, smiling at me like I am someone worth checking on.

And I hate that I am already looking forward to tomorrow.

- D.W.”

“11/03/20XX

It has been seventeen days since I last wrote. Do not mistake my silence for disinterest. I have simply been processing, you have a tendency to make that difficult.

Here is what has happened in the time I have not been writing:

You fell asleep in Mr. Fournier's lecture of the 18th Century. I know this because I was seated three rows behind you, and I watched your head drift sideways until it was cradled in your palm. You slept through the Industrial Revolution and you woke only when the bell rang, blinked twice, and turned to ask me, specifically, if we had covered anything important. I told you no. You laughed, sleep-rumpled and unbothered, and said, "Good, I was worried I missed something." You had missed everything, but I did not tell you this. I wanted you to keep laughing.

You found me in the library last Tuesday. I was researching something, I do not recall what, because the moment you sat down across from me, my brain abandoned me entirely. You looked out the window, watched the rain (again, because Gotham has no imagination when it comes to weather), and said, "Lately the weather has been unpredictable, the sky must have a cloudy judgement." It was not particularly clever, it was barely funny. I laughed anyway, and you smiled at me like I had just given you something rare, and I immediately hated myself for being so transparent. That day, while it was raining, we talked for hours. I think those were the most magnificent hours of my life. Father scolded me; I missed patrol because I walked you home after the rain stopped.

And then yesterday, you saw my keychain.

It was an accident. I had my bag open, reaching for a text, and you glanced inside. You saw it. The small, ridiculous Nightwing emblem that Grayson gave me years ago, which I have never removed despite telling him it was "tolerable at best." You picked it up. You turned it over. And you said, with absolute sincerity, "Robin is my favorite."

I believe I stopped breathing for a full three seconds. You did not notice, you simply handed it back, shrugged, and said, "He seems like he'd be nice. Underneath all the dramatic brooding."

I am Robin. And I am not "nice". I don't even brood that much. And yet I have spent the last twenty-four hours replaying those words in my head like a fool.

You are doing something to me. I do not know what it is called, I do not know how to stop it. I only know that I have started gravitating toward you in hallways, that I have memorized your schedule without meaning to, that I have begun to notice the way your voice changes when you are genuinely amused versus when you are being polite. I know these things. I do not know why I care to know them.

I used to think I was above this kind of distraction. You have proven me wrong in every possible way, and you have done it without even noticing.

I want to talk to you more.

...

I want to talk to you all the time.

- D.W.”

“11/05/20XX

You fell asleep on my shoulder today. It was only for a few minutes, but I did not move. I did not breathe. I sat perfectly still, holding my phone at the same angle, and I let you rest. I will never forget it.

- D.W”

“11/23/20XX

I have arrived at a conclusion that I have been actively avoiding for approximately six weeks.

I have a crush on you.

There. I have written it. It exists now in ink, which means I cannot take it back, which means I must accept it as fact.

I have spent the past month and a half constructing elaborate justifications for my behavior. I told myself I was merely interested in your social interactions. I told myself you were just someone that I accidentally noticed. I told myself that the way my chest tightens when you laugh is a physiological issue, not affection. I told myself many things, and all of them were lies.

The truth is simpler and far more damning: I think about you constantly.

I think about you when I am in class. I think about you when I am training. I think about you when I am on patrol, which is dangerous, irresponsible and I have almost been compromised because my mind wanders to the way you scrunch your nose when you are thinking. Father has noticed. He asked if I was "feeling sick." I told him I was fine. But I am not, I am a huge disaster.

We have been talking more, you have made that unbearably easy. You find me in the courtyard between periods, you save me a seat in the cafeteria, you ask me about my day as though you genuinely want to know, and I tell you, I tell you things. Not the things, obviously. I do not mention my past, or what I do every night. But I tell you about the stray cat I fed behind the gymnasium, I tell you about the book I am reading, I tell you about Titus, and you asked to see a photo, I showed you three, and you said he looked like "a good boy," which is true. You asked about my favorite color, when I responded you laughed and said that it was "very on-brand." I did not tell you that my favorite color is actually the shade of your eyes in morning light. That felt like too much.

When you smile at me, I forget how to be anyone other than the person who wants to make you smile again. When you say my name, I hear it differently than everyone else's voice. When you leave, I count the minutes until I will see you next.

This is a crush. This is a textbook, undeniable, embarrassingly earnest crush. And it's stupid; I have achieved incredible feats. I have defeated unimaginable enemies. I have stared down death itself and spat in its face. And yet I am undone by the way you tilt your head when you are about to say a joke.

But I do not know if I should tell you. I do not know if I am brave enough to risk what we have for the chance of something more. I do not know what to do with this information.

But at least I know now. And I'm glad it's you.

- D.W.”

“12/05/20XX

I am going to tell you. One day. Soon. I am going to gather every scrap of courage I have and I am going to look at you and I am going to say it. But not today. Today I will just watch you from across the room and pretend my heart is not doing something embarrassing.

- D.W.”

“12/14/20XX

You have started saying my name differently. I notice these things. You do not say it like everyone else. You say it like it is a word you like the sound of. I have started saying your name more often just to hear myself say it. It is pathetic. I am pathetic.

- D.W.”

“12/18/20XX

I wrote a poem inspired by you in Literature class today. I will never show you, but it exists now, so does my complete and utter humiliation.

- D.W.”

“01/09/20XX

We have become a habit. I do not know when the accidental became the deliberate, when the coincidental became the chosen. But here we are.

First, you sat next to me in class. Then you sat next to me at lunch. Then you started saving me a seat before I even arrived. Then I started saving you a seat before you even arrived. We are synchronized now, we are a rhythm.

And then you asked me to go somewhere with you, outside of school. Just you and me.

I nearly said no. Not because I did not want to, but because I was terrified. I changed my clothes six times, I considered canceling, or moving to another country. I considered every possible escape route and then discarded them all because the thought of disappointing you was worse than the thought of embarrassing myself.

I bought you a flower, your favorite one. I know your favorite because I pay attention to everything you say, everything you touch, everything you glance at twice. I know your favorite flower, your favorite color, the way you take your coffee, the sound of your footsteps in the hallway. I know you, and I have never known anyone else the way I know you.

We walked together, talked and laughed. You touched my arm once and I felt it for hours afterward. You looked at me like I mattered. You always look at me like I matter, I do not know why. I do not understand what I did to deserve it. But I am starting to wonder if maybe, maybe you feel this too.

The way you lean in when I speak, the way you also remember small things about me, the way you found me in the library that day and stayed, even when the rain stopped, even when you could have left.

I do not want to hope. Hope is dangerous, it crushes you. But I cannot help it. I look at you and I see you looking back at me, and it feels like possibility.

I am trying not to read into it. I am failing. I think you might like me back.

I think I might be the luckiest person alive.

- D.W.”

“01/17/20XX

Today I was reading the last book in a trilogy you recommended to me. I am not usually attracted to this genre of literature but I still read everything, just because you wanted me to. Then I stumbled across a quote that reminded me of my feelings for you. Here it is;

"My hand, my heart, my blade are yours. Tell me what I need to do." — Cassandra Clare, Queen of Air and Darkness.

Now that I re-read it, I think it might be a little sappy. I am glad you will never read this.

- D.W.”

“01/29/20XX

Someone asked me why I was smiling. I was not aware that I was smiling. I was thinking about you. I must be more careful. Or I must stop caring. I am leaning toward the latter.

- D.W.”

“02/07/20XX

I used to write poems to myself. Now I write them for you. They are all about you, every single one. I tell the paper everything I want to tell you. One day, I will read them all for you.

- D.W.”

“02/12/20XX

I watched you talk to someone today. Someone who made you laugh in that full, unguarded way you have. I felt something twist in my chest. Jealousy, I think. I have never been jealous before. I have been competitive. I have been vindicated. I have been furious. But jealousy is new. Jealousy is the feeling of wanting to be the only person who makes you laugh like that. Jealousy is the feeling of wanting to be your favorite. I do not know if I am. I desperately want to be.

- D.W.”

“02/15/20XX

We walked home together. Well, I walked you home. I offered and you agreed. You talked about your day while I listened to every word. When we reached your door, you paused. You looked at me like you wanted to say something, yet you did not say it. I did not say anything either. We stood there for a long moment. Then you smiled and went inside. I stood there for another three minutes after you left.

- D.W.”

“02/24/20XX

I have been thinking about kissing you. Is that wrong?

- D.W.”

“03/11/20XX

I just woke up from a nightmare, it is currently 4:39 AM. The nightmare was about you. I dream of you. Did you know that? I dream of your hands in mine. I dream of your voice saying my name without hesitation. I dream of a world where I'm not afraid to love you. And then I remember everything I've done, all the lives I've taken, all the sins I've committed. I do not deserve you, your infatuation. Your love.

I wish I could erase these feelings.

- D.W.”

“03/17/20XX

I want to tell you. I want to tell you so badly that it physically hurts. I want to tell you that I think about you constantly. I want to tell you that you are the last thing I see before I fall asleep and the first thing I reach for when I wake. I want to tell you that I have never felt this way about anyone and I do not know what to do with it.

But I am afraid. I am so afraid. Because if I tell you and you do not feel the same, I will lose this—this closeness, this rhythm, this you. And I would rather have you as a friend than lose you as something more.

That is a lie. I would rather have you as everything. But I will take what I can get.

I will take you. However you come. However long you stay. I will take you.

- D.W.”

“04/01/20XX

I told you. I told you I like you.

I asked you if you'd like to be my partner. I am still not entirely certain I am not dreaming. I have pinched myself seven times. I have reread this sentence twelve times. It still does not feel real. You said you like me too.

I do not know how to write this. I do not know how to capture what happened. I have trained my entire life to remain composed under pressure, to keep my voice steady and my hands still. And then I looked at you, and I forgot every lesson. I forgot how to be anyone other than the person who is hopelessly, irrevocably in love with you.

I told you in the garden behind the Academy. I chose it because it is quiet. I chose it because I thought if you said no, at least I could be alone. I did not think you would say yes. I had prepared myself for the worst, I had rehearsed the exit. I had steeled myself for the ache.

But then you looked at me with the same eyes that have been haunting me for months and you said, "I was hoping you would say that."

I stopped breathing. I think I stopped existing for a moment. I said, "You were?" like a complete imbecile. And you laughed and said you've been waiting for me to say something for weeks.

Weeks. You have been waiting. You have been feeling this too. All this time, all this agonizing, all these letters I have written and hidden away, you were feeling the same thing. I do not remember what I said next. I think I said your name like it was a prayer. I think I reached for your hand and you let me take it.

You are not just my crush anymore. I am yours. You are mine and I am yours and I do not know how I survived life before you.

I cried. I am not ashamed to admit it. I cried in front of you and you held my face and wiped my tears and told me it was okay. You told me you liked me too. You told me you had loved me for a while. You told me you noticed me before I noticed you. You noticed me. I have never felt this seen, this known. I have spent my entire life being defined by my lineage, my training, by other's shadow. But you look at me and you see me, the person underneath all of it, and you like that person. You love me.

I do not have the words for what this feels like. I have written poetry, I have read philosophy, I have studied languages and literature and the great romances of history. None of it prepared me for this. None of it comes close to describing the way I feel when you look at me now, knowing that you are mine, knowing that I am yours.

I am going to be better for you. I am going to try harder. I am going to become the person you deserve. I am going to learn how to be soft. I am going to learn how to let you in. I am going to learn how to love you the way you deserve to be loved. You have changed me, you have changed everything. And I do not think I will ever be able to thank you enough for that.

But I will spend the rest of my life trying.

Yours, completely and forever,

- Damian.”

“04/14/20XX

You have this habit of chewing your lip when you are concentrating. I have watched you do it a hundred times, I've memorized it now.

- Damian.”

“04/25/20XX

Today I kissed you for the first time. Your lips were so soft, so sweet. We were in your room, doing math homework. You were frustrated, so I moved closer to you so I could explain. But your pout distracted me, and before I knew it I had already kissed you. I pulled away quickly, thinking I might have crossed a line, that I'd made you uncomfortable. But no. You looked at me with those eyes that melt my heart and kissed me again.

I think kissing you is now my favorite thing to do.

- Damian.”

“05/02/20XX

Sometimes I catch myself smiling. Just randomly. In the middle of patrol. Today it was in the middle of a briefing. Father looks at me like I have lost my mind, Grayson looks at me like he knows, and he probably does. He told me that "love makes you soft." He was wrong. Love does not make me soft, love makes me want to survive. Love makes me want to come home. To you.

- Damian.”

“06/11/20XX

I told you about Robin tonight. I told you everything; the training, the missions, the nights I have spent bleeding on rooftops, the mornings I have come home with bruises I had to hide. The constant, crushing weight of being this.

You went quiet.

That silence was worse than any scream or fight. None of the League's or my father's training prepared me for the moment you stopped looking at me like I was your Damian and started looking at me like I was a stranger.

You asked how long, I told you. You asked how many times I had been hurt, I lied and said not many. You knew I was lying, you know me too well. Then you said "I should have known."

Your voice broke and I felt something inside me crack open. You blamed yourself for not noticing. For loving me without knowing all of me. As though any of it was your fault, as though any of it could ever be your fault.

I told you it was not, I told you I should have told you sooner. I told you I was a coward, I told you I was terrified that if you knew the truth, you would leave. That the person you loved was not really me, that I was just the mask I wore during the day, and the real me was something darker, something that shouldn't be loved.

But then you said you will not leave. You said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world, like it was the only option, like leaving had never crossed your mind.

You said, "I'm angry. I'm scared. I'm so scared, Damian. Every night. Every single night you are out there and I did not know. I didn't know and I could have lost you and I would not have even known why." You started to cry and I couldn't stand to see you like this because of me. I started crying too.

And then you took my hands, looked at me through the tears and you said, "But I'm staying, I'm not going anywhere. I need to know everything. I need to understand. Because I love you, and I choose you."

Why? Why would you choose me, with all my broken parts and decide I don't need fixing, but just love?

I sobbed in front of you and you held me. You held me like I was something precious, like I was worth protecting. You held me like I was not the weapon I was made to be, but the person I am still learning how to become.

I told you I was sorry, that I should have told you before. I told you I should have trusted you. I told you that I was so, so afraid. And you were not angry at me, you just held me and whispered that you love me.

I do not know what I did to deserve you. I do not know what cosmic accident brought you into my life. I do not know why you chose me, of all people, to love. But I know this: I will never stop trying to earn it. I will never stop trying to be worthy of you. I will never stop loving you. Not for a single second, not for the rest of my life.

I am still crying as I write this because I have never had anyone look at me like I was worth the effort.

You are my home. You are my reason. You are everything I did not know I was searching for.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

I will tell you this every day for the rest of my life. I will never let you doubt it. I will never let you question it.

You are mine. I am yours. And I am staying too.

Forever,

- Damian.”

“06/18/20XX

I have started carrying a photograph of you during patrol, under the Robin emblem in my chest. I told myself it was practical, just in case I needed to remember why I was fighting. But that was a lie. I carry it because on the nights when everything goes wrong, I can press my hand to my heart and feel you there.

- Damian.”

“06/30/20XX

I have started timing how long it takes me to get back to you after patrol. It is irrational, not like you are counting the minutes. But I do count them. I count every second because every second away from you feels like a second wasted. Tonight it took me twenty-seven minutes. Twenty-seven minutes too long.

- Damian.”

“07/02/20XX

I have run out of words for you. I have written letters, I have written poems, I have tried every language I know. None of them are enough. None of them can actually capture the way you make me feel. Like I am safe. Like I am seen. Like I am worthy of being loved.

- Damian.”

“07/12/20XX

I have never believed in fate. But then I met you and I started to wonder. I started to think that maybe you were meant for me. And I was meant for you. Perhaps the reason I came to Gotham wasn't just to have a better life, away from the blood, but to find you. Maybe all of the chaos, all of the darkness, all of the years before you, they were just the road that led me here. To you.

- Damian.”

“08/13/20XX

Today I was cleaning my room, and I stumbled across a letter I wrote before telling you that I love you. I don't remember writing it, but even now I remember that feeling. I think it's important to save it, it represents well how much we've grown. How much I've grown. Here it is:

03/15/20XX

I’m writing this because I can’t bring myself to say it. Because every time I try, the words get stuck in my throat like stones and I choke on them. Because you look at me with those eyes of yours, so patient, so warm, so exasperatingly kind, and I forget how to feel anything other than terror.

When I first met you, I thought that you were oblivious. That your kindness wasn't sincere. Or that you lived in a whole different world, because who would behave like that in Gotham? But then I got to know you better. And I realised you make an effort to be like that, to be kind. You choose it, every day. You look at people and make them feel important. You make me feel important. You look at me and see worth.

I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to love someone without wanting to possess them; I don’t know how to care for someone without it hurting me. My mother taught me that love is a fantasy. My grandad taught me that affection is a weakness. My family taught me that I’m enough, but I’ve never believed them, and I don’t know how to believe you.

But you make me want to try.

You make me want to be the person you think I am. The person who can be tender, the person who can be loved.

I’ve never been loved. Not like this. Not as someone worthy of being desired. My mother loves me as if I were her possession, my father loves me as a responsibility, a duty. My brothers love me in spite of myself, and I’m grateful to them, but it’s not the same. It’s not that burning, all-consuming, terrifying feeling I get when I look at you.

But then I remember who I am. What I've done. The blood on my hands is not a metaphor. I have killed. I have taken lives. I've been trained to be a monster, and sometimes I wonder if that's all I'll ever be.

And you… you’re so good. So genuinely, stupidly, painfully good. You deserve someone who has never known darkness. Someone who can hold you without batting an eyelid. Someone who isn’t me.

But I’m selfish. I’m my mother’s son, and I want, and I want, and I want. I want to deserve you. I want to be worthy of the way you look at me. I want to be the person you see when you say my name as if it meant something.

I don’t know how to tell you this. I don’t know if I ever will. Perhaps this letter will end up like the others: crumpled, hidden away, never read. Perhaps I’ll spend the rest of my life loving you from afar, and that will be my punishment for everything I’ve done.

But if I never say it out loud, I need you to know that:

You’re the first thing I think of when I wake up. You’re the last thing I see when I close my eyes. You’re the reason I try to be better, even when I fail, even when I fall.

I love you.

I love you in a way that terrifies me. I love you in a way that makes me want to be brave. I love you in a way I don’t know how to contain, and it overflows from me in every glance I don’t let you see, in every word I don’t say, in every step I take towards you and then away again.

I love you.

I’m sorry I can't say it, I'm sorry I’m too afraid. I’m sorry I’m not the person you deserve.

But I love you.

And if this is the only confession I’m ever going to make, let it be this: you’ve torn me apart, and I’m grateful to you for it. Because the person I was before I met you wasn’t a person at all. I was a shadow. A ghost.

You made me human.

And I don’t know if that’s a gift or a curse, but I know I wouldn’t go back. I wouldn’t undo this. I wouldn’t stop loving you, even if I could.

So here. Take this. Take it all. Take the parts of me I’ve never shown to anyone. Take the fear, the longing and the desperate, painful hope that you might reciprocate me and feel this exasperating love as much as I do.

And if you don't, if this is too much, if I’m too much, then I’ll understand. I’ll keep watching you from across the room. I’ll keep breathing the same air as you and pretend that’s enough.

But I’ll love you. I’ll always love you.

Damian.

P.S. I’ve written this seven times. Each version was more pathetic than the last. I’m sticking with this one because it’s the only one that doesn’t lie. I don’t know if I’ll ever give it to you. I don’t know if I’ll have the courage to do so. But at least it exists. At least it’s real. At least, somewhere in the universe, there’s proof that Damian Wayne loved someone and, for a moment, wasn’t afraid to admit it.

… I think I was a bit dramatic.

- Damian.”

Muttering something practically incoherent to your attending, you beeline for the bathroom.

The small part of the third trimester that you’ve experienced so far hasn’t been the most pleasant. Full of aches and pains, it’s been a battle to even make it in for the most menial nine to five shifts.

Of course, you’d take all the aches and pains in the world to keep this baby in for a few more weeks.

The bathroom door clicks shut behind you.

For a few seconds, you just stand there with both hands braced against the counter, breathing through your nose and waiting for the ache to pass.

It doesn’t.

“Okay,” you whisper to yourself. “Okay. You don’t know that there’s anything wrong yet.”

Stumbling into a stall, you try and stop the trembling in your hands as you reach for the waistband of your scrubs.

Maybe you should call Carter. Even after six months of his attention and lingering, you still feel like you’re abusing his kindness by asking for things. His mother had basically told you as much.

Despite his denials, and promises that you could never ask too much of him, you can’t help but think of the gold-digger label tossed around by his family each time you see him.

Because you aren’t together.

No matter how often he cooks you dinner, or rubs your swollen feet - he’s simply the baby’s father. You’re pretty sure you wouldn’t have even kept in contact with him, were it not for the positive pregnancy test.

The entire plan is to be co-parents, and nothing more.

Heart sinking, you pull down your panties to be greeted by spotting. Normally it wouldn’t be enough of an issue to raise major red flags, but combined with the pain, you’re on edge.

You straighten too quickly, and the room tilts.

You catch yourself against the counter, sucking in a sharp breath as another cramp rolls through your abdomen. This one is different. Stronger. Low and deep, tightening right down at your uterus.

As long as you head to OB, and get checked out, everything will be fine. They’ll do an ultrasound, check the baby’s heart-rate, and then you’ll probably just have to take it easy for the final months. Finish work earlier than you anticipated.

You wash your hands because some part of you is still operating on autopilot, then unlock the door and step out into the hallway.

The corridor is brighter than it felt when you went into the bathroom.

You would estimate that you make it around four steps before your vision starts to blur and blot. At the end of the corridor, you can see a few nurses turn at the noise of the door banging. One of them might say your name, but all you can focus on is the sudden heavy ringing in your ears.

You hear your name from behind you. Someone’s walking towards you. Maybe several someones - you can’t quite tell.

“Are you okay?”

Your mouth moves in response, but from the expressions on their faces, you know you can’t have replied.

You try to focus on the face in front of you, but it keeps slipping in and out of focus. You feel a hand catch your shoulder, another at your back, and then you're aware of the floor rushing up far too quickly.

*****A

Carter knows in his gut that something’s wrong as soon as his pager goes. He has no OB patients on his list, and there’s no reason for them to be contacting him - unless it’s you.

“Shit, shit,” he mutters. “I-I’ve gotta go.”

There are some confused glances from Lucy and Dr. Greene but he doesn’t spare them a second glance as he sprints towards the stairs. The elevator loses too much time.

His shoes squeak against the polished floor as he rounds the corner, ignoring the curious looks from staff who know him well enough to realise something has gone very wrong.

“Where is she?”

The nurse at the station looks up.

“Dr. Carter-”

“Where is she?”

There’s a pause, as if she’s deciding whether or not to answer. Finally, she speaks, “Room seven.”

He’s moving before the final syllable leaves her lips. To his immense relief, when he practically slides into the room, you’re awake. You look decidedly weaker than you did when he saw you yesterday, but he’d had visions of you unconscious and bleeding out. “What happened?”

The OB at your side, Dr. Colburn, turns at the sound of his voice. “Just a little fainting spell - baby and mom are both doing well.”

“Fainting?” He repeats, incredulous. “How long?”

“Only briefly. She came around before we got her here.”

He looks back at you, and you shrug. “I got a little dizzy.”

“A little dizzy?”

“John.”

“You passed out.”

Dr. Colburn interjects, shooting you a glance. “She reported spotting and cramping too.”

“Both of which are now over,” You reply immediately. “It’s nothing to worry about.”

Colburn continues, calm and matter-of-fact. “We're going to watch the contractions, monitor the baby's heart rate, repeat some bloodwork, and assess whether the bleeding continues. At this point, there isn't enough information to say exactly what's causing it. Could be placental abruption, pre-term labour for various reasons, but hopefully with enough rest we can nip it in the bud.”

You lift one shoulder, and try to smile at Carter. “See? They're not worried.”

Colburn looks directly at you.

“I didn't say that.”

You give her a sheepish smile.

“Right.”

“I assume you’re staying, Dr. Carter?” She asks, and John nods.

“Could somebody call down to the ER and tell them to phone someone else in?”

“John,” you groan, but he holds a hand up to cut you off.

“Nope. No arguing on this one, sweetheart.”

Colburn makes her final checks and leaves, making the room feel almost claustrophobic. All you can focus on is Carter’s gaze, zeroed in on every single movement you make. “I really am okay, you know.”

“I know you think you are.”

Your brow furrows a little. “I am.”

“Okay.” He doesn’t argue further, but he does reach out to brush his thumb of your knuckles. Tilting your hand upwards, you let his fingers close around yours, as you both settle into a comfortable silence.

*****A

For a while, nothing happens.

The monitors continue their steady rhythm. Carter sits beside you, one hand loosely around yours, pretending he's not hyper-aware of each passing beep and figure.

You have your eyes closed again, chasing some kind of sleep. Then your fingers tighten around his. He looks up immediately. “What?”

You don't answer at first, but your face as changed. The faint little smile is gone, and you're staring down at your stomach with a crease between your eyebrows.

“Hey. Come on. Talk to me.”

You swallow. “I think it's starting again.”

“The cramping?”

You nod, and Carter straightens in the chair. “How bad?”

“It's fine.”

“That's not what I asked.”

You take a slow breath. “It's a little worse than before.”

He reaches for the call button without a second thought. A sharp cry suddenly escapes from your lips as you curl forward a little, hunching into his touch. “S-Shit, John, I-I think my water broke-”

Carter pulls back the duvet, and is horrified to see a gush of blood against the white sheets.

******A

“It’s placental abruption,” Colburn announces, immediately snapping into work mode, “And I know this isn’t ideal, but we’re going to have to deliver. Now.”

If you were thinking more clearly, you’d realise that a natural birth is entirely out of the question with abruption. The way things stand, your mind is currently muddled in a haze of exhaustion and pain meds. “It has to be a caesarean?”

“With your permission, I’d like to put you under general anaesthesia to deliver the baby - it’s the most efficient way to protect both of you.”

You shake your head, grip tightening on John’s hand in a desperate plea - the fear in your eyes is all-consuming, and he hates every second of it. He wishes so strongly that he could do something, anything at all, to alleviate your pain. If given the chance to shoulder a hundred times what you’re facing right now, he’d accept without a second thought.

Anything to stop the pained cries falling from your lips with each passing contraction.

“Don’t want the general, John, please,” You whimper. “I-I want to see her when she’s born.”

For the first time in your entire pregnancy, John doesn’t correct you on your pronoun use. Even though you’ve been convinced since conception that your baby is a girl, while he’s still firmly on team boy.

The weight of your words suddenly hit him - in the most vulnerable moment of your life, you’re trusting him to be your advocate. Somebody who was a near stranger just a few months ago. There’s a lump in his throat and a tear in his eye, but he swallows it back.

Now is not the time for emotion.

He’s got to be strong for both of you.

“Can we do a spinal instead?”

Colburn glances up. “I’m willing to give it one go. If it doesn’t block appropriately, then we’ll have to sedate - I’m sorry.”

He’s overcome with a sudden urge to press his lips to the notch between your brows. “It’ll be okay - promise. Just hold my hands, and we can roll you over, and try the spinal, okay?”

The next few minutes blur together.

There are hands everywhere, voices coming at you from every direction, people moving with a comforting precision.

In your anaesthesia residency, you’ve done hundreds, if not thousands, of spinal blocks. It feels so much more terrifying to be on the other end, knowing that it’s one of the only things that can keep you and your baby safe.

You feel the pressure, the sting, then the strange pushing sensation in your lower back. John watches your face the entire time, trying to read every flicker of discomfort.

Then they lay you back. For a moment, there’s relief.

Maybe this will work.

Maybe you’ll get what you asked for.

Maybe you’ll be awake when they bring your baby into the world.

The anaesthesiologist starts checking the block. You feel the cold against your skin.

“Can you feel that?”

You nod, and they try again.

“And this?”

You swallow, tears beginning to prick at your eyes again. “Yes.”

Your eyes close, and a small sob escapes as discussions break out amongst the other doctors in the room. John moves closer to you, dropping down to speak into your ear. “You’ll be fine. I know this is far from ideal, but they’re going to take care of you both-”

“I don't want to miss it.”

John's throat tightens. “I know.”

“I want to hear her cry.”

“You will.”

“I want-”

Your voice breaks off into a whimper, and John’s grip on your hand tightens.

“You're going to wake up, and she's going to be there.”

You wish you could a fraction of his certainty.

A tear finally slips down your cheek. John catches it with his thumb. “I thought you said it was going to be a boy?” You manage weakly.

He lets out the smallest laugh. “Figured I shouldn’t be arguing with the mother of my child.”

“Good call,” You reply, before the panic starts to set in again. You can see the anaesthesia team prepping, and you think you might be sick. “Y-You’ll look after her, right John?” Your eyes grow frantic, darting between them and Carter. “If — if something happens-”

“Nothing’s going to happen,” he insists. “We’ll look after her together, a-and it’ll be great, okay?”

“I’m sorry, you two, but we have to make a start.”

Carter manages to pull every scrap of courage together to meet your gaze. “I’m going to be right here the entire time.”

You nod slightly, and the team begin their work, preparing the propofol to be injected into your IV. John doesn't let go until he's certain you're asleep. Only then does he step back, allowing the team to move him away from the table, and move you to the OR.

John Carter hasn’t been a religious man in a very long time, but he finds himself praying as the obstetric team begin work on you. He may not be a surgeon anymore, but he can still tell how these things are going, and you’re losing a lot of blood. If he was compatible with your blood type, he’d ask them to hook him up to you directly.

Let him help somehow.

“I know that your situation is… unique,” Colburn begins, glancing up at him as they make their first cuts. “But I’m just warning you now that there may be some… difficult decisions to be made soon. Her parents aren’t here, and as father of the baby, you would be next-of-kin-”

“I want you to save her,” Carter interrupts, eyes still glued to your form on the operating table. “I-I mean, obviously, save both - but uh… if it comes down to it, I need you to save her.”

Colburn holds his gaze for a second, before nodding. “We'll do everything we can.”

He drops down by the head of the operating table, sinking onto a small stool the anaesthetist pushes toward him. His hands clasp tightly around yours, wrapping your limp, unresponsive fingers in both of his warm, trembling palms. He presses your knuckles against his forehead, closing his eyes tightly as if he can force his own strength directly into your veins.

He flinches at the word haemorrhaging, his face losing what little colour it has left. He decides that a just god would let you both survive this. “Uterine incision made,” Colburn announces sharply, cutting through his panic. “Neonatal team, step up. Baby is coming out now.”

Colburn works quickly, proving her status as head of the department as the team deliver your tiny, impossibly small baby.

And then…

Nothing.

No cry.

No angry squawk.

No immediate sound at all.

“It’s a girl!” is all he can focus on as his daughter is transferred over to the incubator.

He almost wants to laugh. Of course it’s a girl. Of course you’re right about it. You’ve been right about everything, this entire time.

God, he hopes you get to meet her.

“APGAR five!

He thinks he might be sick. The room feels suspended in time - stuck in a moment where he might lose both of you.

Five seconds.

Ten.

Twenty.

The baby still isn't crying.

Carter's eyes finally move toward the warmer.

He catches a glimpse. Even in this state, she’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. His daughter. His girls.

He’s never prayed harder.

Finally, a small wail warbles across the operating room, and the paediatrician lets out a sigh of relief. “APGAR improving, her temp is rising!”

You’re both fighters, John decides. You can get through this.

“Dr. Carter, we have to take the baby up to the NICU - her lungs aren’t fully developed yet because of her age. We’re going to need to put her on CPAP for the time being.”

He nods, trying to absorb all the information.

“You’re welcome to come up, or stay with your wife.”

He doesn’t correct the neonatologist, and briefly considers the options. He knows that you’d want him to follow the baby. You’d tell him that you’re fine, and that he should be with his daughter.

Something keeps his feet planted to the ground. “I’ll be up once she’s stitched up.”

******A

It feels like you’ve been asleep for a century when you finally come to. You try to open your eyes, and nothing happens. Trying again, this time the room comes into focus in pieces.

White ceiling.

Dim lights.

Yet another monitor somewhere beside you.

And John Carter, sat diligently by your bedside.

Your first instinct is panic. If John is here, something must have happened to the baby. He registers your expression immediately, and shakes his head. “She’s fine.”

“She?” You repeat weakly, a smile tugging at your lips.

“She’s in the NICU. She was having a little trouble breathing when she was born, but they're taking care of her - she’s 3.4 pounds, and sixteen inches, and she’s perfect.”

You stare at him, awash with every emotion under the sun. Joy, that your baby is alright. Guilt, that you weren’t the first to hold her, or speak to her. Fear, at how badly things could have gone today. “Did she cry?”

John smiles. “Eventually.”

“Eventually?”

“She gave everyone a bit of a scare. So did you.”

Your bottom lip trembles. “I’m guessing I can’t see her right now.”

John shakes his head, expression sombre. “They said you’d need an hour or two before they can transfer you to a wheelchair and go up. M’sorry. But I took some pictures for you.”

You’re hoping for some kind of camera, but instead John produces his phone. He flips it open and presses a few buttons. The screen lights up with a photograph so pixelated you can barely make out what you're looking at. You squint. “Is that her?”

“Yeah.”

You take the phone carefully from him.

The next picture is somehow worse, but you can just about make out a tiny face obscured by wires, a little hat, a bundle of blankets.

“Oh.” Your expression changes. “She’s so little.”

“Very little,” Carter agrees.

You click to the next one. This one is mostly blur. “John, this is terrible.”

“I was working with limited technology! Besides - it’ll make going up to see her all the more exciting. Trust me. She’s much cuter in person. Looks just like you.”

“Yeah?” You smile.

“There’s very little Carter in there so far.” There’s a pause, and his voice drops low, uncharacteristically serious. “I’m so glad you’re okay, sweetheart.”

You bite your lip, eyes shining. “Thank you for today.”

He dismisses it with a hand gesture. “It was nothing - you know I’d do anything for you. In a heartbeat.”

He’s said it all throughout your pregnancy, but you’re really starting to believe him.

“Thought about what you wanted to call her?” He asks, leaning down to rest his head on your thigh. Absent-mindedly, your hand drops to card through his hair.

“What - you don't have an opinion?”

John’s made ample use of his veto for all sorts of names over the last few months. A part of you is surprised that he’s feeling so nonchalant about it after she’s here.

“My opinion is that I’m happy you’re both healthy - nothing else matters to me.”

“Well… I reserve the right to change my mind after I meet her if it doesn’t suit… but I like Rosalie. Rosie for short.”

John mulls it over for a second, before smiling.

“Rosie Carter. I like that.”

As if staring hard enough will make the line vanish, and this nightmare disappear.

You can't have a child.

You can barely handle your dog, Pablo - were it not for a friendly neighbour offering to walk him with her own, you'd have had to pay for someone to come in and let him out during your long days.

You're a second-year anaesthetics resident. You're going to be working insane hours for the foreseeable.

This is what you get for trying to bulk up your CV for a trauma fellowship. After pulling some ER data, and spending a couple of days down there with Benton, you'd managed to pull an abstract together on 'First-Pass Intubation Success in the Critically Injured Patient'. It got accepted to a conference down in Dallas, and you'd scraped together enough cash to go.

Benton was never going to take time out of theatre to go to some schmooze-fest, so you were on your own.

Until John Carter had tracked you down after your presentation to ask you a couple of questions.

You'd been expecting them to be about the study - that maybe he was wondering if his own intubations had been included in the data, but they almost have nothing to do with medicine at all.

How do you know Benton?

I'm the only anaesthetist resident he hasn't made cry yet. Think that automatically makes me his favourite.

It's funny. I did a year of surgery, and I feel like I definitely would've remembered you.

After putting together the timeline, you'd realised that you'd been working in obstetric anaesthesia during his surgical internship, while he'd been stuck in triage on the days that you were down in the ER.

The amount of times your paths almost crossed was impressive.

Not that you didn't know Carter.

Of course you do. With the boyish grin, and big brown eyes, you're pretty sure every woman in Chicago is aware of him. He had dated one of your fellow residents, and she'd spent the entire short-lived relationship gushing about how good he was in bed.

After he dumped her, none of you were even allowed to mention his name.

At the time, you hadn't paid it much mind, but sitting across from at the hotel bar had gotten you thinking about Helen's tales, and whether they were true or not.

It hadn't taken you long to find out. After sticking together for the rest of the day, you'd ended up at a bar nearby, drinking on Carter's dime before he kissed you over a margarita, and asked if you wanted to go back to his hotel room.

It had been an easy yes.

Work makes it nearly impossible to date non-medics, and hospital politics make it impossible to sleep with your immediate co-workers without the gossip spreading like wildfire.

All to say, you haven't been laid in a long time.

It doesn't hurt that he's 6'2 and gorgeous.

Even if you do get a trauma fellowship at County, the odds of you having to regularly interact with Carter are slim to none. Most of the time, you're only physically in the ER briefly, before the patient is taken to theatre.

You kept telling yourself that it won't be awkward, as he took your hand in his and led you to a far nicer floor than the one you had been staying on.

Part of you made a mental note to go digging about the state of his finances, but that had been completely forgotten when he made you cum twice before even reaching for the buttons on his own slacks.

Maybe Helen was right.

Whatever Carter may lack in technical precision, he more than makes up for with his eagerness to please.

The next morning, you'd acknowledged that it was a good time, and parted as acquaintances.

And now, eight weeks on, you're pregnant with his baby.

You're not even sure how, outside of the obvious 'man meets woman' bullshit. You've been a stickler for birth control your entire life. Never missing a day, and always taking it at the same time each morning.

You'd never considered that you might one day be part of the 0.3% that still manage to get pregnant with it.

Not when your friends would miss days and never pull out and always be fine.

Leaning forward, you drop your head into your hands and let out a heavy sigh. You shouldn't have let him finish inside, even with the birth control.

You wouldn't normally.

But both of your minds had been totally clouded by lust, and when Carter had been panting above you, cheeks flushed, you distinctly remember telling him that it was alright.

N-Need you inside. S'fine - I'm on the pill, oh, oh god, John-

This is why you're not a spontaneous person. This is why you make lists, and weigh up pros and cons before you even consider making decisions.

All it gets you is being single and pregnant and still in thousands of dollars of medical school debt.

You've seen Carter a few times in passing since the conference, and he's always been friendly. A hand on your waist as he passes behind you in the cafeteria, a kiss pressed to your cheek in greeting at the surprise party he threw Benton.

Nothing close to what you're going to have to tell him today.

*****

You find out from one of the nurses that Carter is due to finish his shift in fifteen minutes, and take up your wait in the ambulance bay. You're still feeling jittery from this morning's revelation, and worry that contact with anybody for too long will lead to you blurting out your news.

You're contemplating every life decision you've ever made when he finally appears. "Hey - what are you doing here?"

John Carter is a very easy man to read, and you can tell exactly what he's thinking right now. He's assuming that you've had the shift from hell, and just need some time to cool off.

He doesn't realise that you're about to turn this into the shift from hell.

Still - you don't want to break it to him harshly.

He doesn't deserve that.

"Can we talk?"

Not the most original of openings, but there's really no other way to do it. He nods immediately, and goes to sit down, but you get to your feet instead. "Not here - walk with me?"

"Are you alright?"

He falls into step beside you, and you can hear the concern seeping into his tone. It makes you want to cry. Rather than draw it out any longer, you shake your head, lip between your teeth.

"I'm pregnant."

Both time and John slow to a stop, the latter's mouth managing to form a perfect 'o' as he stares at you. "What?"

You swallow, wiping hastily at the stray tear on your cheek. "Found out this morning. B-But, I swear I was on the pill, and this isn't one of those like baby-trapping scenarios, I-I mean I don't even know if I want it-"

"Hey, hey," he interjects softly, reaching out to put a comforting hand on your shoulder. "That's not what I was thinking at all. I'm just shocked."

"I'm sorry," you sniff, finally gathering the courage to meet his gaze.

"You think this is your fault?" He almost laughs. "Honey - it was very much a two-man operation."

His eyes flick downwards for a second, to your currently unchanged stomach. The first of many things that would change if you kept this baby.

"Do you want kids?"

It's a surprisingly pragmatic response - one that you figure most guys would be incapable of. You weren't exactly expecting theatrics, but you thought he would seem a little more perturbed by the news.

It throws you off.

"I mean... yeah, I guess? Didn't envision it happening right now, though. Thought I'd be an attending... have a house..."

Be married. You don't say that part aloud.

He doesn't reply for a second.

"Do you want to?"

"Do I want to what?"

"Do it with me." His expression is earnest, and if you knew him better you might be able to detect the slight hint of excitement in his tone. A sane man would be begging you to get an abortion - that's what you'd been gearing up to hear. Just an hour ago, you were convinced yourself that you were headed that way. "Just... just hear me out. How often do you go out on dates?"

Feels like a strange segue, but you consider. "Not very often. Like once every few months."

"I'm the same. Can you see that changing in the next few years?"

You mull it over a little. "I guess not."

He nods once, like it confirms whatever theory he's cooking up. "Right."

"Right?"

"So," he shifts, angling his body towards yours. "You're probably not meeting the love of your life next week."

"That's a little bleak, Carter."

"I'm being realistic," he corrects. "It's not going to happen to me either."

When you don't seem to catch his drift, he changes tactics, gesturing vaguely. "Five years from now, what will your life look like?"

"I finish training. Become an attending," you frown.

"You work more."

"I make more money."

"You work more."

You roll your eyes. "Okay, I get it."

"No, seriously." His voice stays even. "You become an attending. You buy a house. Then what?"

"I-I don't know," You admit.

"You start dating?"

You shrug. "I'd like to."

"But will you?" He presses.

At his insistence, you try and envision a world in which you suddenly morph into a social butterfly, and manage to find your dream man on your one day off a week. "I don't know," you finally admit. "Look - where are you going with this?"

"My point is..." He pauses, choosing his words carefully. "You want kids. I want kids."

You stare at him, before letting out a short, disbelieving laugh. "And you think we should just... have a baby together."

"I think it's worth talking about."

"You don't even know me."

He shakes his head. "I know enough."

"No, you don't. I-I mean, how would we finish our residencies? Look after an entire human? We're not even together!"

John takes each question in his stride. "Loads of doctors have kids during residency. Mark Greene had his daughter in med school, and he's fine-"

He's also divorced and sees his daughter twice a month, but you don't interrupt.

"-I could cut back on my hours and watch them. I have some inheritance, and you could have a good maternity leave too. And not being together almost makes it easier, don't you think? Just two friends, raising a kid. No complications, y'know? No messy divorce that'll scar the kid for life, no break-ups."

You hate to say it, but he's making some good points.

But it's such a huge decision to make.

Sensing your uncertainty, he reaches for your hand. "If you don't want to, that's fine as well. M'not gonna get mad at you for choosing. But if you do want to... I'm all in."

"Can I think about it?"

"Of course, sweetheart. Just give me a call when you've made your mind up, and we can go from there."

*****

John doesn't hear from you for almost a week, and he has to pretend that it's not driving him stir crazy.

Each time his phone goes, each time his pager bleeps, he lunges for it - in the hopes that it'll finally be you.

He's all but given up hope of hearing from you tonight when his cell rings. Instinctively, he grabs it, answering immediately. "Hello?"

What follows is the sweetest six words he's ever heard in his life.

"Looks like we're having a baby."

Jason Todd

is surprised to say the least

the guy not only revealed his vigilante persona to you, he also shared his deepest darkest trauma, surprised (and grateful) you didn't turn your back on him

sure, you started as fuck-buddies, but after growing closer, sharing more, going on literal romantic dates, how could you still think jason is being casual abut you?

he's laying on your couch and you're crouched beside him, patching up a particularly nasty stab wound on his side when you can't hold it back anymore and confess that you fucked up and developed feelings for him

Jason, baffled, ignoring the pain to sit up a little straighter, cupping your face 

"you know who I am. you know what I do. we've talked about shit I haven't told anyone else. and you're telling me you didn’t think we were already together?” he kisses the top of your head

Wally West

has never reacted faster 

you barely begin your question when he interrupts you

“no! stop! it's not fair, I wanted to ask you out for real today!” he's pissed he didn’t ask you sooner, never intending to make you feel insecure in the arrangement you had

“I thought I made it obvious I liked you. is that why you pulled away the past week?” he asks

you tell him that you thought you were the only one pining and a bit embarrassed about your feelings for him

Roy Harper

happy, extremely happy (and horny)

when you ask him, he replies dryly “well, we fuck?” when he sees that you’re visibly upset, he tries again, “I thought you wanted to keep it casual?”

you throw a pillow at him, ready to throw something heavier if necessary

“hey, hey, easy! why so angry?”

“asshole!” you throw another pillow "I can't believe I actually thought I could have feelings for you!" 

he smirks “you like me?” after you’ve run out of pillows to throw at him, he makes his way over to you “I might like you too, depends? are you gonna keep trying to murder me? that's kinda hot, I have to admit.” 

you punch his shoulder, then fail at hiding your growing smile before he kisses you, about to test out his new privileges as your boyfriend 

Bruce Wayne

embarrassed that he misunderstood the relationship 

after your latest hook up, you find a large sum of money transferred to your account

bruce has sent you smaller gifts like flowers before, but money? who does he think you are?

he's confused at first, assuming you're busy. but after a week of you ignoring every text and phone call, he ends up standing outside your door

“I thought you actually liked me! but then I find out you paid me? I am so stupid!”

it takes him a while to explain that he didn't intend it as "payment", he  just wanted you to have something nice and that he maybe shouldn't have sent it right after hooking up

No one was surprised when Allie picked Dean—and sent home Sean—at the last recoupling.

As much as Allie insisted otherwise, and you’re sure on some level she did genuinely believe it, there was absolutely no competition between the two. You’re pretty sure that the only person who didn’t know exactly what was going to go down at that fire pit was Allie herself.

On some level you felt bad for Sean, it obviously sucks being sent home, but honestly, you and him were never close and he and Garrett definitely weren’t either, so it wasn’t entirely heartbreaking to see the back of him.

Also, Allie is your girl and getting to see her finally be in a relationship that lets her be who she wants instead of who she thinks she should be, had made you Team Dean from the moment she first confessed showing interest in him. So while losing an Islander is always a bit sad, you were happy that it at least meant that Allie and Dean could couple up.

You are starting to become less happy about Allie and Dean coupling up. 

“Oh my god, my concealer can’t even cover my eyebags anymore!” Kendall complains, borderline slamming setting powder into her skin.

Your response comes in the form of a yawn so big it makes your eyes water.

Dionne tries to swipe on mascara and almost misses. “Allie, I love you, but if you and Dean spend one more night hooking up so loudly that all of us can hear, I’m putting a fucking chastity belt on that man and supergluing his hands together.”

The problem was that none of you had anticipated just how excited Allie and Dean would be to finally be coupled up. The first night, you all let it slide, cheering Allie on and demanding details when she walked into the dressing room that morning. The second night, you’d laughed about it, joking that the two need to do laps in the pool or something because they have way too much stamina. By the fourth night, it was no longer funny.

Allie winces as she takes in all of your exhausted expressions. “I’m really sorry, guys. It’s just—Dean can be—,”

“Nope, not listening to this again.” Hannah holds her hand up resolutely. “I don’t care what Dean can be—I know what Dean can be, I have to hear it every night!”

You take a tired sip of your breakfast smoothie that Garrett had only had the energy to set down in front of you, press a kiss to your head, and grumble about how he was going to go pass out somewhere, while glaring at Allie.

“I like Dionne’s chastity belt idea. Does anyone think they’d be able to swallow a key?”

“Guys,” Allie whines, but when none of you fold she sighs. “Okay, fine, no more tonight. I promise.”

None of you fully believe her, but you go back to getting ready nonetheless. (Hannah nods off while doing her blush and you almost line your lips with eyeliner.)

“I hate that he’s fucking smiling,” Garrett grumbles into your neck. “He doesn’t deserve to be happy.”

“Who—? Oh.” You cut yourself off when you get your answer in the form of Dean walking past you with a large grin on his face. 

The two of you are stretched out on one of the daybeds, Garrett’s arms wrapped around you as you fiddle with his fingers. All around the Villa, the energy is subdued, everyone having reached that point of exhaustion where they’re too tired to keep pretending that they aren’t.

Everyone except Dean, apparently, who must have been on his way to work out when he passed you, because he’s in the gym now, taking a few weights off the weight rack.

“Cocky fuck,” Garrett mutters under his breath and you laugh.

“Dionne was saying we should get him a chastity belt.”

Garrett nods a bit too seriously. “I’ll hold him down while you put it on.”

You tilt your head to look at him. “You want me that close to another guy’s dick?” You ask playfully.

“...I’ll hold him down while Tucker puts it on.”

You trace Garrett’s ring finger with two of your own, bending and stretching it in a way that would almost seem medical, if you knew anything about anatomy. “Allie promised the girls they’d let us sleep tonight.”

“I’ll believe that when I hear it.”

“If you want, I can be on earplug duty tonight,” you offer. Garrett had graciously adapted to your new, unwanted, bedroom soundtrack by sacrificing his own sleep to cover your ears for you while you tried to fall asleep, in his best attempt to muffle the noise. “So you can actually get some rest.”

Garrett presses his lips to the place where your neck meets your shoulder. “Nah, you need your beauty sleep.”

“Oh, I need it, huh?”

Clearly Garrett is too tired for your teasing and he nips your skin in response. “Stop.”

You reach your hand behind you, tangling it in his curls so you can play with his hair, and you feel him physically relax against you. He lets out a sigh of relief as his eyes flutter closed.

A familiar chime cuts through the air and you hear Dionne’s tired groan.

“I got a text!”

Garrett genuinely whimpers, burying his face into your neck for another moment longer before forcing himself to get up.

“‘Islanders, tonight the Hideaway is open! Please vote for the couple you think deserves a special night in the suite #AllNightNoSleep #AloneAtLast’”

The Hideaway announcement rejuvenates you all with just enough energy to get excited about it, each couple splitting off to decide who to vote for. You’d been waiting for an opportunity to go to the Hideaway since pretty much the moment you coupled up with Garrett, but as you move back to the daybeds to talk, you can’t help the way your stomach twists shamefully. 

“Don’t be mad.”

Garrett raises a brow as you sit down. “About what?”

You hesitate, squeezing your eyes closed like you hate the words coming out of your mouth. “I think we should let Allie and Dean go to the Hideaway.” Before Garrett can react, you continue. “It’s just—We’ve barely been able to sleep, you know? I just think I’m gonna be so tired that I’m just gonna pass out the second we get there and if we let them go then everyone will be able to sleep—,” You look at him and wince guiltily. “I’m sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?”

You tuck your bottom lip into your teeth and start biting at the skin of it nervously. “I know you were looking forward to this…”

“I mean, yeah, I always look forward to being alone with you and I am definitely looking forward to doing other things… But—,” He leans forward, catching your bottom lip with the pad of his thumb and gently removing it from your gnawing teeth. “I also look forward to spending time with you, and sharing a bed with you, and cuddling with you, and actually sleeping. I don’t want you to feel like you have to do more than that, just because I want to.”

“I don’t—!”

“I know you don’t.” He assures you. “But I also wanted you to hear it from me, too.”

You pout, before flopping on the daybed and flinging the back of your hand over your forehead dramatically. “This is literally the worst thing that has ever happened to me!”

“That cannot be true,” Garrett snorts.

You peek at him through your fingers. “When we finally go to the Hideaway, I’m gonna suck you dry.”

Garrett chokes on his own spit.

After you and Garrett selflessly bow out of the running, everyone’s able to come to an agreement quickly—Allie and Dean should go to the Hideaway.

“As much as I don’t want to reward you, this is the only way any of us are guaranteed sleep,” Dionne sighs when Allie does an excited dance at the results.

Garrett claps Dean on the shoulder, digging his fingers in until the blond is wincing. “You have no idea what I’ve sacrificed for this,” he tells him flatly.

As conflicted as you all are about it, the fact that you know you’re sleeping tonight does raise everyone’s spirits and you’re able to end the night on high, sending Dean and Allie off to the Hideaway with a lewd chant you and the girls had come up with during your first week in the Villa.

As soon as Dean and Allie disappear from sight, you all get ready for bed quickly.

“Goodnight!” Kendall calls out as she gets comfortable in her and Tucker’s bed. “Everyone better get at least nine hours!”

You all cheer through yawns in response and you let Garrett throw an arm over your middle as the lights of the bedroom turn off.

You shift your legs to get comfortable, lift your head and fold your pillow to be more firm under you, and tuck Snowy in about seven different positions under your arm for at least half an hour before you come to the horrific realization that you can’t sleep.

Garrett groans quietly when you shift again. “Baby, stop moving.”

And you really try not to, forcing yourself to stay still and squeezing your eyes shut. But then your legs are touching each other weirdly, and the angle your neck is at is driving you crazy, and something in the pit of your stomach feels hot, and you can’t stay still anymore. You flip onto your back with a huff.

“I can’t sleep…” You whisper.

Garrett’s already half asleep, your words sounding more like they’re coming from a dream than from you. “Mm?”

The air is too hot and your spine feels crooked and no matter which way you arch or round your back, it still feels wrong. You thrash around in annoyance, shoving your face into your pillow to whine, and it’s enough to make Garrett more coherent.

“Okay,” he wipes a heavy hand over his face to wake himself up. “Okay, I’m up.”

You decide that the duvet is stupid and fling it from your body, causing it to fold awkwardly over Garrett.

“I just wanna sleep,” you plead helplessly.

Garrett shushes you gently, taking in your squirming body and the pinched pout on your face, and he tightens his grip around you to keep you from moving more. He uses his other arm to pull the blanket back over you, shushing you again before you can grumble a complaint.

“Okay, I got you,” he murmurs, fighting back a yawn as he shifts closer until his chest is pressed tightly against your back. “I got it.”

You want to argue that he definitely doesn’t “got it” because you’re still very much awake, but any argument dies in your throat when the hand he has wrapped around your middle starts moving down to the waistband of your sleep shorts.

“Garrett…”

“Shh, shh, shh.” His lips find your neck as his fingers slide under your shorts and, suddenly, the heat in your stomach intensifies and you realize why you can’t fall asleep. You lift your hips slightly, trying to get his fingers closer to where you want, but Garrett’s teeth sink into your skin warningly. “Stay still or I’m stopping.”

Your hips fall immediately and obediently and Garrett rewards the action by finally giving you what you want, rubbing a slow circle over the cotton of your panties. You only get one though, before his fingers crawl down farther to explore the wet patch growing on your gusset. 

“Poor baby,” he coos condescendingly. “This why you can’t sleep?”

You’re about to nod hastily—anything to get him to keep going—before you remember his earlier threat and stop yourself.

You feel his smile grow against your neck. “Fast learner,” he praises.

He guides you to lift up one of your legs, stretching it behind you until it’s hooked over his hip. It gives him more room and he climbs his hand back up your body until he’s able to slide it under your panties, his thick fingers pressing against the bare skin of your pelvis. He lets out a strained breath against your ear that causes a shiver to break out across your body. You let out a small whimper and he makes a soft noise of disapproval.

“I’ll give you what you want, baby, but you have to be quiet for me.”

His whole hand is cupping you, palm resting—but not moving—against your clit as he gathers some of your slick with his middle and ring finger. He teases your entrance slowly, every so often dipping a finger in, but never pushing past the cuticle. Whenever his palm shifts to follow the action it sends a jolt to your clit.

It takes everything you have not to arch into it and buck your hips until he’s three knuckles deep. Your thighs are shaking with effort, your breath is coming out in soft pants, but you force yourself to stay still.

“Good girl.”

You can hear the soft breathing of the Islanders sleeping around you. You know the room is covered in hidden cameras and microphones. Nothing about this bedroom was created with privacy in mind.

But your sleep mask is snug against your eyes and Garrett’s face is tucked into your neck and his hand is moving so slowly, it’s not even disturbing the duvet. At a glance, the two of you looked like you were—semi-innocently—spooning.

Without your sight, everything else feels heightened. The slight scratch of Garrett’s stubble on your skin, the feeling of his boxers pressed against your inner thigh, the puffs of his breath against the shell of your ear. You’re surrounded by the clean, pine scent of his body wash and hints of his cedar cologne linger on the sheets, filling your senses with nothing but Garrett.

Your jaw drops open in a silent moan when his middle finger finally slips inside of you. You have to clamp down on your bottom lip when he curls it, dragging the pad of his finger against your walls. You clench tightly around it and Garrett has to shift his hand so that his thumb can stimulate your clit in pressured circles until you’re relaxed enough that he can insert another finger.

One of your hands claws at his wrist desperately.

His fingers are big, thicker and longer than yours and effortlessly reaching spots that you can’t on your own. You can feel the rough callouses you’d spent the afternoon studying, the memorized knowledge of exactly where they are on each finger heightening the feeling of them entering and exiting you.

Garrett pushes his fingers in as far as they can go, only stopping when his palm is pressed tightly against your opening. He curls them until they’re pressing into a spot that rips a strangled moan out of your lips. Garrett stills instantly and you think you might cry, the knot that had slowly been tightening in your stomach now starting to fade away. 

“No, no, please…”

Garrett ignores your begging with a simple instruction whispered in your ear, “Pull the blanket up.”

You comply quickly, shaky hands gripping onto the edge of the duvet and pulling it up until it’s just above your nose. As soon as the blanket is in place, Garrett’s hand comes from behind you and wraps around your mouth, his fingers digging slightly into the fat of your cheeks as his palm presses tightly against your lips.

“One more chance, baby.”

His fingers start moving inside of you again, faster this time, and his other hand keeps any noises that slip out of your mouth muffled underneath the blanket. His thumb moves back to your clit, rubbing it in tight circles as his fingers pump in and out of you, crooking into that spot that Garrett has somehow already memorized. 

It all overwhelms your senses and you can’t focus on anything for too long—flooded with Garrett’s scent, and his body heat, and the feeling of sweat perspiring from your hairline and the backs of your knees, and his hand muffling your whimpers, and his callouses.    

“You gonna cum for me, baby?” He whispers, his voice hoarse with effort. “You gonna let me watch you fall apart on my fingers?”

He almost sounds drunk, his voice slurred and rushed, exhaustion loosening his lips as they murmur breathy words into your ear. He flexes his forearm in an effort to let his fingers penetrate you deeper.

“You’re doin’ so good bein’ quiet. Can’t wake anyone up, yeah? ‘Cause you know I don’t share, baby. Only I get to see you like this.”

You don’t even totally realize when you’re orgasming—instead it’s the distinct change of feeling like you’re being surrounded by Garrett to suddenly Garrett being everything. One second, Garrett’s pine body wash is filling your nostrils and the next, Garrett is just the air you breathe. Your back arches into him, and your thigh muscles contract, and that tight cord in your stomach snaps, and Garrett’s hand keeps you quiet through all of it.

He keeps his fingers inside of you, soothing you with slow, gentle strokes as you come down from your high. You breathe heavily through your nose and he removes his hand from your mouth, using it to pull the blanket away from your face. You welcome the cool air as your orgasm subsides.

Your muscles have entirely relaxed, your body sinking heavily into the mattress and your eyes finally feel like they’re supposed to be closed, no longer fighting stubbornly against the padded fabric of your sleep mask. You use your last bit of energy to flip over and bury your face into Garrett’s chest. 

You feel him brush his thumb over your forehead to wipe away some of the sweat that’s accumulated there. “You okay, pretty girl?”

You nod—or at least, you think you do, exhaustion hitting you so suddenly that your body doesn’t totally feel real anymore. Whether or not you actually nodded, the dopey, satisfied smile on your face is answer enough and Garrett tilts your chin up gently to press an attentive kiss to your lips, before his hand moves to wrap around the back of your neck to massage it lightly. 

“Okay. Sleep, baby.”

You remember slotting your knee between his thighs, and thinking that the muscle of his bicep is finally a firm enough pillow, and that Garrett found where you’d discarded Snowy on the bed and placed her between you both in just the right position, and then you’re asleep.

BONUS

The morning finds everyone much more rested and in much better moods. Allie and Dean should be coming back from the Hideaway any minute—probably a bit more tired than you all, but also much more satisfied. You’re in the kitchen, half-watching Tucker as he shows you his perfected method to boil the perfect egg as you all eat your breakfast.

You look up when Kendall—who’d been the last to wake up—hops into the kitchen happily. She holds her arms up in triumph. 

“We slept!”

You giggle and you and the girls join her celebrating from where you’re sitting by the kitchen counter.

“And I needed it too,” Hannah emphasizes in agreement, taking a bite of her avocado toast. “I think I was actually starting to go crazy because last night I swore I heard, like, the ghost of Allie and Dean hooking up in the bedroom.”

Your breakfast smoothie goes down the wrong pipe and Garrett hides his smirk behind his coffee mug.

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Hah, he thinks, the shock of having eaten something too hot, too suddenly. This is why he keeps asking you to have his babies, like, not kidding around. You’re remarkably endearing, and you make the prettiest of faces when he ducks down to get your lips under his, and he ushers you deeper into the couch to press his weight into you like a man starved. Your laugh rumbles from your chest to his, as does your happy sigh, your arm going round the back of his head to hook him against you.

“Wanna make a baby?” you mumble into his mouth. 

Steve resists the urge to flick your forehead. “Don’t start.”

“Sorry.” You laugh, and kiss him again with your lips parting and your tongue there and hot and he lets you do it for a couple of blissful seconds before he kisses your cheek twice and climbs off of you to lie down at your side instead. 

The girls’ll be back any time now with best aunt to ever do it, Robin Buckley. It won’t do either of you any good to start what you can’t finish, but he admires you all the same for it. Beautiful woman wants his babies, can you believe it? But beautiful woman has to stop teasing him. You curl into his armpit with a sorry sort of affection and wrap your arm around his stomach, hand at his side, your fingers worming under his shirt to feel his skin. 

“Do you though?” you ask. 

“Huh?”

“Want another one?” 

“Honey, I could have ten of your kids and it wouldn’t be enough.” Steve nudges at your nose with his own and kisses your mouth all wonky, lop-sided, and he’s too slovenly to move so he just kinda lets his mouth drag down the side of your face to drop into your shoulder. “But, like, did you mean soon?” Dove just turned six months. Kinda too soon for another pregnancy, but if you wanted it, Steve could help you make it work, he knows he could. “We could–”

“Yeah, I guess not soon. I’ll have another one with you. Just not, like, now. I think my organs are still in the wrong place. Gimme a year.”

“Of course,” he says, kissing the hill of your shoulder. You laugh at the scratch of his moustache stubble, he knows that’s what it is, and he resents it but can’t resent you. “We don’t have to rush. I’m 24, you know, got my whole life ahead of me.”

“You’re 24?” you ask with another laugh, this one all giggle and snort in the face of his lie. “Practically a child.”

“It’s kinda crazy, right? Me and you, we get so much more than this. We’re gonna be together until we’re in our nineties. This is a third of our life.” He grins into your neck. “Let’s just keep making kids and–”

“They can raise each other,” you finish, rolling your eyes. 

He moved meetings, ignored three increasingly anxious messages from Charleston and told the office he was taking two weeks, possibly three, depending on whether his son rediscovered basic survival instinct. His wife had looked at him across the kitchen island with one eyebrow lifted and asked whether he was taking time off or establishing martial law.

“Time off,” he’d said.

Banks, standing beside the fridge with his car keys newly confiscated, had muttered, “Feels like martial law.”

Rafe had pointed toward the stairs without looking at him. “Keep talking.”

Banks had stopped.

Now, on a bright Saturday morning, Rafe stands over the grill with a wire brush in one hand and six sixteen-year-old boys sprawled across the back deck behind him like laundry nobody has folded. 

Their shoes are abandoned near the sliding door. Three empty cans of soda sweat rings into the outdoor table. Somebody has brought a speaker and is playing music low enough that Rafe has chosen not to complain, mostly because the boys have forgotten he exists.

It’s unexpectedly useful.

They talk differently when they stop performing for adults. The conversation rolls between school, somebody’s terrible new haircut, a rumour about the lacrosse coach and an argument over whether Tyler actually kissed two girls at the same party or only told two different girls that he had.

Rafe scrapes another line of burned grease from the grate and listens without turning around. His wife is going to love this.

She calls it tea, which Rafe finds embarrassing for everybody involved, but she also once sat cross-legged on their bed for nearly an hour while he relayed an argument he’d overheard between Marlowe and two girls from dance.

She’d asked follow-up questions. She’d made him repeat exact wording. At one point, she’d put down her moisturiser and said, “No, no, go back. What did Ava say after Marlowe called her exhausting?”

Rafe hadn’t known what that meant at thirteen. He’s fairly certain he only knew three emotions at that age, and two of them were anger.

Behind him, one of Banks’ friends laughs hard enough to choke on his drink. “Bro, no chance she said that.”

“She did,” another boy insists. “Right in front of everybody.”

“Who?”

“Steph.”

Rafe’s hand slows against the grill. There’s a tiny pause behind him. The sudden, collective awareness of boys who have stepped near information one of them doesn’t want examined.

Then somebody says, “Banks, bro, how is Steph goin’?”

Rafe turns his head just enough to catch his son cutting a quick look toward him.

Banks is stretched low in one of the patio chairs, long legs kicked beneath the table, sunglasses pushed into his hair.

At sixteen, he has begun taking up space the way Rafe does without noticing it – shoulders broadening, knees always in somebody’s way, one arm draped along the chair beside him like the world was built slightly too small.

His expression closes the second he sees Rafe looking.

“Shut up,” Banks mutters.

The boys erupt.

Banks shoves one of them in the shoulder and says, “I’m serious, dude. Shut the fuck up.”

Rafe turns back to the grill before his mouth gives him away. Steph. Interesting.

He files it away for later, somewhere between Tyler lying about his sexual history and Banks having referred to somebody named Cooper as a desperate little freak for posting gym selfies.

His wife will enjoy all of it. She’ll probably ask what Steph’s surname is, and Rafe will have no idea, and then she’ll accuse him of gathering incomplete intelligence.

The back gate clicks below the deck. A second later, Lila’s voice carries up the stairs before the rest of her does. “Daddy!”

Rafe sets the brush down just in time for six years of wet limbs and tangled towel to come flying toward him.

She’s wrapped in a faded pink beach towel from her shoulders to her ankles, her damp hair slicked backward from her face and her feet leaving little dark marks over the boards.

Rafe catches her beneath the arms when she launches, lifting her against his chest while the towel loosens.

“Hey, baby girl.” He settles her onto one hip and pulls the towel higher over her shoulders. Her skin is cool and pebbled beneath his hand despite the heat. “How was the water?”

Lila nods so violently her wet hair slaps against her cheek. “So good. I went splash, and then the water went sploooosh–” Her arm shoots out from the towel, nearly catching Rafe beneath the chin. “–and then Mama had to come get me because I went too far, but I wasn’t too far. Mama just couldn’t see because the wave was big.”

“Right,” Rafe says, looking down the steps. “Sounds responsible.”

His wife reaches the top as Lila begins reenacting the wave against his shoulder. She has a canvas beach bag hanging from one elbow and Lila’s sandals hooked through two fingers.

A pale sarong is knotted low around her waist over a black bikini, damp hair pushed back from her face and drying in uneven bends over her shoulders. There’s a faint strip of sand along one shin and a pink flush high over her chest from the sun.

Rafe forgets the grill. It happens with humiliating regularity. He’ll be in the middle of something normal – opening mail, finding a missing shoe, explaining why the pool company has overcharged them – and she’ll walk into the room looking like that, like three children and half a lifetime have somehow only given her more places for his attention to catch.

Her stomach is softer than it was when they were eighteen. Her hips curve beneath the sarong in a way his hands know better than his own.

There’s a thin silver stretch mark near one side of her waist that he can see when the fabric shifts, left by Banks or Marlowe or Lila; he doesn’t remember which anymore, only that each of their children changed her and somehow made her look more specifically his.

Every version of her body has held some part of their life.

She looks up and smiles at him, attention moving first to Lila shivering in his arms and then to his face. Rafe’s chest pulls tight in the familiar place.

Unfortunately, Banks’ friends have eyes.

He notices because they all go quiet in stages. One boy stops halfway through opening a bag of chips. Another sits up. Tyler, the liar, looks at her for one second too long before glancing quickly toward the ocean as though he has developed a sudden interest in tides.

Rafe’s grip tightens around Lila. Not because he’s jealous of teenage boys. He’s a grown man. A husband. A father. He owns property and has employees and understands at least seventy percent of his mortgage.

Still. Little fucks.

His wife either doesn’t notice or chooses not to. Her entire focus remains on Lila as she steps closer and rubs both hands over the child’s towel-covered arms. “Come on, sweet girl. Let’s get you into a warm shower, yeah? Then I’ll make you some lunch.”

“Yes, please!” Lila immediately begins wriggling out of Rafe’s hold with no concern for gravity.

He lowers her to the deck, catches the towel before it falls and wraps it around her again. “Walk. Boards are slippery.”

“I know, Daddy.”

She runs anyway.

His wife watches her disappear through the sliding door, then comes to him, one hand flattening against the centre of his chest. Her fingers are cool from the water. The contact settles something in him before he has decided it needs settling.

“Hi, baby,” he murmurs.

His hand closes around the back of her neck, thumb fitting beneath her ear as she rises onto her toes and kisses him. It’s brief and warm and tastes faintly like the sunscreen she always gets too close to her mouth.

“Hi, honey.” Her smile brushes his lips. “You want food too?”

“Yeah.” He slides his other hand around her waist, palm flattening over the damp knot of the sarong. “Thank you, baby.”

She looks past him toward the table. “Banks? Boys? Food?”

The response is immediate and absurdly polite.

“Yeah, thanks, Mom,” Banks says.

“Yes, Mrs Cameron.”

“Yes, please, ma’am.”

“Thank you, Mrs Cameron.”

Rafe glances over his shoulder at them. Tyler is looking directly at the table now with the concentration of somebody sitting an exam.

She only nods. “Won’t be long.”

She follows Lila inside, leaving the smell of salt water and coconut sunscreen behind her. Rafe watches until she disappears up the stairs.

Then he turns slowly toward the boys. Every face is arranged into innocence.

Rafe picks up the grill brush. “Something wrong?”

Six heads shake.

“No, sir,” one of them says.

Banks closes his eyes briefly.

Rafe hums and goes back to cleaning.

He waits another five minutes before carrying the brush and drip tray into the kitchen. The window above the sink has been cracked open to let the breeze through, facing straight across the deck toward the ocean. From inside, the boys are mostly hidden by the frame, but their voices carry perfectly through the gap.

Rafe turns on the tap. Behind him, the floorboards upstairs creak as his wife walks Lila toward the bathroom. Pipes groan inside the wall. Outside, a chair scrapes.

Then Tyler says, in the low, urgent voice of somebody sharing state secrets, “Banks, bro.”

Banks sighs. “What?”

“Your mom is so fucking hot.”

Rafe’s hand stops beneath the water. There’s an immediate collision of voices.

“Dude, shut up.”

“No, seriously.”

“Full MILF, man.”

“That’s my mom, you fucking freak.”

“I’m just saying.”

“Don’t.”

Another boy laughs. “No way your old man can handle all that.”

The metal tray slips in Rafe’s hands and hits the sink with a sharp clang. Outside, the conversation dies. Rafe stares through the window at the ocean, jaw locked hard enough that something aches near his ear.

Old man. He’s thirty-eight, not dead. And handle all that? He’s been handling all that since before these little assholes were even a thought. 

He handled her at seventeen when she used to climb through his bedroom window because Ward hated sleepovers. He handled her through college, through a breakup, through three pregnancies, two mortgages, four houses, one wedding and more arguments than he could count. 

He knows exactly where she likes his hand when she falls asleep and which side of her neck makes her knees weaken and how to calm her down without telling her to calm down.

He knows she hates tomatoes unless they’re cooked, that she cries when she’s angry enough, that she pretends not to want the last bite and always wants the last bite.

No way your old man can handle all that.

Rafe shuts off the tap. Stupid fucking children.

Footsteps move down the stairs before he can decide whether throwing six teenagers into the ocean would technically violate his time off. Lila appears first in clean yellow shorts and a shirt with a glittering dolphin across the front, hair brushed and beginning to curl as it dries.

His wife follows more slowly, still in the bikini and sarong, gathering her damp hair into a loose knot.

Lila runs toward the pantry. “Can I have chips?”

“No,” both parents say at once.

She stops. “Why?”

“Because lunch is coming,” his wife says.

“But chips are lunch.”

Rafe reaches for his wife as she passes, catching her around the waist and drawing her between his body and the counter. She comes without resistance, arms folding around his shoulders, her whole weight settling into him with a small, tired hum.

There it is. The thing those idiots outside couldn’t begin to understand. She melts for him.

Her stomach softens against his, cheek tipping near his collarbone while his palm moves slowly up the warm line of her back. She smells like salt and shampoo from helping Lila, though she hasn’t showered yet herself.

“I can make lunch,” he says against her hair. “You wanna go shower?”

“Don’t mind,” she murmurs, fingertips scratching lazily at the back of his neck. “I can do it.”

Rafe lets both hands slide lower, settling over her ass through the thin sarong. He taps lightly once, then again, a quiet rhythm beneath his palms. She makes another soft sound and presses closer.

The sliding door opens. Six boys begin filing into the kitchen, loud until they see him.

Rafe looks over his wife’s shoulder. Every single one of them becomes deeply interested in something else. The fridge. The floor. Lila’s abandoned towel. One boy studies the bowl of fruit as though he has never encountered an apple.

“Little shits,” Rafe mutters.

His wife lifts her head. “What, baby?”

“Nothin’.” He pats her ass again, eyes still on the boys.

Her brows pinch faintly, but then she tilts her chin toward him in the familiar, wordless request she’s made for more years than any of these kids have been alive.

Rafe smiles. She has no idea. His hand comes up to hold her face, fingers spreading along her jaw as he bends and kisses her.

Slow this time. Deliberate. His mouth moves over hers until she opens with a surprised laugh, and then his tongue catches hers just enough to make the laugh melt into a warm, pleased sigh against him.

Lila groans with her whole body and slaps both hands against his thigh. “Yuck! Daddy, stop! Mama!”

From beside the island, Banks says, “Oh my God. Really?”

His wife pulls back laughing, cheeks warm and eyes shining. Rafe steals one more kiss before she can get far, short but thorough enough to make Lila shout again.

“I’ve got lunch,” he tells her, thumb brushing the corner of her mouth. “Go shower, Mama. Tell Marlowe to come down on your way up for me.”

“‘Kay.” She kisses his cheek this time, then slips from his arms and heads toward the stairs. “Lila, don’t touch the chips.”

Lila freezes with one hand already inside the pantry. “I wasn’t.”

She disappears upstairs.

For several seconds, the kitchen stays quiet. Rafe turns toward the boys. They stare anywhere except at him. Banks looks like he wants to crawl beneath the island and stay there until adulthood.

Rafe takes a cutting board from the drawer and sets it on the counter with calm, measured care. “Tyler.”

The boy near the fruit bowl goes pale. “Yes, sir?”

Rafe looks at him, then he nods toward the fridge. “Get the burger meat out.”

Tyler moves immediately. “Yes, sir.”

Rafe glances at the rest of them. “You boys want lunch, you can help. Buns are in the pantry. Plates outside. Banks, cheese.”

They scatter through the kitchen with the efficient panic of unpaid staff during an inspection. Rafe reaches for the knife, mouth pulling slowly to one side.

Old man. Fuck that.

Upstairs, the shower turns on. Marlowe calls something unintelligible through her bedroom door. Lila begins explaining to one of the boys why dolphins are smarter than him.

Banks opens the fridge and mutters, “You’re so embarrassing.”

Rafe looks over at his son, then toward the ceiling where his wife is moving through the house above them, still humming faintly to herself.

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“He won’t I promise.”

“You can’t promise.”

“Fine but I do know he won’t hate you,” he said and brought your laced fingers to his mouth to press a soft kiss. “Because I love you, it’s all that matters.”

“You’re sooooo cheesy,” you dragged out the word but smiled at him nonetheless, a lovesick smile which he mirrored.

“You love me anyway,” he shrugged.

“I guess I do,” you sighed dramatically and peered out the window to see Tim pulling into the driveway of the Wayne Manor.

You had known it was a mansion –it was literally called Wayne Manor but to actually see it was a different sight. It probably covered a large area of the city but then again the other was covered by the Wayne Enterprises buildings. Wow Bruce Wayne really owned Gotham.

Tim helped you out of the car and pulled his sunglasses down his face from where they were perched on his forehead. He gave you a quick peck like not being able to kiss you even for five minutes could cause him heart failure.

You two made your way to the front door while Tim kept a firm hand over your waist, guiding you inside. He didn’t even bother ringing the doorbell.

“Hey,” he greeted Alfred with a little side hug. “This is my girlfriend,” he smiled at you.

“Hi nice to meet you,” you introduced yourself and shook Alfred’s hand.

“Pleased to meet you as well Miss. Master Drake hasn’t shut up about you,” Alfred said plainly without a single expression on his face.

“That would be an understatement,” a bored voice said from behind Alfred.

You peered over Alfred’s shoulder and saw Damian leaning back on the grand staircase giving you a scrutinising look.

“Hi Damian,” you waved at him. “I believe we’ve met?”

Damian gave you a scoff in return. “You’re Superboy’s sister.”

“Yeah,” you replied shyly. “I’m also dating your brother.”

“He’s a coworker at best,” Damian scoffed again.

“Okay!” Someone else suddenly announced and within a blink of an eye, Dick jumped off the landing and landed next to Damian on the staircase. “Ignore him. We are a family. Legally and in all the ways it matters,” he smiled. “I’m Dick,” he said and extended his hand.

“I know we have also met before. On that mission with the rest of the Justice Gang?” You laughed but shook his hand anyway.

“Yeah but I’m officially meeting you as my brother’s girlfriend. Pleased to meet you, please come on in,” he flashed you a grin and gestured for you to follow him to the living room.

“See?” Tim murmured in your ear. “You’re doing great,” he said and gave you another kiss on the cheek.

“Duckie! Don’t kiss me around your family,” you hushed.

“Duckie?” A deep voice scoffed from behind you.

You jumped and turned around while Tim just sighed and shook his head.

A tall boy with a white streak in his hair was standing behind you, Jason, you had realised. His eyes trailed up and down your frame without even being subtle like he was measuring you.

“It’s a joke!” You explained, way too quickly. “You know, because his last name is Drake. Which is a male duck… So… Duckie!” You nervously giggled but he still didn’t change his expression. He just stared at you like you were mental.

“Right,” he drawled eventually and walked past you to plop down on the couch.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered to Tim. “Is he going to give you shit about it?”

“He can if he wants to, I don’t really care,” Tim shrugged and led you towards the pristine leather couch.

Tim took a seat at the edge of the couch near the armrest and tugged you down next to him. You sat down and crossed your legs, your hands coming down to rest on your knees out of nervousness. Tim on the other hand sat with his legs spread wide, his arm resting on the backrest behind you and if you hadn’t been so stiff you would let yourself fall into his open arm.

“Hi,” you jumped at the sudden voice and whipped your head around to see Cass leaning down to whisper in your ear. You didn’t even hear her come in.

“Hey!” You said, a bit too loudly.

“Cass don’t scare the poor girl,” someone else said from next to her. “I’m Stephanie hi,” she smiled at you.

Stephanie. Oh. That Stephanie.

“Hi,” you swallowed nervously and shook her outstretched hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you from Tim.”

“Oh?” Stephanie laughed and quirked an eyebrow at him. “Really boy wonder?”

She still calls him boy wonder. The name you call him affectionately but you tried not to let it get to you since the name stood for Robin. Not Tim specifically.

“Yeah,” Tim shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal. Like they were friends and maybe they were but you couldn’t help the insecurity rising in your throat.

She was soo beautiful. And funny. Why on earth did he break up with her?

“You’re wearing Drake’s scarf?” Damian said to you in a tone you couldn’t decipher.

You looked down at yourself and realised you had in fact been wearing Tim’s red and yellow striped scarf.

“I guess I am,” you chuckled nervously. “It’s hard to keep track of your clothes when you’re in a relationship.”

“Steph got it for him,” Damian said next with a small frown you would almost miss if you weren’t a kryptonian.

“Oh,” you let out and felt your body drain of life. Why hadn’t he told you? “Sorry,” you murmured and began to unwrap the scarf but Tim stopped you by pulling you closer to his chest.

“Stop it Damian,” he chided.

“No it’s fine I shouldn’t have,” you shook your head.

“It’s fine really it’s his,” Stephanie said next to you with an earnest expression and a warm smile.

“Where’s Babs and Duke?” Tim coughed as if to change the subject. He was not at all subtle.

“With his family today, he couldn’t make it,” Dick replied from where he was sitting on the armchair sideways. “Babs is in the Batcave with Bruce. I haven’t seen her all day,” he added with a roll of his blue eyes.

“I’ll get him,” Stephanie said and got up to what you had guessed go to the Batcave.

Somewhere in the background someone turned on the TV and drowned out everyone’s voices. Damian’s eyes still stayed on you like he was trying to read your every move.

Fifteen minutes later, Stephanie was returning in the living room with Bruce and Barbara on her heels.

“He was very reluctant and broody in the cave but thanks to me and my magical personality, I pulled him out,” Stephanie bowed dramatically and plopped down on her seat next to you.

“Hey,” Tim waved at the redhead who was taking a seat next to Dick on the armchair. “Bruce,” he nodded and introduced you.

“Hi, lovely to meet you. You have a nice home,” you shook Bruce’s hand and cringed to yourself.

You just told Batman he had a nice home.

“Thank you,” Bruce said in a straightforward manner and sat down on the loveseat, already looking away from you like he was done with the conversation.

“Bruce,” Stephanie began in a chiding tone. “You missed our match today. I was winning.”

“I let you think that,” Bruce scoffed playfully and it was strange to see him joking.

Bruce Wayne, your boyfriend’s adoptive father who you had never even seen smiling, was joking around with said boyfriend’s ex girlfriend while he hadn’t even spared you a glance.

“You play?” Jason asked you as he pulled out a chess set from under the coffee table.

“Sometimes,” you nodded. “I’m not very good, I can only beat Tim.”

“You beat Tim?” Cass raised an eyebrow at you.

“Cass,” Tim sighed.

Everyone in the room erupted in laughter except for you.

“What’s wrong?” You frowned and looked between your boyfriend and Cass.

“The only person who’s been able to beat Bruce at chess is Tim,” Dick let you know mid laughter. “So if you can beat him at chess you should be renowned as a world champion.”

You swallowed and looked at Tim who looked at you with an apologetic look on his face.

Great, now his family thought you were stupid.

You didn’t say anything else next. Just leaned back on the couch and watched as Bruce and Stephanie played a match of chess while the others watched a movie on the TV while also simultaneously discussing a new case.

“Hey I need to use the restroom, I’ll be quick,” you whispered to Tim suddenly after a good thirty minutes of feeling like an outsider in not only this family but with your own boyfriend.

“Okay,” Tim replied with a small frown but quickly recovered. “Do you need me to come with you?”

“No I’ll find my way,” you smiled but he could tell it didn’t reach your eyes.

“Okay,” he repeated and gave you a quick peck on the forehead before you were scampering out of the family room.

You walked down the hallway and somehow ended up in the kitchen instead of the bathroom where Alfred was. He was leaning over the oven wearing a small apron over his suit and you were wondering how he wasn’t burning with how hot it must be.

“Oh sorry, I was looking for the bathroom,” you said when he looked at you confused.

He stared at you for a moment like he could tell you were lying because there was no way you would confuse rooms with your vision and all.

“Why don’t I lead you to the bathroom in Master Tim’s old bedroom?” Alfred offered.

You let out a relieved breath and gave him a genuine smile before following him up the stairs to Tim’s old bedroom.

You shut the giant oak door behind you and flipped the light switch on to see where Tim grew up. There was a king sized bed in the corner of the room instead of the middle. There was a window on the wall next to it and some random band posters over the wall behind the headboard.

It looked like the perfect teenage dirtbag’s bedroom.

You walked over to his closet and saw three skateboards stacked in the corner. One of them looked old and chipped while the other two looked barely used. His desk of course like the one at his penthouse, was cluttered with old textbooks and files.

You walked over to his bed and sat down on the edge. You opened the side table to snoop around and the first thing you saw was enough to make you nauseated. It was a polaroid of Tim and Steph on a rooftop kissing with a little scribble on it saying “Timbers and Princess Steph.”

A sigh left your mouth as you quickly put it back but it wasn’t jealousy on your part. It was mostly insecurity. The questions of why why why.

Why in the world would he choose you? He and Steph had so much history, they’d known each other since they were kids. She fit in with his family. Everyone loved her. They lived together for several years for heaven’s sake.

He had been in love with her for years.

You opened another drawer and saw a letter addressed to Tim and the name on the sender’s title read “Janet Drake.” It was from his mom so you didn’t bother opening it. You wouldn’t snoop that much.

A sudden ping of your phone broke out your trance as you looked down on the screen and saw a message from Tim.

hey whered you disappear to?

in your room. needed some air.

okay I’m coming

okay.

With a sigh you fell back on the plush mattress with a light bounce and stared up at the ceiling, beating yourself up for overthinking yet again.

Tim has been the perfect boyfriend to you. He has never missed a date despite being a vigilante. He’s always present even if he has to work, he usually sits next you in bed with his laptop so he can have one arm around you while working. And when he’s at Wayne Ent, he makes sure to get lunch with you as often as he can.

So why does it bother you so much that he’s friendly with his ex. Who is a big part of his life and his family’s life.

Maybe it’s the fact that she fits here with them. That she’s human and probably has never accidentally flung Tim across the room. Maybe because all his siblings and father like her.

The door clicked open softly and Tim soon padded in. You could hear his breathing getting shorter like he was nervous too but you didn’t point it out. Normal Human girlfriends don’t do that.

“Hey,” he cooed and laid down next to you. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you turned your head to the side and smiled at him.

“I may not be superhuman but I know when you’re lying to me sweetheart,” he said next.

“It’s just…” You sighed. “Why are you with me?”

“What?” He let out a humourless laugh. “Where’s that coming from?”

“Nowhere. Just wondering,” you deflected and looked away from him.

“No come on look at me,” he said and pulled you up in a sitting position so you both could look into each other’s eyes. His perfect blue eyes.

“Answer me first.”

“I’m with you because I love you,” he replied without hesitation.

When you didn’t reply in return, he went on. “I knew they would be a lot for you. I should’ve started with Dick and Babs. I’m sorry.”

“No it’s not that, I like your family. They’re all lovely.”

He assessed you for a second with his detective instincts kicking in before he spoke. “Is this about Steph?”

“She’s perfect, Tim,” you looked away and said just above a whisper.

“She is. I won’t lie and say she’s the worst person alive just because she’s my ex. I loved her a lot and I still do, just not in the same way. She’s still my best friend just the way Kon is, like Cassie is.”

“Yeah but…” You trailed off and decided to gnaw on your bottom lip instead of talking.

“Baby,” he said with a soft smile and shifted until he was sitting with his back against the wall with you sitting sideways on his lap. “Talk to me.”

“Your family likes her. She lives here with them. Damian likes her,” you let out, suddenly feeling two feet tall. “Bruce likes her. She fits in your world.”

“Believe me it has taken years for both Bruce and Damian to warm up to her. Bruce was a jerk when she was starting out as Robin.”

“So you’re saying I should sign up to be the next Robin and train with him for years for him to like me?”

“Fuck no,” Tim scoffed. “I would never ever put you through that.”

“He was that bad?” You asked, eyes gazing into Tim’s blue ones.

He shrugged in response. “I mean it worked.”

You stared at him for a minute, trying to read everything he wasn’t saying. Trying to find meaning beneath every scar he had gotten since he became Robin as a mere child.

“You let me win at chess?” You asked instead and that finally made him scrunch his nose in embarrassment.

He flushed all over and looked away from you. “That first time in the Titans Tower when you were playing with Kon and he asked me to take over for him because he had to leave. He set the game so bad,” Tim laughed.

“He somehow manages to lose at Connect 4. How do you lose at that?” You chimed in.

“I know! He’s the worst at board games. Anyway, I had a win in mind. I knew my move but you were so excited after that second check, I couldn’t let you lose even if I wanted to.”

“Tim that was years ago, we weren’t even together then,” you frowned.

“Yeah but that’s when I knew I loved you. You gave me this sickeningly beautiful smile after you won it was the best thing I’d ever seen. So it became a thing. I don’t let you win because when you give me that smile, I end up winning anyway.”

“Tim,” you whispered and brought your hand up to touch his face.

“Yeah I know I’m a dork,” he scrunched his nose again and this time you couldn’t help but lean forward to press a kiss on the tip of his nose.

“My dork,” you smile and touched your forehead to his temple.

“There’s no one else but you, I have zero feelings for Steph. She’s my best friend and has been for the longest time. And besides I’m almost certain she’s hooking up with Cass.”

“No way,” you gasped. “Cass is pretty hot,” you hummed.

“Babe,” Tim groaned.

“Unfortunately I’m only interested in her brother,” you reiterated and pressed a kiss to Tim’s cheek.

“Unfortunately?”

“You don’t exactly make it easy. I told you to throw away your monster cans but they’re still lingering on the kitchen counter,” you complained.

“Hmm,” he hummed and brushed your cheek with his nose. “Do you want me to make it up to you?”

“We are in your childhood bedroom. There are skateboards two feet away from us,” you giggled but didn’t protest when he laid you down on the bed and hovered over you.

“Exactly I owe it to this bed,” he murmured and pressed a kiss to your neck. “Teenage Tim was a loser, the only action this bed has gotten is when I fell off it and Bruce had to push it against the wall.”

“Oh my God,” you cackled loudly and raked your fingers through his hair.

“I was a loser I know,” he sighed and pressed an open mouth kiss to your collarbone.

“Was?” You raised an eyebrow.

“Oh really now?” He snapped his head up and looked at you rolling your lips over your teeth to hold back your smile.

His fingers came up to your hips and began tickling your sides, causing you to yelp and flail your legs.

“Stop!” You gasped between fits of laughter.

“Take it back!” Tim threatened playfully.

“Never!” You laughed again but he didn’t relent.

Instead of trying to make him stop with words, you used your super strength and flipped your position so he was now beneath you while you straddled his hips.

“I’m a kryptonian,” you smirked and pinned his hands over his head.

“Unfair,” he pouted playfully and you had the sudden urge to kiss it off his face so you did just that.

You leaned forward and took his bottom lip between your teeth before letting him take the lead and give you a long and searing kiss.

“I love you,” he murmured between kisses.

“I love you too,” you replied with a small smile and rested your forehead against his.

Just as he was about to kiss you again, a loud knock came on the door.

“Dinner’s ready!” Dick yelled and you waited for a few seconds to hear his footsteps go away but he lingered. “Enough making out Duckie!” Jason snickered behind him.

Tim in response grabbed a pillow off the bed and threw it at the door.

Another set of snickers came, this time Dick joining Jason before they both retreated.

“Let’s go Duckie,” you giggled and pressed one last kiss to his pouty lips before pulling him off the bed.

hope it was what you wanted anon🥰 sorry i’m still in a slump :/