[Insert Something Cool]

☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★ grew up in Gotham, and after all the weird shit they've seen, decided to start their blog to share the truth (and have fun while doing it)

☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★ total night-owl & a bit of a shut-in, typically only leaves the house for content and late night convenience store runs. runs entirely off of coffee & energy drinks

☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★ has had a few...run-ins with the Bats about their blog & the danger they're posing to themselves (note to self: killer croc does not like to be photographed, or asked if he was a crocodile bitten by a radioactive man)

☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★ bad-luck magnet, always covered in colourful bandaids to hide the scrapes & bruises they get when trying to get pics for their next story (but it was totes worth it!!)

☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★ every inch of their apartment is covered in newspapers, pictures, sticky notes & brightly colored stickers. uses rainbow yarn on their conspiracy board to 'brighten it up'

☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★ a little bit paranoid. only uses old tech because they worry about being tracked down, but don't worry, their flip phone works just fine

☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★ likes to slip in a bit of misinformation on their blog to not attract too much attention from the wrong kinds of people...

— check out their latest hits !!

— the flash wears lifts in his shoes

— green lantern fakes his space missions

— arsenal uses aimbot

— nightwing uses buttpads

He stares at the number beneath it, then at the downward arrow, then swipes into their messages so quickly he almost fumbles the phone into the stick rack.

Garrett: baby. eat something Garrett: now please Garrett: your dexcom’s yelling at me

The little delivered line appears. Nothing else. He waits three seconds. Four. Five. The ice keeps making noise behind him, bodies turning, sticks tapping, Coach’s whistle cutting once through the air so sharply it makes Garrett’s shoulders tense before his brain catches up. 

He types again.

Garrett: hey Garrett: answer me

Still nothing.

“Graham,” Coach calls again, closer this time, irritated but not fully pissed yet. Garrett can feel the whole team’s attention starting to swing toward him in little pieces, because he doesn’t do this. He doesn’t check out mid-practice. He doesn’t stand at the bench breathing hard with one glove off and his hair damp at his temples, staring at his phone like it’s threatened him.

He looks up. “Sorry– my girlfriend– her blood sugar’s low.”

It comes out blunt. Too blunt, maybe, because Coach’s face shifts a little. He jerks his chin toward the locker room. “Text her. Then get back out here if she’s fine.”

Garrett nods once and steps off the ice enough to call her. It rings so long that every second feels stupidly personal.

By the fifth ring, he’s already seeing her dorm room in his head with unpleasant clarity: the lamp on, laptop burning her eyes out, notes everywhere, highlighter uncapped on the comforter, some coffee she definitely shouldn’t be drinking instead of eating, her tucked into one of his hoodies like that counts as a balanced meal. 

He can picture her Dexcom stuck to the back of her arm, doing its job, screaming into his phone because she's once again decided that studying until her brain leaks out of her ears is a reasonable use of a human body.

She answers on the sixth ring. “Hi,” she says, tiny and slow, like the word has been wrapped in cotton before leaving her mouth.

Garrett’s chest tightens so hard he nearly gets angry from the relief alone. “Baby.”

“Mhm?”

“Did you get the alert?”

There’s a pause. A soft rustle. Then, distantly, like she has turned her head toward her own phone and found it personally disappointing, she says, “Oh.”

Garrett closes his eyes for half a second. “Yeah. Oh. Eat something.”

“I was gonna.”

“You were not gonna. You didn’t even know it went off.”

“I knew,” she says, with absolutely no conviction and the faint offended dignity of a girl who’s been caught being medically unserious in her own home. “I was just… looking at it.”

“At what?”

“My phone.”

“You just found your phone.”

Another pause. Then, smaller, “Maybe.”

Garrett presses the heel of his hand to one eye and breathes out. Behind him, the team is still skating. Someone laughs. A puck hits the boards hard enough to make the glass jump. The whole rink smells like ice and sweat and rubber and old adrenaline, and all he wants, suddenly and viciously, is to be in her stupid little dorm room putting sugar in her hand himself.

“Okay,” he says, forcing his voice down because she gets embarrassed when people fuss too loudly and because snapping at her when her brain is running on fumes would make him the kind of asshole he’d like to punch. “Do you have your hypo stuff?”

“Mm.”

“Words, baby.”

She sighs. “Yes.”

“What do you have?”

“Lollies.”

“Where?”

“My drawer.”

“Which drawer?”

“The drawer drawer.”

Despite himself, a laugh punches out of him, short and disbelieving. “Jesus Christ. The drawer drawer. Very helpful.”

She makes a small sound, half whine, half laugh, and he can hear how thin it is. How tired. How not fully her. “Don’t be mean. I’m low.”

“I’m aware, since your robot tattled on you.” He shifts his phone to the other ear and looks toward Coach, who is watching him now with a patience Garrett suspects has a hard expiry. “Get the lollies. Right now.”

She whines softly. “I’m comfy.”

“Baby.”

“I know.”

He huffs. “Move.”

She grumbles something under her breath that sounds a lot like bossy hockey bitch, and Garrett would enjoy that more if he wasn’t currently imagining her trying to walk across her room with low blood sugar and the coordination of a newborn deer.

There’s a shuffle, then a thump soft enough to be a drawer and not a person, thank fuck. Plastic crinkles near the speaker.

“Got them,” she says.

“Good. Eat some.”

She groans softly. “How many?”

“Enough for fifteen grams.”

Another silence.

Garrett looks at the ceiling. “The packet, baby. Read the packet.”

“I’m doing it,” she mutters, and then the line fills with the sticky little sounds of a packet being opened badly by someone whose fingers are probably trembling. Garrett hears one fall, hit the desk, roll somewhere. She sighs like it has betrayed her.

“Don’t chase it,” he says immediately.

“I wasn’t gonna.”

“You absolutely were.”

“I’m eating the other ones.”

“Good girl.”

It slips out before he thinks better of it, softer than the rest, and the line goes quiet in that particular way that means she’s heard it and tucked it somewhere warm even through the fog in her head.

Coach blows the whistle again. Garrett’s whole body twitches. “Stay on the phone with me,” he says.

“I’m fine.”

“Didn’t ask.”

“Bossy.”

“Yeah. Eat.”

She does. He listens. It should be boring, standing half-off the ice while his girlfriend chews gummy lollies into the phone like a mildly annoyed possum.

It’s, objectively, not a romantic moment. There’s nothing cinematic about glucose tabs or jelly snakes or Garrett Graham in full gear with one glove hanging from his teeth, telling a girl in a dorm room to keep chewing while his coach considers whether love is worth disrupting defensive drills.

Still, his hand stays tight around the phone until the Dexcom number nudges up a little and her voice starts coming back from wherever the low had dragged it. Enough that when she says, “You’re breathing like Darth Vader,” there’s a faint smile in it.

“Because I’m at practice.”

“Hot.”

“You’re hypoglycemic.”

“So sexy that you know that word.”

He laughs then, low and relieved in a way he tries not to let her hear too clearly. “Recheck in fifteen.”

“I know.”

“Text me the number.”

“I know, Garrett.”

That sounds more like her, annoyed and soft and there. It loosens something under his ribs by a degree. He looks back at Coach again, then at the ice, then at his phone. He should go back. She’s eaten. She’s talking. The number’s not beautiful, but it’s moving. 

This is the whole point of the app, technically, to know and respond and then not act like every alert is a national emergency. She has diabetes. She handles this all the time. She has handled it before him, will keep handling it after every practice, every class, every exam week, every stupid stretch of time where Garrett cannot physically be within arm’s reach putting food in her mouth.

That’s the rational version. The other version is that his girlfriend answered the phone sounding small and floaty and alone, and now every cell in his body is pointing toward her dorm. “Alright,” he says. “I’m coming over after practice.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I know.”

“Garrett.”

“I’m coming over after practice.”

She sighs, but it turns into a little pleased hum at the end, the kind she probably doesn’t know she makes when she’s too tired to pretend she doesn’t want him. “Fine.”

“Text me in fifteen.”

“Mhm.”

“Promise.”

“I promise.”

“And eat actual food if you can.”

She huffs. “Bossy hockey bitch.”

“There she is,” he says, smiling despite himself. “Text me.”

She does, fifteen minutes later, while he’s back on the ice and only pretending not to check his phone every time he gets within ten feet of the bench. The number's come up. Safe enough that the ugly tight thing in his chest finally stops trying to chew through bone.

She adds a blurry photo of the lolly packet on her desk like evidence in a trial, one thumb half covering the lens.

Garrett: proud of you Garrett: even though you eat like a raccoon during finals week.

Her reply comes after a minute.

raccoons are resilient

Garrett grins down at his phone so hard Logan skates past and says, “Dude, you’re disgusting.”

Garrett flips him off and gets back to practice.

By the time he gets to her dorm, his hair is still damp from the locker room shower and the collar of his hoodie smells faintly like clean soap and rink, which he's been told is not a scent so much as a warning. 

He has his backpack slung over one shoulder, two granola bars from the vending machine shoved into the front pocket because he panicked after practice, and a bottle of orange juice he stole from Tucker, who had looked at him once and decided not to ask questions.

She opens the door before he can knock a second time. For one second, Garrett just looks at her. She’s in his Briar hoodie, obviously, because at some point every item of clothing he owns has become part of her little emotional support system. 

The sleeves hang over her hands. Her hair's a mess, half pulled up and half surrendered around her face, and there’s a faint crease on her cheek from what looks like a notebook spiral. Her eyes are a little heavy still, sleepy around the edges, her whole body soft and slower than usual as she blinks up at him from the doorway.

“Hi,” she says.

Garrett’s mouth does something stupid before he can stop it. Fond and worried and annoyed, all at once. “Hi.”

“I ate.”

“Yeah?”

She nods, very seriously, then steps backward to let him in. “I ate the lollies. And half a protein bar.”

“Half?”

“It tasted like shit.”

“Protein bars usually taste like that.”

He shuts the door behind him and drops his bag by her desk, already scanning the room in a way he knows makes him look insane and cannot quite bring himself to stop.

Lolly packet open on the desk. Water bottle half full. Textbooks spread across the bed like she’s been trying to summon a degree through paper-based witchcraft. Laptop still open, screen dimmed. The air smells like highlighter ink, laundry detergent, and the sour little remains of coffee gone cold.

He turns back to her. “What’s your number now?”

She points vaguely toward her phone. “Better.”

“That’s not a number.”

“It’s a vibe.”

He raises his brows at her. “Your blood sugar is not a vibe, baby.”

“It kind of is, actually.”

“Phone.”

She rolls her eyes, but there’s no real heat in it, and hands him the phone. He checks because she lets him. Because they’ve had this conversation before, clumsy at first and then easier.

The line between care and hovering. The difference between him helping and him acting like diabetes is a thing that happened to him because he loves her. He still gets it wrong sometimes. He knows that. His worry has bad manners when it gets scared.

But she’d added him to Dexcom Follow herself, sitting cross-legged on his bed with her phone in one hand and his in the other, saying, “Okay, this is not permission to become extra annoying,” while he’d promised, with a straight face, to be only normal amounts of annoying.

Now he looks at the number and the arrow, watches the trend flatten out, and hands it back with a nod. “Better.”

“Told you.”

“Yeah, yeah. You’re a medical genius.”

“I am, actually.”

“You also forgot to eat.”

She makes a face and immediately looks away, which tells on her more than any confession would have. “I didn’t forget.”

Garrett’s eyebrows lift.

“I… delayed,” she says, which is such a committed piece of academic bullshit that he almost respects it.

“You delayed food.”

“Temporarily.”

“Until your blood sugar dropped and an app screamed at your boyfriend during practice.”

She pulls the sleeves of his hoodie over her hands and rubs at one eye with the cuff. “When you say it like that, it sounds bad.”

“Because it was stupid.”

“Garrett.”

“Baby.”

She looks up at him then, and the argument thins out before either of them can turn it into one. There’s still a little tremor in her fingers when she lowers her hand. Barely there, but enough. Enough that all the teasing in his mouth rearranges itself into something quieter.

He steps closer. “You scared me.”

Her face shifts, the soft defensive tilt of her mouth giving way to something smaller, less arranged. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m not saying it so you’ll feel bad.” His hand comes up to the side of her neck, thumb resting under her jaw, checking because he can’t help himself, touching because that’s the only language his worry knows how to speak without turning sharp. Her skin is warm. A little clammy still at the edge of her hairline. “I just– don’t do that shit alone if you’re dropping, okay? Text me back. Eat first, be stubborn after.”

Her mouth twitches faintly. “That order seems unfair to my brand.”

“Your brand needs snacks.”

“My brand is very mysterious.”

“Your brand is half a bag of gummy worms and a hoodie you stole from me.”

She leans forward then, slowly, until her forehead lands against the middle of his chest. A soft, tired little surrender into the nearest solid thing, which happens to be him.

Garrett’s hand slides automatically around the back of her head, fingers spreading into her hair, and the rest of him goes quiet around her.

“Still feel weird?” he asks.

“A little,” she says, voice muffled into his hoodie. “Mostly tired now.”

“That happens?”

“Mhm. Sometimes after.” She shifts closer, cheek turning against his chest. “And I stayed up too late. And had coffee. And forgot dinner.”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, kissing the top of her head. “Figured.”

He can picture her last night at two in the morning, hunched over notes, telling herself one more chapter, one more diagram, one more lecture recording, the whole slippery student lie of just a bit longer until suddenly the body that’s been politely asking for basic maintenance starts knocking things over to get attention. 

She does that sometimes. Gets so focused the rest of her becomes an inconvenience. Food, sleep, water, all of it demoted beneath whatever exam or paper or assignment has started living behind her eyes.

Garrett hates it in a way that feels embarrassingly tender. He likes her focused. Likes her smart mouth and her colour-coded notes and the little frown she gets when she’s trying to force information into her brain. But he hates the part where she forgets she’s not a machine built for academic suffering and caffeine.

“Bed,” he says.

She tilts her head back just enough to look at him, chin still pressed to his chest. “You’re very annoying when you’re worried.”

“I’m very annoying all the time. You knew that going in.”

“Yeah,” she says, and the tiny smile that comes with it makes something in his ribs unclench. “I did.”

He gets her onto the bed with the kind of careful bossiness she complains about but obeys when she feels like this, all heavy limbs and delayed reactions and stubborn little noises made purely for the dignity of it. 

He clears the textbooks first, stacking them onto her desk badly enough that she makes a wounded sound from behind him. “That’s not the system.”

“What system?”

“My system.”

He ignores that and pulls back the blanket. She climbs in, still wearing his hoodie, still with the sleeves eaten over her hands, and watches him from the pillows with that floaty, softened look that would be cute if it didn’t also make the protective part of his brain start dragging furniture in front of doors.

He finds the other half of the violent protein bar and holds it up. “More shit?”

She groans. “Please don’t make me.”

“You need something longer-lasting, right?”

“I had half.”

“Baby.”

She groans. “I hate when you use the reasonable voice.”

“Because it works?”

“Because you sound like Tucker.”

“That’s the worst thing you’ve ever said to me.”

She smiles properly then, small but real, and reaches for the bar with great personal suffering. “Fine. But I’m doing this under protest.”

“Noted.”

She takes two bites and chews with the expression of someone enduring a great injury. Garrett sits on the edge of the mattress and watches her because he’s become the sort of guy who monitors protein bar consumption with the intensity of a playoff game. 

If Dean saw him now, Garrett would never hear the end of it. If Logan saw him, he would make a face and call it love in the most annoying possible tone. Tucker would probably approve, which remains devastating.

When she’s done enough that he decides not to bully the rest of it into her, Garrett sets the wrapper on the nightstand and kicks off his shoes. She lifts the blanket immediately, wordless, like she has been waiting for the exact second his hands are free.

“Oh, now you want me,” he says.

She gives him a look from under heavy eyelids. “I always want you.”

She attaches herself to him before he’s even fully settled, curling into his side with her cheek over his chest and one knee sliding over his thigh under the blanket. It’s clingier than usual, or maybe just less disguised. 

Her hand sneaks under the hem of his hoodie, palm finding the warm skin over his ribs like she has been assigned a location and intends to remain there.

Garrett lets out a slow breath and wraps his arm around her, hand spreading between her shoulder blades. For a while, he just rubs up and down her back in the quiet, steady rhythm he knows she likes, over the thick cotton of his hoodie and the delicate line of her spine beneath it.

Her room feels softer now with the lamp low and the laptop finally shut, the whole anxious mess of studying pushed to the edges for at least twenty minutes. Outside the door, someone laughs down the hall. Campus keeps moving with absolutely no respect for the fact that Garrett Graham’s just aged six years over a glucose alert.

He kisses her hair. “Feeling better?”

She nods against him, slow. “Mhm.”

“Less weird?”

“Less weird.” Her fingers flex once against his ribs. “Just sleepy.”

“That’s okay.”

“I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“I know.” His hand keeps moving. Shoulder to waist. Waist to shoulder. Again. “Just text me back next time.”

“I will.”

“And keep stuff by your bed.”

“I do.”

“Stuff you can reach without going on an expedition to the drawer drawer.”

A tiny laugh shakes against him. “The drawer drawer was perfectly clear.”

He smiles into her hair despite himself. “You’re lucky you’re cute when your brain’s offline.”

“My brain’s online.”

“Baby, you called me a bossy hockey bitch and then argued that blood sugar is a vibe.”

“It is a vibe.”

He tips his head back against the wall and lets himself laugh quietly, relief finally loosening properly through him now that she’s warm and fed and heavy against his side. “You’re impossible.”

She hums, pleased by that for reasons that are between her and whatever sugar is currently making its way through her bloodstream. “You love me.”

“Somehow.”

She pinches his side without lifting her head, weak but accurate. “Mean.”

He catches her hand under his hoodie and holds it there, thumb moving over her knuckles where they rest against his skin. “Yeah,” he says, softer. “I love you.”

After a second, she tilts her face enough to press a kiss to his chest through the hoodie. It’s barely a kiss. More a warm little contact. A thank you she’s too tired and too proud to make formal.

“Love you too,” she mumbles.

Garrett looks down at the top of her head, at the messy spill of hair over his arm, at the Dexcom app still open on her phone on the nightstand, the graph inching back into safer territory one small dot at a time. 

His body still has the leftover adrenaline in it, the rink alarm echoing faintly somewhere behind his ribs, the ugly little flash of her not answering when he called. But here she is, tucked into him like she has no plans to be anywhere else, breathing warm against his chest, one hand under his hoodie and the other curled into the blanket.

So he stays. Practice can keep its exhaustion. His homework can rot. The rest of campus can do whatever people do when they’re not pinned beneath a sleepy diabetic girlfriend with a talent for making his whole chest feel like it has been bruised open in the best possible way.

He rubs her back until her breathing goes heavier. Every few minutes, his eyes flick to her phone. The number steadies. Climbs. Holds. He lets out a breath he hadn’t realised he was still keeping.

Then, very softly, mostly because she’s almost asleep and because he likes saying things when she’s too tired to make fun of him properly, he murmurs, “Gonna start packing snacks in my hockey bag like a dad.”

Her mouth curves faintly against him. “Hot.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm. Dilf behaviour.”

Garrett freezes, then looks down at her. “Don’t call me that when you’re half asleep after a medical incident.”

She laughs once, tiny and muffled and pleased with herself, and curls closer.

He shakes his head, smiling despite every effort not to. “Jesus Christ.”

“Snacks are hot,” she whispers.

“Go to sleep.”

“Bossy.”

He kisses her head again, slower this time, and settles his hand warm at the centre of her back. Her breathing has evened out, her body gone loose and trusting against his, the last of the low-blood-sugar fog giving way to real sleep. 

Garrett stays awake a little longer anyway, watching the graph, listening to the hallway quiet down, feeling her heartbeat through the layers between them.

When the number stays steady, he finally sets her phone facedown, tucks the blanket higher over her shoulder, and lets his eyes close with his mouth pressed to her hair.

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✦Chapter List✦ Chapter 1 - Morning Mist Chapter 2 - Burning Chapter 3 - Many Green Things Chapter 4 - Bigger Moons Chapter 5 - Jenga Chapter 6 - Springtime Weeds Chapter 7 - hazy Chapter 8 - butterflies and birds Chapter 9 - Chevy Baby (6/29) (on ko-fi now!) Chapter 10 (7/6) Chapter 11 (7/13) Chapter 12 (7/20) Chapter 13 (7/27) Chapter 14 (8/3) Chapter 15 (8/10) Chapter 16 (8/17) Chapter 17 (8/23)

“I’m picking up what you’re putting down, and I will go find Tucker to give him another beer.” Logan saluted you as he went to grab a new beer and locate Tucker.

“Am I invited to this dinner tomorrow?” Beau quipped to Dean.

“I don’t know, man. Are you?” Dean teased. “Missy, here is the woman of the house. You’ll have to ask her,” Dean jutted his thumb in your direction.

Beau turned to face you and pouted as he asked, “May I please come over for dinner tomorrow night?”

“Excuse me, I do not live here,” you mocked in defense. “But, yes, you are invited to family dinner.”

"Don't even start with that," Dean waved you off.

“Family dinner?” Beau questioned you and Dean.

Dean let out a laugh, “Yeah, Tucker and Missy have been alternating in cooking on Sundays, and now it’s family dinner,” as if that explained why you and the boys considered it family dinner. 

“Garrett invited me over to dinner at the beginning of sophomore year, and Tucker was cooking tortellini. We were all hanging out afterward, and I told them how I would cook more if I wasn’t in the dorms. I hated cooking in the dorms because the smell lingered way too long,” you started. “Anyways, he cooked dinner that night, and the next weekend I cooked, so it just kind of became a cycle. A routine.”

“Why haven’t I been invited to family dinners until now?” Beau raised a brow at Dean. “I would’ve brought something!”

You let out a giggle at his dramatics. “Yeah! Why didn’t you invite Beau?” you goaded.

“Not you too, Missy,” Dean groaned into his drink. The red solo cup is blocking the view of his face. 

Allie approached you guys and poked at Dean’s side, causing him to choke on his drink. You and Beau try not to laugh, but the second you look at each other, the laughter spills out. “What are you guys going on about?”

“Family dinner,” Dean answered her.

“Is Tucker cooking tomorrow or Missy?” Allie pondered for a moment. “Oh, wait! She cooked last weekend, so Tucker’s definitely cooking.”

“Missy wants to get him drunk tonight, so we can get him to agree to make tortellini tomorrow,” Dean explained the plan to Allie as he pulled her into his side. “You know he’ll feel bad if Missy asks and he doesn’t follow through with it since she made her famous dish last week per his request.”

Beau quit mid-laugh the second he comprehended that Allie had been attending these family dinners. “Am I the only one not attending these dinners?” he called out, exasperated. 

“Dean should’ve invited you earlier.” Garrett slapped a hand to Dean’s shoulder as he joined you all.  

“G, not cool, man.”

Garrett made his way to you with a new can of cherry Coke in hand. “For the lady,” he presented it to you and took the empty can. He set it down on the counter before turning back to you. “I’ve been wondering where you were, but I found you with these bozos and Allie.”

“Beau is very upset that he hasn’t been in attendance for family dinners on Sundays,” you whispered to him as he snuck an arm around your shoulder. 

Your eyes were on Dean and Beau as they started going at it again, but this time Allie joined Beau’s side. Dean’s eyes flared open with joking betrayal. “Babydoll, not you too. Please.”

“You want to make rounds?” Garrett asked softly, leaning down to speak into your ear. 

“Yeah, I want to check in with Tucker. Make sure Logan is getting him drunk, so we can get Tuck’s delicious ricotta tortellini.”

Garrett guided you away from the group in the kitchen. You both navigated through the living room in search of the fellow housemates. You see Tucker downing a beer and Logan immediately offering him another, which Tucker greedily took into his hands. Logan winked at you knowingly as you and Garrett approached the pair. 

“How you feeling, Tucker?” Garrett asked him, amused. 

“Great, G!”

“You’re cooking dinner tomorrow, right?” you questioned, trying to seem like you weren’t sure.

Tucker scratched his head and looked at Logan, who gave him a nod. “Yeah! Of course I am,” he blurted out.

You unconsciously leaned your head against Garrett’s shoulder. “Do you have anything specific in mind?” You glanced over to Logan with a slight smirk. 

“Dude, you should totally make tortellini again!” Logan suggested.

Tucker immediately started shaking his head, “Absolutely not. Do you have any idea how long that takes to make?”

“But, Tuck, you know how that’s my favorite! Won’t you even think about it?” You pull away from Garrett’s side to go to Tucker with the biggest pout you managed to put out. 

Tucker took one look at your face, then another at Garrett, and he folded quickly. “Yes, I will,” he sighed, knowing there was no point in saying no to you. “Only because you’re my favorite.”

You let a short cheer out and pressed a kiss to Tucker’s cheek. “You’re the best, Tuck!”

“Enough of that,” Garrett interjected you two, and he gently grabbed your hip to pull you back beside him. 

“Mr. Best Friend is jealous that I’m going to steal your heart, Missy,” Tucker joked.

Logan doubled over in laughter, fully shaking with amusement, “Oh, you know that a way to a woman’s heart is food.” 

“Might just take Missy right from you.” Tucker playfully reached out for you with a smirk, pinching at his cheeks.

Garrett’s grip on your hip tightened just enough for you to notice. Heat flooded your cheeks, and you felt like the room was getting hotter by the second. You should’ve been used to the jokes by now, but being Garrett Graham’s best friend since freshman year came with lots of teasing.

The day you and Garrett met was in a history lecture, and he was sitting behind you. When class ended on the last day of the first week, you were still gathering your stuff, and Garrett was getting up to head out. In a rush to grab his ginormous water bottle, he brought it up, and it hit you right in the back of the head.

The professor whose name you hadn’t quite remembered yet just dismissed class, and the usual chaos of shuffling backpacks with everyone gathering their things filled the room. You remained seated as you were putting away your notebook and trying to search for your headphones in your backpack. With your head slightly tucked down, you weren’t really too aware of your surroundings, and something had smacked into the back of your head.

Thunk.

It wasn’t hard enough to hurt badly. Just hard enough that it made you jump. You let out a surprised yelp and gently rubbed the sore spot before putting your arm back down.

“Oh shit.” You heard some mutter behind you. Garrett instinctively reached to touch the back of your head with his free hand but retracted, realizing it probably isn’t appropriate to do that to someone you’ve just met, even less so after you accidentally hit them in the head. “I’m so sorry,” he blurted out.

You turn around, and a guy is staring at you in complete horror. It was only a few seconds later when you realized that he was the new hot shot hockey player. Which from what you’ve seen on The Fifth Line, there was a bit of emphasis on the player part.

The expression on his face caught you off guard.

He genuinely looked like he thought he just committed a crime. 

You shook your head, amused despite the small sting. “It’s okay! Things happen.” You laughed off, softly giving him a smile, trying to let him know you weren’t mad. 

Somehow, the poor guy looked even more distressed. 

“No, seriously,” he says. “Are you okay?”

You glanced at the water bottle that is ridiculously large. 

Then back at him.

“Yes, totally.”

“No, seriously.”

“I am serious.”

“I just hit you with my water bottle.”

You laughed at the redundancy. “It was a light tap.”

He doesn’t seem reassured whatsoever. “I know that’s got to hurt a bit.”

“Nothing I can’t handle.”

He frowned. 

You could practically see him trying to decide whether you’ve secretly suffered a concussion. The thought almost made you laugh again. 

“Seriously,” you told him. “It’s okay.”

“Why do you have to be so nice?” he grumbled, and the look on his face made this far funnier than it should be. 

“You seem to be more upset about this than I am,” you teased, watching as his shoulders slumped. 

“That’s probably true,” he mumbled softly as he kept eye contact with you. There was a twinkle in his eye that you just knew was trouble.

“There he is.”

“What?”

“The normal person.” You get a laugh from that, escaping before he could stop it.

“I should probably introduce myself.” His lips quirked into a smile as he shook his head.

“Officially?”

He paused, confused, “What?”

“I know who you are, Garrett Graham.”

His expression fell blank for a split second before he quickly recovered it with a grin. “So you do.”

“People tend to know you when that’s the only name you hear people cheering at hockey games this year,” you confessed to Garrett.

“You’re very observant.”

“More like I have eyes and ears,” you grinned back at him.

He dropped his head into one hand with a slight chuckle. “Well, I apparently know much less about you than you know about me.”

“That sounds right.”

“So let me make it up to you.”

“By how exactly?” You quirked an eyebrow at him.

“Coffee,” he offered. 

You pretended to think about it, but mostly because you’re curious what he would do.

“Coffee?” you repeated in question.

“I owe you.” 

“You really don’t.”

“Oh, c’mon. I’m buying you coffee.”

You smiled, “Okay.”

His eyebrows lifted. “Okay?”

“Sure,” you answered again.

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

He looked suspicious for a moment, like he thought there was a catch. You decided not to tell him there is one. Namely, that he still didn’t know your name. And you’re not intentionally volunteering it. You finished gathering your stuff and started to head toward the exit.

He followed right behind you.

The hallway outside is crowded with students weaving between classes. He made a quick step around you to be ahead, so he could hold the door open for you as you left the lecture hall.

Still no name. You took a short look at him, and you could tell he’d noticed. 

The occasional glance he sent your way confirmed it.

You don’t say anything. 

Neither does he.

The silence stretched all the way out of the building. Then a voice called out, “There you are, G!” A tall blond jogged towards you two. “Thought you vanished.”

Your water bottle assailant immediately groaned, “Unfortunately not.”

The blond glanced between you and Garrett. His gaze immediately stuck to you, and a faint smirk played at the corner of his lips. “Oh.”

“No.” Garrett immediately shut him down.

“Oh, absolutely.”

“It’s not–” Garrett was cut off, and the blond ignored him completely. You could tell that they were good friends.

“Who’s your friend?” he asked Garrett with a growing smile. A dangerous smile. Before either of you could answer, he added, “And why does she look like she knows every embarrassing thing you’ve ever done, G?”

You laughed, and Garrett pointed at you. “That’s exactly the problem.”

The blond stuck out his hand. “I’m Dean,” he introduced himself jokingly formally.

You reciprocated by shaking his hand, “Nice to meet you.”

“You too, beautiful.”

You playfully rolled your eyes and decided that it was time to put the poor guy out of his misery. You tell Dean your name while purposely trying to keep your attention on him rather than Garrett. 

Dean repeated your name out loud. “Nice.”

From the corner of your eye, you caught Garrett repeating your name quietly to himself like he was trying to memorize it. 

Cute. You thought to yourself.

Then Dean glanced between the two of you again, “So what happened with Missy here?”

You blinked at the nickname. “Missy?”

Garrett groaned again, and you were ignored by the two. “No.”

Dean pointed at him knowingly, “You did something! Because when I walked up, you looked like you’d spent the last ten minutes apologizing.”

“He basically has,” you snorted.

“Exactly,” Dean grinned. “So I figured he’d messed something up.”

“Maybe not messed anything up but a first impression,” you pretended to ponder as you rubbed the back of your head, hoping that it would mess with Garrett. You hid your laugh when you saw that he noticed your little joke.

Garrett looked ready to walk directly into traffic just to distance himself from the embarrassment from you and Dean.

You laughed, and when you glanced back over to Garrett, you caught a look on his face. A wide grin. The one that says he’s just had an idea. Probably a terrible one while you guys were at it.

You narrowed your eyes at him, “What now?”

“What?” he tried to play it off.

“You have that look.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, you do,” you insisted.

Dean stopped mid-walk as he burst out laughing, “Oh shit, G. She’s already figured you out.”

That’s when Garrett said, “Nothing, Missy.” You stopped walking. He kept going.

Dean nearly choked. 

“Don’t.” You shook your head at him, but you were talking to Garrett.

“Don’t what?” he responded.

“That.”

“What?”

“Missy.” Garrett’s smile turned innocent. Entirely too innocent. “You literally just learned my name,” you told him.

“Yeah.” 

“And?” 

“And that’s not it,” he said as if it were the most obvious thing. 

Dean was at the point of laughing so hard that he was barely breathing. 

Garrett just shrugged. 

You should probably have been annoyed. Instead, despite yourself, you fought a smile. Because somehow the nickname sounded ridiculous enough to work. Then, judging by the look on Garrett’s face, there was no chance he was going to let it go.

“Coffee,” you said, shaking your head.

“Coffee,” he agreed.

Somehow, before you’ve even made it to the coffee shop, the nickname Missy is already stuck.

By the time that Garrett invited you to hang out with his friends in his line, the two of you had long since become inseparable.

At some point, coffee turned into study sessions.

Study sessions turned into lunch, which led to spending entire afternoons together.

Somewhere along the way, the nickname still followed you.

No matter how many times you complain. No matter how many times you reminded Garrett, you did have an actual name.

To Garrett (plus Dean), you would always be Missy,

Which is why you weren’t surprised when he texted you one Friday afternoon midway through the semester. 

You rolled your eyes as you read his last text and scanned around your room to search for this man’s colossal bottle. How did he forget it? Beats you.

Bingo. 

You found the bottle and headed out to finally make introductions to Garrett’s friends. Who has been bugging Garrett the moment they found out he was hanging out with a girl and not hooking up with her. 

The house itself is exactly what you would have expected when four college freshmen are given a place together. It’s not particularly messy, but it felt lived in. 

The kind of place where people actually spend time together and enjoy each other’s company instead of disappearing into separate rooms 24/7.

The front door barely closed behind you before Dean appeared.

“There she is!”

You pointed at him, “You’re responsible for the nickname.”

“And proud of it,” he cheesed, that kind smile that is always so infectious that you felt your own lips curling.

Garrett appeared behind him. “You absolutely should not be.”

“She still answers it.”

You hated that he was right.

The grin he gave you says he knows it too. 

A few moments later, you’re introduced to the remaining roommates. John and John, or better known as Tucker and Logan. 

The pair bombarded you with questions, and within five minutes, they somehow learned your major, favorite coffee order, and your favorite drink.

“You seem normal enough,” Logan deemed as a proclamation as you guys talked in the living room. 

“Excuse me?”

“I expected worse,” he shrugged.

You looked at Garrett and asked the other boys, “What exactly has he been saying about me?”

Each of the boys quipped a response.

“A lot.” 

“Enough.”

“Some would say too much.”

“I hate all of you,” Garrett muttered under his breath.

“You’ll fit right in,” Logan finished.

By the end of the night, you all were sprawled across the living room arguing over movies and laughing so hard at shared stories that your stomachs started to hurt.

You sat on one side of the couch with Garrett. You were leaning against him while you were talking to Tucker and Logan about the best Batman movie. Garrett was talking to Dean about some girl Dean saw working at Malone’s. Garrett had his arm loosely wrapped around your waist, and his hand was messing with the hem of your shirt.

At some point, you realized something. 

You didn’t feel like a guest.

It was almost like you’d always been there. 

And judging by the way nobody bothered treating you differently, the guys seemed to feel the same way too.

It was the start of sophomore year, and your presence in the Boys’ house was now such a regular occurrence that you had a drawer in Garrett’s room, a toothbrush next to his, and under the sink, he had a bottle of your perfume. 

When you’d pointed it out the first time, he’d shrugged. “You forget stuff.”

“I won't forget perfume.”

“You might.”

“I won’t.”

“Baby, it’s there just in case.”

He claimed that he just wanted you to be comfortable and feel at home, but you knew one of the real reasons was that he was obsessed with seeing your stuff in his room. 

You thought that people would get better about your and Garrett’s friendship, but it seemed that people could never fathom the fact that Garrett Graham had a girl best friend.

Frankly, sometimes you couldn’t believe it yourself. 

As much as the rest of the boys in the line teased you, they were fiercely protective of you and defended you against any rumors that people tried to start. It is endearing how much you and the boys treated each other like family. 

Something you would never admit out loud is the fact you knew that you and Garrett crossed the boundary of best friends a long time ago. Sure, you were attracted to him and cared for him like no other, but his constant saying that he doesn’t have time for a girlfriend really messed with your head. 

You loved him. There was no doubt about it. You tried putting yourself out there and dating, but a lot of the time, guys weren’t interested when they found out your best friend was Garrett Graham.

It didn’t help that Garrett’s love language is physical touch. He constantly found ways to be close and touch you, whether it was an arm around your shoulder, holding your hand in his lap under the table when you and the boys hung out at Malone’s, or a hand that always found your back or hip when you guys navigated through crowds. 

Even with that, there were the puck bunnies to consider, the numerous girls who seemed to gravitate to Garrett the second he flashed that damned smile. But they wouldn’t be able to say they knew him. They didn’t know his favorite band, what major he’s pursuing, how he liked his coffee, or what his mother’s name was. But you did. Of course, you knew him like the back of your hand. 

“Missy, do you know where my–” Garrett’s voice from the bathroom snapped you out of your thoughts. 

You responded before he even finished his sentence: “Bub, your phone is still charging by the bed.”

You were sitting by the window, and the book you were reading had long been forgotten in your hands. You set it aside near a couple of other books you kept there. 

Garrett walked out of the bathroom with his hair still damp from the shower he had just taken, and a towel wrapped around his waist. You hadn’t looked over to him yet as you were folding a blanket that you kept by the window. He watched you with a soft gaze, and a smile budded on his lips.

He went over to the bed and tapped on his phone to check the time. His wallpaper flashed at him. It was a photo of you in the kitchen blowing out your birthday cake candles when he and the boys surprised you with a mini celebration last semester. 

“Hey, we should probably head down soon. I think Tuck is done cooking dinner,” he suggested. “Let me put something on, and we can go.” He went to his closet to grab some clothes. 

You nodded at him and grabbed your phone. “I’m going to head down now to see if he needs any help.” You pressed a kiss on his jawline when you headed out of the room.

You wandered down to the kitchen. “It smells like a restaurant in here.”

“Of course, with Tuck cooking,” Dean said as he carried a case of beers to the fridge. 

“I’m making tortellini,” Tucker called out on the stove.  

Your eyes scanned the room and saw several pots going at once and the counters covered with ingredients. It almost looked suspiciously professional.

“You need any help with anything, Tuck? I’m all yours.”

“Don’t let G hear you say that.” Logan chuckled as he walked into the kitchen, holding something behind his back. 

“Whatcha got, Logan?”

“You know we’d never forget about you.” Logan brought his arm around to his front, revealing a case of mini cherry cokes. 

“You guys are the best.” You buttered them up with a cheesy smile. 

He took one from the case before handing it to Dean to put in the fridge. “For the lady,” he exaggeratedly presented the can to you while bowing. 

“Why, thank you, kind sir.” You accepted the drink in curtsy. 

“Where’s G, man? Foods ready to be served, and his ass is still in his room,” Tucker howled out as he started serving the plates.

You expected to hear a response, but you noticed the silence rather quickly. You looked up from opening your can and saw all three of the guys staring at you for a response. “Why are you guys looking at me?” You blurted. 

“Well, where is he?” Dean prompted. 

“Up in his room.”

“Why is he not down here with us?” Logan added.

“You guys know that I’m not his keeper, right?” you groaned exasperated.

The boys all mirrored the same look that screamed, “Are you being serious right now?”

“I’m not!” Your voice cracked at the delivery, causing the others to laugh.

“What are you all laughing about?” Garrett’s voice broke through the laughter. 

Silence fell upon the room for a few short moments before Dean made a joke: “Just about Missy’s obsession with cherry cokes.” He held up another can to set on the table. 

“G took you long enough, man,” Logan greeted Garrett.

“We were just about to start with you,” Tucker playfully told him.

You all crowded around the old kitchen table. Nobody bothered about matching plates or utensils. One of the chairs wobbled, and Dean had the luck of getting it for the night. You were seated next to Garrett, close enough for your knees to knock into each other and neither of you cared to move. 

The meal was perfect.

You took one bite.

Then another.

Followed by another.

“This is the best thing I’ve ever had,” you praised.

Tucker laughed, “What?”

“I’m not kidding, this is heaven,” you hummed happily.

“Babe, if you think this is heaven, maybe I can show you what real heaven feels like,” Dean dramatically winked at you knowing that it would get on Garrett’s nerves.

“Quit it,” Garrett told him but turned his attention to Tucker, “I told you she’d love it.”

You narrowed your eyes between the pair, “You discussed this beforehand?”

“Obviously,” Garrett stated.

“You are all weird,” you declared to the room.

“And yet you’re here with us on a Sunday night,” Logan bemused.

You pointed your fork at each of the boys, “I regret befriending you all.”

“No, you don’t,” Garrett affirmed.

“No, I don’t,” you admitted with a smile creeping on your lips.

The table fell quiet for a half second. Not awkward. Just one of those moments that everyone wanted to take in and keep as a treasured memory. Everyone glanced at each other with fondness. 

The moment faded when Dean threw a bread roll at Garrett.

If someone were to ask you what your favorite meal is, this would still be the answer.

Maybe not fully because of the tortellini. Which was genuinely incredible. 

It was because of this. The table. The laughter. Logan arguing with Dean. Tucker pretending not to be pleased with himself that everyone kept going back for seconds (and thirds and fourths for the fellow hockey men). Garrett stealing food directly off your plate despite having an identical serving. 

You felt like you always belonged there.

The tortellini just became attached to the memory. After dinner, everyone helped to clean up. Or at least claimed to. Dean somehow managed to disappear. Tucker offered moral support rather than actual labor for once in the night as he sat on the counter, keeping you guys company. You and Garrett ended up doing most of the dishes. Logan cleaned the counters quietly.

“You know I wish I cooked more,” you said to no one in particular. 

Tucker glanced over. “You cook?”

“A little.”

“A little means yes.”

You shrugged, “I used to a lot when I was home, but with the dorms the smells lingered too long, and just not enough space.”

“That’s fair,” Tucker hummed.

“And cooking for one kind of sucks,” you whispered but it was loud enough for the boys to catch it. 

“It does,” Garrett nodded.

“Nobody asked you, bub,” you retorted.

“I’m supporting you.”

“More like interrupting,” you kid.

Tucker laughed, you brought your gaze to him. “You should cook here.”

You blinked at him, “What?”

Dean chose that exact moment to reappear, “Absolutely.”

Logan pointed dramatically, “I second this.”

“You guys haven’t even tasted my cooking,” you cautioned them.

“We’re willing to take risks,” Garrett grinned at you.

The look made you suspicious. “Oh no.”

“What?” Garrett questioned with false innocence. 

“You have an idea.” 

The other three just watched the banter between you two.

“I always have ideas,” Garrett claimed.

“That’s worse,” Logan whispered to Tucker.

You looked around the kitchen. At the house. At the boys who were crowded into it. There was a familiar comfort that you don’t remember forming. And for the first time, the idea didn’t feel strange.

It felt natural.

“Okay.”

“Done.”

By the end of the night, Sunday family dinners existed. 

Every Sunday.

One week Tucker cooked. The next week you did. On a rare occasion, Dean, Garrett, and Logan teamed up to cook for the night.

Nobody was allowed to skip without a legitimate emergency.

Dean attempted to argue that hungry bunnies counted as an emergency. That one earned him a slap on the back of the head from the other three. 

The dinners became routine. Then tradition. 

Followed by something more. People started planning their schedules around them. Sometimes new people were invited.

Bad weeks felt easier knowing when Sunday was coming.

Good weeks feel better when there are others to celebrate with.

By the end of the semester, everyone stopped pretending. Not about the dinner, but about you and Garrett. The two of you still insisted that you were strictly best friends. 

Everyone else nodded along, desperately waiting for one of you to say something about it.

Because whenever someone looked around the table, the picture was always the same.

Garrett grabbed you a cherry Coke every time he reached for his one beer for the night without thinking.

You saved him a portion when he was running late.

The pair of you always sat beside one another.

Nobody said anything. Mostly because they knew that you both would deny it.

But every Sunday, around that crowded table, the rest of the house watched the two of you and thought the same thing. 

That you two loved each other. That you lived better being next to each other. 

“Yo! Missy, do a shot with Beau and me,” Dean shouted from the kitchen, setting out the shot cups.

Before you replied, you looked to Garrett, and as if he could read your mind. “Just spend the night. It's not like you were planning to go home anyway. Go enjoy yourself.”

“Thanks, handsome.” You pressed a quick kiss against the edge of his jaw. “What is it?” you questioned when you went over to Dean and Beau.

“A shot,” Dean answered. 

“Very informative.”

You looked toward Beau, maybe the only responsible person in the house right now. He glanced up to hand you the shot. “Don’t ask me. This was all him.”

Dean’s grin was concerning. You groaned dramatically, “I feel like this is a bad idea.”

“It absolutely is,” Logan agreed.

“Not helping, Logan,” you murmured under your breath. 

Dean wiggled his shot. 

You turned your head to look back at Garrett. Automatically. The same way you always did. In a way, you didn’t realize you did so often, but Garrett noticed. One look and he already knew exactly what you were asking. 

The corner of his mouth lifted. “You’ll be okay. I’ll take care of you, baby,” he reassured you.

“Will I?” You smelled the shot, causing your nose to scrunch up.

“Probably.”

“Probably?” He laughed at your echo as he shuffled over to you guys.

“If Dean somehow tricks you into doing more than one…” he trailed off, looking at Dean, who was setting up even more shots. 

“I heard that, G,” Dean quipped at him.

“I’ll drag you upstairs before you make any life-ruining or altering decisions,” Garrett finished. 

There was a certainty in it that made you smile. It was the thing that always settled something inside you. No matter the situation, you knew that Garrett would take care of you.

Not because he thought you couldn’t take care of yourself. Just because that’s what the two of you did for each other. 

The same way you always made sure he wasn’t overworking himself with practices, games, studying, etc. The same way you brought him his protein shakes to practice when he forgot. 

The same way you both somehow always knew when the other needed support before having to ask for it.

“You ready, Missy?” Dean winked at you.

“Yup,” you cheered with Beau and Dean. You downed the shot, and Garrett was already next to you with a chaser to help.

“One day you’re going to explain this thing between you two,” Dean pointed at you and Garrett. 

“Never,” you and Garrett said simultaneously.

Logan nearly doubled over laughing.

Tucker giggled to himself, having found his way over to the kitchen a few moments before.

Dean looked personally offended.

And Garrett just looked at you with the same twinkle in his eye from the moment you first met. 

The party died slowly with people filtering out in groups. The music was playing low. Empty cups and bottles accumulated on every available surface. By three in the morning, the Boys’ house was mostly quiet.

Tucker was passed out on the couch nearly an hour ago. He mumbled something about tortellini right before knocking out. 

Around the same time, Logan disappeared upstairs after making sure everyone downed a water bottle and some ibuprofen.

Dean was last seen stealing leftover pizza before vanishing into his room.

You were gathering the scattered trash left around the house, with Garrett following you with a trash bag in hand. You two worked your way around the house, making sure that nobody broke anything and didn't say anything about it.

You headed upstairs when Garrett went to throw out the bag outside. 

You found yourself curled into the corner of Garrett’s bed, wearing one of his hoodies that ended up living in your drawer here just for you to wear. You nursed another bottle of water. Not because you got particularly drunk. Because Garrett had handed it to you without asking before you went upstairs. 

The room was dim except for his lamp. Your drawer was half-open. A pair of your socks were sticking out. Your charger is plugged into the wall. 

There is so much evidence of you in this room now that it would be impossible to explain away. Not that either of you really tried to anymore. 

Garrett entered the room and headed straight to grab a pair of sweats. He went over to the bathroom. 

He came back out now shirtless, just in his sweats, and he threw his clothes into the hamper, which landed right on top of yours. 

Garrett sat beside you on the bed. Close enough that your arms brushed against each other. 

Neither of you said much for a while. 

The silence wasn’t awkward. It never really was. It was one of your favorite things about him. The ability to simply coexist together.

Eventually, he glanced over, “Tired?”

“Exhausted.”

“Did you have fun tonight?”

“I always do with you.” Your body started to lean into him.

Garrett brought you into his chest. The smell of your perfume overtook his senses. 

“Ready to go to bed?” he hummed into your hair.

You nodded gently and tore yourself from his grasp to look him in the eyes. Your gaze traveled from his lips to his eyes. Suddenly, neither of you was looking away. 

Something shifted. Not all at once. Just enough. Enough that you felt it, and you knew he did too. 

Garrett exhaled slowly. “Can I tell you something?”

The question snapped you out of your daze because Garrett sounded nervous. He never sounded like that around you, not anymore. 

His laugh was quiet. A little disbelieving. Like he was debating with himself.

Then he shakes his head, “I think I’ve been trying not to say this for months, hell, since the moment you cooked dinner for all of us while we were at practice back in sophomore year.”

Your heart immediately started beating faster. “Okay.”

“I keep telling myself we’re fine just the way we are.”

You blinked, “We are fine.”

“We are,” he smiled. “That’s part of the problem.”

You stared at him, and the room felt like it was getting warmer by the second. 

Garrett ran a hand through his hair. “I like you.”

“Wow.”

“What?” he quirked his brow at you.

“That sounded odd,” you giggled to yourself in disbelief. 

“It didn’t,” he defended weakly.

“It definitely did.”

“It really didn’t.” he shifted closer. “I mean it.”

Your chest hurts in the best possible way. “I know you do.” He froze at your confession.

Not because he’s told you before, but because he’d shown you. 

Every coffee he gave you when he knew you stayed up late studying.

Every late-night conversation in his room pretending that what you guys had was a normal friendship. 

Every time he remembered something small.

Every time he made space for you in crowded places.

Every time his eyes searched for yours after he scored a winning goal. 

Every time he looked at you like you were the best part of his day. 

You already knew, but hearing it made it real.

“What?”

You smiled, “I know.”

His expression looked almost offended. “You were supposed to be surprised.”

“You have a bottle of my perfume under your sink.” 

“In my defense–” you cut him off.

“You gave me a drawer.”

“You needed a drawer. How else were you supposed to stay over so often?” he shrugged.

“Maybe.” You reached for his hand. The movement was natural, like everything else with him. “I like you too.”

The room went still. Garrett stared back at you. “You do?”

You snickered. “Seriously?”

“I just want confirmation.”

“You have been my favorite person since the moment you almost concussed me freshman year.”

He covered his eyes with his hand. “Okay, moment ruined.” But when he uncovered his face, the smile that spread across his lips was devastating. Warm and content. Happy.

“So?”

“So what?” 

You shifted closer. “What does this mean for us?” You pretended to ponder. “Hm.”

“Missy.”

“I think…” You cocked your head to the side. “This means we should probably stop pretending we’re just friends.”

Garrett laughed. A real laugh. The kind that only came out around people he felt completely comfortable with. “Yeah.”

“Yeah?” you repeated. 

Then he leaned forward, slowly. His hand settled against your cheek. And when he kissed you, it didn’t feel new. It felt like something you’ve been waiting for a very long time. 

When you finally pull apart, both of you are smiling. A little stunned. Definitely giddy. Garrett rested his forehead against yours. “So we’re not telling them.”

You softly chuckled to yourself, “Absolutely not.”

“They’re going to be unbearable.”

“Especially Dean.”

“He’ll claim responsibility.”

“Too bad it’s thanks to your ridiculous bottle.”

He groaned, “We are keeping this to ourselves.”

“Agreed.” 

The agreement lasted less than eight hours.

The next morning, the kitchen smelled like coffee and bacon. 

Logan was standing at the stove.

Tucker was sitting by the counter with his head in his hands. 

Dean was eating cereal directly from the box. 

Nobody looked particularly awake. You shuffled into the kitchen wearing another one of Garrett’s hoodies, which wasn't unusual. 

Garrett followed a minute later. Also not unusual. 

Nobody paid attention.

Logan continued cooking his bacon. 

Tucker still hadn’t lifted his head up yet.

Dean kept munching on the cereal.

Garrett walked directly to the coffee pot. Also normal.

He poured a cup. He added exactly the amount of cream and sugar you liked. He carried it over to you. Still normal.

“Morning, Missy.” You heard Logan call from the stove.

“Morning,” You replied.

You accepted the mug from Garrett. And without thinking or planning, you leaned up and pecked his lips. Quick. Easy.

And not normal. 

The room went silent. The silence lasted exactly two seconds. 

Then Dean practically launched out of his chair, “I KNEW IT!”

You immediately dropped your head. “No.”

“YES.”

“It has been like six hours.”

“I KNEW IT.”

Garrett groaned. 

Dean pointed to himself, “This happened because of me.”

“It absolutely did not,” Garrett remarked. 

“I brought you together.”

“You really didn’t,” you laughed.

Tucker finally lifted his head and studied you and Garrett for a moment. Then nodded, “About time.”

Garrett pointed at him, “Thank you.”

“No problem,” Tucker muttered as he dropped his head back down.

Dean looked betrayed. “That’s all you have to say?”

“What else is there to say?” Tucker’s voice was muffled. 

“They’re dating!” Dean proclaimed.

“They’ve been emotionally dating for like over a year,” Logan shrugged off. 

“Fair,” you mouthed to Garrett. 

Logan flipped another piece of bacon, completely unfazed. “Bacon’s almost done.”

The room erupted.

Dean started shouting. Garrett was laughing. You nearly spilled your coffee when Dean came up to pick you up in a spin, barely giving you time to set down the mug. Garrett made quick work of grabbing it out of your hands. “I call being the godfather to your future children.”

Life seemed to be put back into Tucker, and Logan flipped around, pointing the tongs at Dean. “No man, that’s not how that works.”

Tucker looked more alive than ever. “My sous chef would never pick you, dude.”

Dean sat you down on the counter and immediately started arguing with the other two. 

And standing next to you was Garrett. His shoulder pressed against yours while he handed your coffee back. 

You realized something. Nothing felt different. Not really. The house was still home. The boys are still family. 

Garrett was still your favorite person.

The first time it happened, you didn’t realize anything was wrong.

It felt like waking up in your room just like any other day. You got up, ate breakfast, saw your family, went through the usual routines, and eventually went back to sleep. Life simply continued without any strange premonition. A few moments felt oddly familiar, like you had already seen them before, but you brushed the feeling aside—it didn’t make sense, so it couldn’t be real.

And then you died.

End...

The second and third times left behind something stranger: a lingering sense of familiarity you couldn’t quite explain. Certain moments made you pause, confusion settling in your chest as if something was trying to surface from your mind but never fully did. You frowned slightly, whispering to yourself,

“Hasn’t this already happened…? Or am I just imagining things?”

You wake again, stiff and disoriented, lying in your room with eyes slowly opening, trying to take in your surroundings. The ceiling comes into focus first, then the familiar creak from the window you’ve repaired more times than you can count.

Outside, the sky hangs low and gray, heavy with clouds. Gotham looks exactly the same as it always does.

By the sixth time, the feeling became impossible to ignore.

Something about the world felt too rehearsed, too familiar—like a story repeating itself while pretending it was new. Confusion slowly crept in as you began to notice things unfolding exactly the way you expected, even though you had no memory of learning them. The words slipped out before you could stop them.

“What… is happening right now?”

Things that 'should not exist' appeared again. A fallen tree you had watched collapse days before now stood tall and unmoving, as if it had never touched the ground. Graves you were certain had been there, names carved into cold stone, dirt still fresh—were suddenly gone, leaving nothing but smooth earth behind.

And the people…

The ones you knew had died were suddenly standing in front of you again.

The ones who had died.

The ones you had watched die.

The ones you had killed.

They stood there like nothing had ever happened, speaking, breathing, living their lives as if the world had never broken in the first place.

Every life was different, yet every ending led you back to the same beginning. Again, again, and again..

________________________________________

Life kept repeating itself, 'again'.

It had happened so many times that eventually, you started to do things differently. Small changes at first, then bigger, more reckless ones.

In the haze of confusion, you chose different paths, made different decisions, disobeyed orders you had never dared to question before. Sometimes you left without explanation, disappearing for hours or days, only to return with no clear reason even you could understand.

And each time, the world felt the same… yet somehow, nothing was ever quite the same.

Sometimes, your family noticed.

More than once, they stopped you with worried expressions, their voices edged with confusion—sometimes even frustration. You would act strangely without explanation, leaving and returning at odd times, making choices that didn’t make sense to anyone but you.

Dick was usually the first to approach you, his brows drawn together in concern. “Hey… what’s going on with you lately?” he would ask, clearly trying to keep his voice gentle, like he was hoping you’d open up if he didn’t push too hard.

But it was obvious that your behavior was starting to trouble him too. The careful tone didn’t quite hide the tension in his expression, the way his eyes searched your face a little too closely, like he was trying to read something you refused to say out loud.

Other times, the concern turned sharper.

Jason would cross his arms, irritation clear in his voice. “You’re acting weird,” he’d say bluntly. “You gonna explain, or are we just supposed to guess what your problem is?”

Even Bruce had stopped you more than once, his voice low but firm.

“What’s going on?”

But every time they asked, you found yourself hesitating.

Because the truth was… you weren’t sure what was happening either.

'Were you just exhausted ? Had all of this finally caught up to you? Or were you slowly losing your mind?'

You had asked yourself that question more times than you could count. Was this some kind of curse, karma for something you didn’t remember doing or was it meant to be a gift? An opportunity. A second chance (??) repeated endlessly.

At some point, the answer stopped mattering.

________________________________________

More than once, in those countless lives, you tried to end it yourself.

Sometimes it came from frustration an unbearable weight pressing against your chest after realizing the cycle would not stop, no matter what.

You wake with a jolt, sitting up immediately and ignoring the sharp headache pounding behind your temples.

'No… not again… please…',

The thought rushes through your mind as panic claws its way up your chest, your eyes darting quickly around the room as if searching for something. Anything. Different.

Then you hear it. Creeeak… creak.

The familiar sound of the window frame shifting in the wind. Your gaze slowly drifts toward it, dread already settling heavily in your stomach.

Outside, the sky hangs low and gray, heavy with clouds, exactly the same as it always is. Just like every other time.

A humorless laugh escapes you as your shoulders sag slightly, frustration twisting in your chest. “Of course,” you mutter bitterly under your breath, staring at the window with growing disgust. “Of course it’s the same again.”

Your hand reaches toward the nightstand without hesitation, fingers already curling around the handle of your weapon. The motion feels automatic now, almost routine.

You don’t even sit up.

The gun lifts slightly.

A breath. A pause.

And then, Dark.

...>>>

Other times it happened randomly, like a quiet experiment you carried out just to see if anything would finally change.

You experimented with things you normally wouldn’t touch—mixing strange compounds together, studying poisons, even testing venom from creatures that should have never been near your hands.

More often than not, you became your own test subject.

Stupidly… you didn’t stop there.

There were lives where you invited others—family, guests, friends, anyone who had simply happened to be there that day. The dining table would be set like any other evening, plates neatly arranged, glasses filled, conversation drifting casually through the room.

And somewhere in the meal… the poison would be waiting.

The endings were never quite the same.

Sometimes everyone drank. Sometimes someone arrived late.

They would stood frozen in the doorway of the dining room, watching in silent horror as bodies slowly collapsed around the table, one after another—until the room fell into a terrible stillness.

And in the middle of it all, you would still be sitting there.

Watching them.

Waiting.

Your eyes would lift toward the lone figure in the doorway as you raised the final glass to your lips, the same quiet mixture already swirling inside.

A small, tired breath leaving your chest.

Then you drank.

And followed the others into the dark.

...>>>

There was lives where you stood on a rooftop with Dick, watching the city lights scattered beneath you like distant stars.

The night had been calm for once, patrol already finished, the air cool against your skin. Dick was leaning against the ledge beside you, talking about something trivial—maybe a mission, maybe something Jason had said earlier that day.

You barely remember.

What you do remember was laughing.

“See? That’s what I’ve been saying,” Dick said, nudging your shoulder lightly. “You worry too much sometimes.”

“Maybe,” you replied, smiling faintly.

For a moment, everything felt nice..

Then you leaned back.

Dick blinked. “—Hey, wait, what are you—”

Your body tipped over the edge before he could finish.

The last thing you saw was the shock on his face as the distance between you and the rooftop widened, Gotham’s wind rushing past your ears as gravity pulled you down.

And then— You woke up again. yayyy!!!

.....

In some of them, you tried to be good, to be better.

You trained harder. Memorized the patterns of crime across Gotham City. Tried to prevent disasters before they could happen.

Sometimes you succeeded.

Sometimes you didn’t.

Because every change, even the smallest one—seemed to create a different kind of disaster somewhere else.

Saving one person meant losing another.

Stopping one tragedy caused a new one to appear somewhere you hadn’t predicted.

.....

You have saved the city.

You have also destroyed it.

You have rebuilt entire parts of Gotham’s criminal network just to understand how it functioned from the inside.

You have dismantled those same networks piece by piece in other lives.

You have been someone your family trusted.

And someone they hunted.

.....

There were loops where Jason killed you.

Loops where you killed him first.

There were countless lives where you and Damian fought until only one of you walked away. Most of the time, he won. A few times, you were the one left standing, and in some of those lives… neither of you won.

Loops where Tim holding your hand while your breathing slowly faded.

His fingers were always warm, gripping yours a little too tightly, like if he held on hard enough he could keep you here. In those moments he rarely spoke, only watching you with tired, frantic eyes, as if searching for something he could fix.

And in more than one life, those memories stayed vivid.

There were lives where Bruce had carried you through the night.

His arms were locked tightly around you as he ran across Gotham’s rooftops, cape snapping violently behind him. His grip was desperate, almost painful, as he kept telling you to stay awake, to keep your eyes open, his voice low and rough in a way you had rarely heard before.

Pressed against his chest, you could hear it clearly—the rapid pounding of his heartbeat, racing in frantic rhythm, as if sheer will alone could keep you alive.

“Please… just stay with me.”

Your vision blurred, the lights of Gotham smearing into soft streaks of color as the pain in your chest grew heavier with every breath.

“Dad…” your voice came out weak, barely more than a whisper. It hurt to speak. “I can’t do this anymore.”

And every time, the darkness came anyway.

________________________________________

The first breath

always feels like drowning in reverse, lungs that were flat forced to expand, a heart that had gone cold suddenly forced to beat again, a world that had gone dark flooding back with color.

It leaves you disoriented for a moment, eyes searching your surroundings while the memory of your last death still lingers vividly in your mind. 'Was it just a nightmare… or had you died again?'

Every time.

The same sharp inhale, the same moment of confusion before awareness slowly settles in.

Until you recognize the pattern.

Until you realize, You’re alive again.

The ceiling of your room comes into focus first, followed by the familiar creaking from the window you’ve repaired more times than you can count.

'Wait… the creaking?'

You freeze, trying to catch it again. Nothing. Silence. In every life, every loop, that faint squeak always welcomed you awake, a small but stubborn proof that the world hadn’t yet fully reset. And now… nothing.

Outside, the sky hangs low and gray with clouds. Wayne Manor looks exactly the same as it always does. The corridors stretch in their familiar way, the portraits lining the halls staring down at you with that same quiet judgment.

Everything is exactly as it should be—and yet something is off.

You start the day as usual, walking down the halls of the manor. The clock shows it’s already past noon. Gray clouds hang low over the estate, casting familiar comfort, in a strange way.

Heading toward the dining room, you see Tim sitting in the same position he always does in every life you’ve lived.

Though… somehow, he seems different. Something in the way he holds himself, the tension in his shoulders, makes him feel more… unsettled than usual.

Your eyes drift to the table. Some utensils and tools are scattered there. 'Wait, this shouldn’t be here. It’s usually just Tim alone.'

Tim catches your gaze and his eyes flick to the tools, then back to you. “Bruce finally fixed your window,” he says briefly.

“Huh… really? Finally, after all this time…” you reply, a little awkwardly. Then you tilt your head toward him, concern rising. “Are you… okay? Was your mission… rough?”

His eyes lock on yours, unblinking, unnervingly still. “…I… keep having nightmares,” he whispers, the raw, almost pleading weight in his voice catching your attention.

“Nightmares?”

Tim looks away, jaw tight, hesitating as if the words themselves could break something. “…Ah, forget it, Reader,” he murmurs finally, though Tim tries to shake it off, the echoes are already reaching others.

________________________________________

Dick is in Blüdhaven when the dreams begin,

Patrols, late nights, brief pauses of sleep, they blur together, but the dreams keep coming. In them, Gotham is different: quiet, almost hopeful, a city he barely recognizes but wishes could exist. And you are there, standing beside him on rooftops, leaning against the stone like this exact moment has happened a hundred times before.

“You ever think the city might actually stay like this?” he asks lightly in the dream, watching warm sunlight spill across the streets.

You glance down at Gotham, calm as always. “hum.. I am not sure, nothing stays good here. But it’s nice enough for now.”

For a heartbeat, it feels familiar. Comfortable. The two of you have shared years of nights together, moving across rooftops and streets.

Dick remembers laughing at you, remembers the strange certainty of it. And then it shifts.

The light dims.

The wind bites colder.

The edges of the city feel sharper.

You stumble backward, losing your balance.

Your body tips over the edge, falling headfirst.

He lunges forward, hands outstretched, but it’s too late.

Your body hits the ground with a sickening crack.

“Hey—Hey, stay with me", he says, dropping to his knees beside you. Panic coils in his chest, tight and raw. "Reader!”

You try to respond, but no words come. Your body collapses, sound echoing too loudly, impossibly, across the quiet of the night. Every detail is vivid, burning into his memory even as he knows it isn’t real.

Dick jolts awake in his apartment, chest heaving, eyes wide. The ceiling stares back at him, ordinary and unchanging, but his hands tremble as they rest on the sheets. He can still feel the weight of your body against him, hear the echo of your fall.

For a moment, the noise of the city outside fades. He clutches at the fragments of the dream, the feeling of loss, the unnatural perfection of it.

Then reality drags him back, the apartment, the faint hum of traffic, the knowledge that you are far away, somewhere in Gotham, probably still asleep or wandering the halls half-aware.

“A dream,” he mutters, voice rough, running a hand through his hair. “Just a dream.”

But even as he forces himself up, he knows it won’t be the last.

......

Jason’s dreams are harsh.

Gotham burns from end to end, smoke curling between shattered buildings, sirens wailing in the distance like they’re useless echoes. Jason moves through the chaos, weapon drawn, muscles taut, heart pounding. The city feels wrong, alive and heavy, as if it’s breathing fire.

At the center of it all, you stand. Calm, relaxed, looking at him lazily.

“Really?” Jason snaps, irritation slicing through the chaos. “You’re behind this?”

You tilt your head, watching him like this confrontation has already played out a hundred times before. “Depends how you look at it.”

Jason fires first.

The fight is fast, brutal, and precise. Every strike he throws, every step he takes, seems predicted—like you’ve already lived through this moment before. Pain ricochets through him, adrenaline and disbelief mixing in a bitter taste at the back of his throat.

“You’re not walking away from this,” he growls, raising his weapon again.

A faint smile curls at your lips, and then a laugh slips out. It grows—longer, louder, harsher—echoing across the burning streets of the dream. You laugh for so long that you eventually have to pause, drawing a slow breath while your eyes remain fixed on him.

“I know. I fucking know,” you whisper, your voice tight, almost trembling with exhaustion. “You’ve said that before.”

This time the laugh that follows is smaller, quieter, your gaze drifting away from him as if the moment itself has already lost its meaning.

Gunfire cracks through the air. A single shot.

And your voice fades, slowly, until it disappears completely.

Dead silence.

Jason doesn’t see you collapse, he refuse to rise his head.

He’s the one trying to steady his breathing now, chest rising and falling as the gun slips from his hand and clatters against the pavement. Only after a moment does he finally glance down at the body lying in front of him.

The words hang in the smoke-choked air, heavier than any gunfire, heavier than the city collapsing around you. Jason freezes, heart hammering, trapped in the memory of it even as the dream begins to dissolve.

Jason wakes with a start, the dim light of the safehouse sharp in contrast to the heat and smoke still lingering in his chest. He sits up slowly, rubbing his face, trying to shake the echo of the words, the clash, the weight of you in that burning city.

“Yeah, right,” he mutters under his breath, forcing the memory into the corners of his mind.

'You’re probably in the Manor right now', he thinks, trying to push the dream out of his head. 'Wandering through the kitchen, arguing about something stupid, laughing with someone like nothing’s wrong.'

And yet the dream refuses to release him. The idea of that the version of you in his nightmares could never exist. Yeah.. that is impossible.

......

Tim’s dreams come in fragments.

One night he’s in the Batcave, watching you stand before a wall of screens. Data scrolls endlessly—crime reports, patrol routes, surveillance feeds—all moving in precise, chilling coordination under your direction.

“You’ve mapped the whole network?” Tim asks, leaning closer, heart racing despite the calm in the scene.

You don’t look up. “Every supply line, every front business, every backup location. They’ll collapse within a month.”

Tim studies the projections, admiration mixing with unease. “You’re dismantling half the city’s crime in four weeks.”

“Three,” you correct, voice flat, precise, too certain.

Another dream replaces it the following night.

The room is dim and filled with candles, shadows stretching across the walls while people kneel around your silent, faces pale and empty, eyes wide as if carved into devotion.

The air is thick, heavy, scented with wax, iron, something rotting beneath it. Their attention never wavers as you speak softly about cycles and inevitability.

One of them whispers, almost reverently, “What happens after the city falls?”

You look down at them with an unreadable expression.

“We start again.”

Tim wakes from that one with a slight frown, the words lingering in his head longer than they should. Was that.. a cult??

......

Damian is still with the League when his dreams begin.

His dreams are violent, fragmented, and disturbingly familiar.

Over and over, he sees the same ruined courtyard outside the league, broken stone, dust hanging thick in the air, the smell of smoke and iron biting at his nostrils. Shadows stretch unnaturally across the cracked walls, moving like they have minds of their own.

Someone stands across from him, weapon in hand. At first, he thinks it might be a League operative or maybe one of the assassins, the followers, the children of death he once struck down, manifesting here in a shape he cannot fully recognize.

The battles always end the same way. Damian wins.

Sometimes it’s quick—a precise strike, sending them to the ground. Other times, the fight drags on, blows exchanged in brutal rhythm, each movement answered perfectly. Both of them bleed, both exhausted, and still Damian lands the final strike.

Each time, they die.

Again. And again. And again.

Sometimes the dream changes.

The courtyard looks the same—ruined, silent, dust drifting slowly through the air. Both of them are breathing hard now, weapons raised, sweat and blood mixing with the grit beneath their feet.

Damian moves for the finals strike, certain the ending will be the same as always.

But, they slip out of the way with surprising speed, stumbling back a few steps. Their breathing is uneven, almost reckless, and the way they look at him is sharp, angry.

Annoyed.

Their expression twists as they glare at him, at the situation itself, at the endless repetition, the same fight, the same ending played over and over again.

Their hands tremble faintly around the weapon, chest rising and falling too fast, as though they are exhausted by everything that keep repeating.

They drive their own blade straight through their chest.

No hesitation. Just a quick, deliberate motion.

The body drops backward onto the broken stone, the weight of the fall forcing the blade deeper.

Damian takes step back, watching the figure collapse onto the ground. His hands twitch slightly, but he does nothing.

He simply stands there, staring at the body.

For the first time since these dreams began, tthe ending changes.

And then he wakes.

Cold sweat clings to his skin, his heart hammering violently against his ribs. Years of League training should have steadied him, should have forced his breathing back into control within seconds—but for a moment, it all feels useless.

He sits up slowly in the darkness, staring into the shadowed corners of his room, listening to the familiar, mundane sounds of the League quarters. Stone walls. Quiet footsteps somewhere in the distance. The faint whisper of wind through the narrow windows.

He exhales sharply and forces the thoughts away.

'They are dreams. Nothing more.'

And soon enough, they stop.

Or at least… he convinces himself they do.

So when Damian finally arrives in Gotham for the first time and steps into Manor, those dreams are already buried somewhere in the back of his mind—filed away and dismissed like irrelevant noise.

The front doors open with a low creak as Bruce leads him inside.

They’ve barely stepped past the threshold when footsteps echo from deeper inside the manor.

Someone is already approaching the entrance.

You appear a moment later, walking toward the door with the casual familiarity of someone who has crossed this hall a thousand times before. Your gaze flicks toward them briefly.

You slow slightly when you notice Bruce and the unfamiliar boy standing beside him, but only for a moment. You make no move to introduce yourself, offering them nothing more than a brief glance before turning back toward the door.

Then you continue walking.

“I’m heading out for a bit, Dad. I’ll be back before dinner.”

You don’t wait for an answer. With an easy motion, you step past them, pushing the door open and slipping outside.

The door closes softly behind you.

For a moment, Damian doesn’t move. His eyes remain fixed on the space where you had just been standing.

Bruce is the first to notice the silence. After a brief pause, he speaks calmly.

“That was Reader,” Bruce says. “Your sibling.”

Oh. So those nightmares he had tried so hard to forget come rushing back all at once.

As Damian’s gaze drifts across the manor, the images from those dreams begin to overlap with reality—the courtyard he remembers seeing stained with your blood more times than he can count.

The dining room further down the hall, where in one of those dreams, he watched you quietly lift a glass to your lips before collapsing moments later, poisoned… or perhaps choosing to drink it yourself. The memories slam back into place with unsettling clarity, and a quiet realization settles in his chest.

Something here is very, very wrong.

________________________________________

“Ayah.. aku capek banget”, Bruce menggenggammu erat, memohon agar kau tetap bersamanya, "Nak.. ya tuhan.."

You mornings together was your preferred way to start the day. Sharing burnt toast and strong coffee, others were spent with gentle hands and bandages after missions. Conversations whispered into skin, secrets exchanged in the dark that felt safe simply because they were yours.

You remembered thinking, This is it. This is what it’s supposed to feel like.

The memory shattered the moment you opened your eyes.

The tower ceiling stared back at you, sterile and unfamiliar. Your room felt too quiet now, too empty. His jacket wasn’t draped over the chair anymore. There was no warmth lingering in the sheets, no sleepy voice teasing you for staying up too late.

That life belonged to another version of you.

And Dick Grayson belonged to someone else.

The last mission had been brutal — not the worst you’d ever faced, but draining in a way that left exhaustion sitting heavy in your bones. You worked well with the team, always had, but something felt… off.

It took you longer than you cared to admit to realize why.

Dick was there, and fought and covered civilians. He moved with the same precision he always did. He checked in over comms, just like he did with everyone else.

But he wasn’t fighting with you.

There was no familiar pressure at your back, no instinctive trust that someone was watching your blind spots because you watched theirs. No silent coordination born from knowing how the other person moved, thought, or reacted. You didn’t realize how much you’d relied on that unspoken connection until it was gone.

He hadn’t abandoned you. You knew that. He still cared — as a teammate. As a friend?

But the space between you felt cavernous. And fighting alone, even in a crowd, felt lonelier than you expected.

You stood under the spray of the shower longer than necessary, letting the water pound against your shoulders, hoping it would wash the memory of the mission, and the announcement that came after, from your mind.

Everyone had been so happy for them, Dick and Kori. Official. Public, almost aggressively so.

The way she glowed at his side, radiant and unapologetic in her affection. The way his smile came easy around her, unguarded in a way you hadn’t seen directed at you in a long time. They looked good together, like couple that belonged on the front page of a magazine or whispered about in awe.

It shouldn’t have hurt. You were broken up, and this was inevitable.

But your heart didn’t seem to care about logic.

You shut off the water, wrapped yourself in a towel, and stared at your reflection until the redness around your eyes faded enough to pass as exhaustion instead of heartbreak. You dressed quickly, deliberately. If you stayed in your room too long, you’d think too much.

You just needed food. Something solid, something normal.

The common room lights were dimmed when you stepped inside. Late evening, the tower winding down, and for one fleeting moment, you thought you might be safe.

Then you saw them. Kori sat curled against Dick on the couch, her legs tucked beneath her, her laugh bright and unrestrained as he murmured something into her ear. His arm was slung easily around her shoulders, fingers resting at her waist like they’d memorized the shape of her already.

Arms that had once held you. Something in your chest twisted painfully.

Dick’s eyes lifted instinctively, catching yours across the room. For a split second, something flickered there — surprise, maybe guilt — but you didn’t give him the chance to figure it out.

You turned on your heel and headed back the way you came. You didn’t hear him call your name. You didn’t want to.

“Hey— wait up.”

Wally’s voice cut through your thoughts like a jolt of electricity, familiar and grounding. You slowed but didn’t stop, side-eying him as he fell into step beside you.

“You wanna hang out?” he asked lightly. “Maybe grab a snack? Get outta the tower for a bit?”

You huffed out a breath, arms crossing instinctively as you kept walking. “This isn’t because you feel bad, right?” you said. “I know this has got to be awkward for you.”

While Dick had insisted on keeping it quiet about any kind of relationship the two of you had, Wally was the exception to the rule. So while the rest of the team had no clue about any history between you and Dick, Wally has insider information. It wouldn’t be a far guess to say that he might just actually pity you, which is why you couldn’t help but ask. Not that you were really in a position to refuse a friend anyway.

Wally stopped short enough that you were forced to glance back at him.

“No,” he said immediately, cutting you off before the words could sink too deep. His tone was gentle, but firm. “It’s not about that.”

He jogged a step forward, falling back into stride beside you. “I can’t get a late-night treat with my friend and teammate now? And if it coincidentally means we leave the tower for a bit,” he added with a shrug, “well… who cares?”

He nudged your shoulder with his own, just enough that you stumbled slightly before catching yourself.

A small smile tugged at your lips before you could stop it. You sighed, the tension in your chest loosening just a fraction. “Fine,” you said quietly. “But you’re buying.”

Wally grinned, flashing you a wink as he turned toward the exit. “Wouldn’t dream of letting you pay.”

And for the first time that night, as the tower doors slid open and the cool air brushed against your skin, it felt like you might be able to breathe again.

⚡︎𓅩

You noticed it without meaning to. You’ve been trying to give the happy couple their space, but it seems like the universe is determined to keep shoving them into your face. So, of course, you notice Kori’s new fashion accessory.

Dick’s jacket was draped over Kori’s shoulders. It sat heavily on Kori’s shoulders, the fabric too large for her frame, sleeves hanging past her wrists as she laughed at something Dick murmured under his breath. The emblem on the back curved with her movement, catching the light as she shifted closer to him. Dick didn’t even look down when she tugged it tighter around herself — his arm came up automatically, settling at her waist like the two gestures belonged together.

Like this was normal, like it had always been allowed. Your fingers tightened around your cup.

It shouldn’t have mattered. It was just a jacket. A piece of fabric. Something practical, something replaceable.

But it wasn’t. Not to you.

The memory came without warning.

You were still flushed from the mission, sweat cooling too quickly against your skin as you stepped into the hallway outside the lockers. Your hands trembled faintly as adrenaline bled off, exhaustion settling deep into your bones. Dick stood beside you, already half out of his suit, laughter soft as he recounted something stupid Roy had said over comms.

You’d been cold.

You remembered hesitating before reaching for his jacket, fingers brushing the sleeve tentatively. “Hey,” you’d said lightly, trying to keep it casual. “Can I—?”

He’d looked down, surprised. Not upset, not angry, just…caught off guard.

“Oh,” he’d said, gently pulling it back before you could fully shrug it on. “Careful.”

You’d laughed, embarrassed. “What?”

“I just—” he’d smiled apologetically, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t want you to accidentally rip it or stain it or something. You know how that suit fabric is.”

You remembered nodding immediately. Too quickly.

“Oh. Yeah. Of course,” you’d said. “That makes sense.”

He’d kissed your temple instead, warm and familiar, arm sliding around your shoulders like that was supposed to make up for it.

At the time, you’d believed him.

You’d told yourself he was being practical. Protective or possessive even. That it didn’t mean anything deeper than caution and habit. You’d told yourself love didn’t need symbols, that the way he held you when no one was watching mattered more.

Now, watching Kori wear it openly and proudly, you understand. It had never been about stains, or rips, or carelessness.

It had been about visibility. He hadn’t wanted the team to know.

Not fully, not unmistakably. Not in a way that couldn’t be explained away as a coincidence or convenience. Loving you had lived in private spaces, in shadows, in rooms with doors closed and lights low.

Kori wore his jacket in the middle of the room. No hesitation or apology.

Dick didn’t flinch or glance around. He didn’t look uncomfortable. He just let it happen.

Something inside you sank quietly. It wasn’t jealousy — not really. None of this was Kori’s fault. It was clarity. The kind that arrived too late to change anything, but early enough to hurt.

You’d spent so long being careful with him. Making yourself smaller. Accepting less because you thought that was the price of loving someone who carried so much weight.

And now you saw it plainly.

He hadn’t been protecting the jacket.

He’d been protecting the story he told everyone else.

You took a slow sip of your drink, gaze drifting away before the ache could sharpen further. Across the room, Dick laughed at something Kori said, his hand resting on her back without thought.

You didn’t look again.

Because you didn’t need to.

You finally understood what you’d lost — and what you’d never really had.

But now there’s Kori tugging the jacket tighter around herself, smiling up at him. Dick’s hand rested at her waist without hesitation, easy and familiar.

You swallowed and turned away.

“Hey.”

Wally’s voice cut in gently, and you startled just enough to feel silly about it.

“Sorry,” you said automatically.

“For what?” he asked, already grabbing a drink from the fridge and sliding it toward you. “Existing in the same room as… people?”

You huffed a quiet laugh. “Something like that.”

He followed your gaze, took in the scene, and then looked back at you — really looked. The slight tension in your jaw. The way your shoulders had drawn in on themselves.

He didn’t comment. Instead, he leaned against the counter beside you. “You eat yet?”

“No.”

“Cool,” he said, nodding once. “Same. Tragic, honestly.”

You smirked. “You say that every time.”

“And every time it’s true.”

The banter was familiar and easy. It helped more than you wanted to admit.

⚡︎𓅩

It happened again a few nights later.

You were on patrol, moving across rooftops, when a familiar neon glow caught your eye. A café window, warm and inviting, steam fogging the glass.

Dick sat inside, with Kori across from him, chin propped in her hand as he spoke, eyes bright with attention. He smiled in that open, unguarded way — the one he used to reserve for late nights with you, when the world felt smaller.

Your feet slowed before you could stop them.

“Don’t,” you muttered to yourself.

Wally, your new patrol partner, ran back towards you when you saw you were stuck, having noticed immediately. “What?”

“Nothing,” you said quickly, forcing your pace to pick up again.

He glanced through the window, understanding dawning. The rest of the patrol passed in near silence.

Not the uncomfortable kind. Just… quiet. The city stretched out beneath you in a scatter of lights and distant sirens, wind rushing past as you and Wally moved from rooftop to rooftop. Normally, he filled the air with commentary, bad jokes, half-finished thoughts that tumbled out of him faster than he could filter them.

Tonight, he didn’t. He stayed close, matching your pace, eyes scanning the streets while occasionally flicking sideways to check on you. You appreciated the lack of pressure more than you could say.

By the last stretch of your route, your feet were aching, and your shoulders felt heavier than they should have.

Wally let out an exaggerated groan.

You blinked, glancing over. “Are you dying?”

“Slowly,” he said, hand dramatically over his heart. “Tragically. From starvation.”

“You ate before patrol.”

“And, why are you keeping track of that? Who are you, my doctor?”

You snorted softly. “I feel like that’s more like a dietician.”

“Come on,” he said, nudging closer. “There’s this place I love. Best late-night snacks. Open all hours. We could swing by?”

Spend the night replaying the scene you saw, or hang out with Wally? An easy choice. You shrugged, the effort minimal. “Sure. Why not?”

His eyes brightened. “Really?”

“It’s food,” you said. “You don’t need to sell it.”

“Excellent.” He paused. “Can I carry you?”

You raised a brow. “Excuse me?”

“Just for speed,” he clarified quickly. “We’ll get there faster. Less walking. You look, don’t take this the wrong way, tired.”

You hesitated — then nodded. “Okay. Yeah. That’s… fine.”

He grinned. “Great.”

He barely gave you time to brace before he scooped you up, one arm under your knees, the other steady at your back. The city blurred into streaks of color and light, the wind cool against your face, his grip solid and careful.

When he slowed, you felt the shift immediately.

You glanced around — and frowned.

“This is the tower.”

“Mm-hmm.”

You looked up at him. “Wally.”

“Yes?”

“This is your room.”

“Correct again.”

You stared at him, unimpressed. “You said favorite snack spot.”

He opened the door and gestured grandly inside. “Yes. My favorite late-night snack spot. It has everything I love and is open at all hours.”

He stepped inside, smug as anything, heading straight for the kitchenette.

You stood in the doorway for a beat, then followed, shaking your head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Effective, I’d argue,” he countered, rummaging through a cabinet. “There’s a difference.”

He tossed you a packet of something chocolate-coated, a bag of chips, and a water bottle. “Here.”

You caught it. “What is this?”

“Protein bar, allegedly. I have to be a good influence and provide something nutritious.”

You squinted at the label. “This is barely food.”

“Manners, that is no way to treat a gracious host.”

You laughed despite yourself and wandered closer as he grabbed a couple more things.

“So,” you said, leaning against the counter. “Why do you get a whole suite with a kitchenette, anyway?”

He puffed up slightly, raising three fingers. “Seniority. Pension. Hero benefits.”

You give him a deadpan stare. “You’re in your twenties.”

“Mentally? I’m at least seventy.”

You laughed again, softer this time.

He shrugged, more genuine now. “Actually, it’s the speed thing. Easier to have my own stuff than accidentally blow up the communal kitchen at three in the morning. Trust me.”

“That makes sense,” you admitted.

He nodded. “See? Practical.”

He turned and promptly fumbled the protein bar, dropping it against his chest where it smeared something sticky and dark across the front of his suit.

“Oh— come on,” he groaned. “Rude.”

He peeled the top half of the suit down in one smooth motion.

Your brain…just kinda…stopped.

His skin was warm gold under the lights, muscles defined in a way that made no effort to be subtle about the work they did. Broad shoulders, strong arms, a chest that made your thoughts go pleasantly blank.

You were aware, distantly, that you were staring.

You were also aware, slightly less distantly, that you had stopped breathing.

“Uh.”

His eyes flicked up and caught yours.

Something shifted between you, like the air before a storm breaks. The room seemed to shrink, narrowing to just the space you both occupied. Your skin prickled with awareness, heartbeat suddenly loud in your ears.

His eyes darkened slightly, pupils expanding as they held yours, and you watched his throat work as he swallowed. His chest rose with a slow, deliberate breath, like he was trying to steady something inside himself. Neither of you moved, caught in that fragile moment where possibility hung suspended, electric and dangerous.

Then there was a knock, and the door slid open before either of you could react.

Roy leaned in, eyes immediately taking in the scene: you standing far too close, Wally shirtless, snacks scattered, the air very clearly Not Normal.

“Well,” Roy drawled, leaning against the doorframe, grin slow and wicked. “What’s happening here?”

You and Wally looked at each other.

Whatever had been building between you snapped — not gone, just… scattered.

You both started talking at once.

“It’s not—”

“He just—”

“We were just—”

“He spilled something—”

“She was tired—”

You stopped and blinked before closing your eyes and taking a step back.

“Goodnight,” you said flatly, and turned and walked out.

Behind you, you heard Roy’s laugh and Wally’s very distressed, “Roy—!”

You didn’t stop walking until you were back in your own room.

And only then did you sit on your bed, heart racing, face warm, and whisper quietly to yourself:

“Oh no.”

⚡︎𓅩

It wasn’t just that Dick was affectionate. It was that he was affectionate everywhere.

The tower’s common spaces had always been neutral ground — places where masks slipped just enough to breathe, but not enough to expose anything fragile. Or at least, they used to be. Now, it felt like every room carried the echo of something you no longer belonged to.

You saw it in passing moments first.

Dick’s hand was resting at the small of Kori’s back as they walked down the hall, guiding without thinking. Fingers brushing her wrist when he laughed, lingering just a second longer than necessary. The way he leaned into her space openly, shoulder pressed to hers, head tipped close as if the rest of the room didn’t exist.

You tried not to stare.

You tried not to remember how many times you’d reached for him like that and felt him subtly shift away. How often he’d murmured, “Later,” or “Not here,” as if affection were something private, something that needed to be rationed carefully.

You had told yourself it wasn’t rejection.

You had told yourself he was just cautious. Guarded. That loving him meant understanding the weight he carried.

Now he laughed freely, loud and unrestrained, pressing a kiss to Kori’s temple without hesitation as she teased him about something trivial. The room reacted; smiles and easy acceptance, and something inside your chest tightened painfully.

You looked away, but reflections betrayed you.

In the glass of a display case, you caught the way his arm curved around her waist, familiar and intimate. You saw the way she leaned into him, trusting and unafraid, his hand settling there as it had always belonged.

You felt… smaller.

Not jealous — not exactly. Just painfully aware of how much you’d minimized yourself to fit beside him. How gently you’d loved him, careful not to ask for too much, careful not to make him uncomfortable.

Careful not to be a burden.

It hurt in a way that was dull and sharp all at once, like pressing on a bruise you hadn’t realized was there.

You busied yourself with gear checks, adjusting straps that didn’t need adjusting, focusing on routine. Anything to avoid watching the way he touched her so easily.

When the mission call came through, you welcomed it with something like relief.

Action was easier than feeling.

—

The mission was chaotic from the start.

Smoke and shouting as more concrete collapses.

You moved without thinking, instincts honed from countless hours in the field. When the opening appeared, you took it — pivoting, feinting, striking with precise timing.

Dick, however, followed through perfectly.

Your move.

The mission ended successfully. The team gathered for a quick debrief, adrenaline still buzzing.

“Nice work, Nightwing,” Roy said. “That move saved our asses.”

Dick smiled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. Figured I’d try something new.”

Your stomach dropped. You stared at the floor, jaw tight, pulse roaring in your ears.

Wally looked at you, really looked, and saw it. The stiffness in your posture. The way you folded inward.

He remembered Dick talking about that move months ago. How impressed he’d been, how proud.

“Hey,” Wally said softly, stepping closer. “You wanna grab food? Before Roy demolishes everything edible in a five-mile radius?”

You blinked, pulled from your thoughts. “What?”

He hooked an arm around your shoulders, not tight, not claiming — just there. “Come on. I’m starving, and you look like you could use a break.”

You hesitated, eyes flicking toward Dick without meaning to. He was already being pulled into conversation, attention elsewhere.

Wally noticed, he always did.

“Hey,” he murmured, nudging you gently. “I got you.”

You exhaled slowly, tension easing just enough to let you move.

“Fine,” you said. “But if you eat my fries—”

“Whoa, whoa,” he laughed. “I’m not a monster.”

As you walked away together, Dick glanced up, catching sight of you leaving — Wally’s arm around your shoulders, your head tilted toward him as he animatedly complained about Barry.

Something twisted in his chest that he steadfastly ignored. For the first time since he could remember, you didn’t look back.

⚡︎𓅩

The tower’s living room was loud in a comfortable way.

Soft music hummed from speakers tucked somewhere out of sight, low enough to blend into the background rather than demand attention. Someone had stretched out across the couch like they planned to stay there all night, boots kicked off without ceremony. Laughter drifted freely, unguarded, the kind that only existed on nights when no alarms screamed, and no one was counting down the minutes until the next emergency.

It should have felt safe.

You stood near the edge of the room, a warm mug cradled between your hands, letting the noise pass through you instead of into you. You nodded when someone glanced your way. Smiled when it was expected. You were present in the way one learned to be present when absence would be noticed.

Dick stood across the room, Kori sat beside him, close enough that her thigh pressed against his, his jacket draped over her shoulders like a promise.

“Dick,” Kori said brightly, nudging his arm. “Tell them the joke you said the other night.”

You couldn’t stop yourself from focusing on the conversation, despite knowing that it would most likely lead to your heartbreak again.

Dick blinked, looking slightly confused. “What—?”

“The one about the—” she laughed, waving her hand vaguely as she was unable to continue the background details. “The story. It was funny.”

The room leaned in, anticipation flickering easily from face to face.

Dick’s eyes flicked toward you.

Just for a second.

Your breath catches, afraid of what that look might mean. You didn’t move, you didn’t react. You simply lifted your mug and took a slow sip, gaze unfocused, fixed on nothing in particular.

“Oh,” Dick said, a chuckle slipping out as understanding clicked into place. “That one.”

He cleared his throat. “Yeah. Okay.”

And then he told it. Your story.

Your voice, stripped of its softness. Your timing sharpened for laughs instead of honesty. A moment that had once lived quietly between you and a close friend — something vulnerable, something shared late at night when trust sat heavy and real between you — reduced to a punchline.

You remembered that night with startling clarity.

Sitting cross-legged on the floor, lights low, the two of you laughing so hard you’d cried, a mixture of grief and laughter. How you’d confessed something small but meaningful about a close friend long since gone.

A moment you shared because you had felt safe only because of who you were telling it to. How you’d smiled afterward, warmed by the certainty that it mattered, comforted by your companion, and wanting them to carry this treasured memory with them too.

Now it was just… content.

A story told without context. Without care. Dick told it well; he’s a great storyteller.

The room erupted in laughter.

Someone wiped tears from their eyes. Someone else shook their head, already repeating the best part under their breath.

You stood perfectly still.

You felt it happen inside you, the moment something disconnected.

It was subtle, like a wire loosening, like a door closing softly instead of slamming. The ache didn’t spike. It emptied. The warmth drained out, leaving behind a numb, hollow space where feeling had once lived.

You didn’t laugh or flinch. You didn’t even look at him. You simply… stopped being there.

And it was almost as if Dick felt it.

Not immediately, but as the laughter stretched on, something in his chest began to tighten, an unease threading through the easy moment. His eyes found you again, instinctively searching for the familiar reaction he’d always been able to count on.

A smile or an eye-roll.

That look you used to give him; fond, conspiratorial, like the two of you shared something just beneath the surface.

Instead, he found nothing. Your eyes were distant, polite. Empty in a way that felt wrong and hurt.

Gone.

The laughter faded unevenly, as if people sensed the shift without understanding it. Dick’s voice trailed off at the end of the story, landing awkwardly in the space that followed. He shifted, tugging at the hem of his sleeve, suddenly unsure of where to put his hands.

His gaze locked with yours.

For half a second, memory surged: moonlight through your bedroom window, your laughter muffled against his neck, the way you used to look at him like he was home.

Then he saw it. The absence.

Whatever fragile thread still connected you, whatever hope he’d held that you could exist in each other’s lives without pain, disintegrated in that instant. Like paper catching flame, burning faster than he could reach for it.

Your eyes slid away.

You turned your body slightly, a subtle motion that somehow landed heavier than any argument ever had.

Dick’s heart stuttered.

“Hey—” he said suddenly, pushing himself upright, already stepping toward you. “Wait—”

He didn’t get the chance, because Wally was already there.

Not rushing or dramatic, despite the way Dick was experiencing it. He didn’t insert himself into the moment or raise his voice. He simply appeared at your side, like he’d been standing just outside the edge of your world, waiting for the exact second you needed a way out more than you needed answers.

Dick saw him before he registered anything else.

Saw the way Wally angled his body slightly toward you, shielding you from the rest of the room without making a show of it. Saw the way his expression softened when he looked at you; not concern exactly, but familiarity. Understanding.

Wally didn’t touch you right away; instead, he held out his hand.

Open and patient, a clear invitation, not a demand.

“Come on,” Wally said quietly, leaning in just enough for you to hear him. His voice didn’t carry—it wasn’t meant to. “You promised me a rematch.”

You blinked, eyes unfocused at first, like you were surfacing from somewhere far away.

“I did?” you asked, voice faint but steady.

He smiled, small and easy, the kind of smile that came from shared moments instead of charm. “Mm-hmm. Loser buys snacks.”

Dick took a step forward, his mouth opened, but no sound came out.

Because you were looking at Wally now.

And then — without hesitation — you reached for him.

Your fingers slid into his hand naturally, like muscle memory. Like this was something you’d done before, something your body recognized even if your heart hadn’t fully caught up yet. Wally’s hand closed around yours with quiet certainty, thumb brushing your knuckles once in a way that was achingly gentle.

Dick’s breath caught hard in his chest.

That wasn’t a first touch. It wasn’t tentative. It wasn’t careful. It was familiar. It was the kind of intimacy that came from repetition — from trust built slowly, from presence earned over time.

And suddenly, Dick understood.

This hadn’t started tonight. This hadn’t even started recently.

While he’d been absent in all the ways that mattered, someone else had been showing up. Someone else had been learning the shape of your silences, the weight of your tiredness, the moments when you needed to leave before something broke.

Wally turned slightly, guiding you with him. You followed without looking back. The room seemed to tilt.

Dick stood frozen, watching your joined hands swing gently between you as you walked away — not hurried, not dramatic — just decided.

You weren’t running from him. You were choosing something else.

The doors slid shut behind you with a soft hiss, sealing the sound of laughter and music inside.

Dick remained where he was.

For the first time, it wasn’t heartbreak that settled into his chest.

It was understanding.

He hadn’t just lost you romantically. He had lost access to you; to your touch, your reactions, your presence in his life. The loss wasn’t theoretical anymore.

It was real and it was final.

⚡︎𓅩

The hallway was quiet, the door sliding shut behind you with a soft hiss that felt louder than it should have.

You walked a few steps before realizing your hand was still in Wally’s.

The warmth of it grounded you. Steady and real, pulling you back from the numbness that had settled over you moments before. Your fingers tightened briefly before you let go, clearing your throat as you slowed to a stop.

“Sorry,” you murmured. “I think I spaced out back there.”

Wally stopped immediately. “No worries,” he said easily. “Happens.”

You leaned back against the wall, exhaling slowly as the adrenaline — emotional, not physical — began to ebb. The quiet wrapped around you, gentle and forgiving.

“Hey,” you said after a moment, trying for lightness. “You know you don’t have to… rescue me every time, right?”

He tilted his head. “Rescue?”

You gestured vaguely behind you. “You know. The dramatic exits. The timely distractions. You going full hero mode around me all the time must be exhausting.”

You smiled, small and self-deprecating, like it was a joke you’d rehearsed enough times to make it sound casual.

Wally didn’t smile back.

Instead, his expression softened into something serious and intent in a way that made your chest tighten unexpectedly.

“Hey,” he said gently, stepping closer just enough to keep your attention, not that he didn’t have it already.

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Talk about yourself like you’re a problem I have to manage.”

You blinked.

“I don’t mind,” he continued, voice quiet but steady. “Not for a second. I’m not tired, I’m not obligated. I’m here because I want to be.”

His gaze held yours, unflinching.

“I care about you,” he said simply.

The words landed softly, but they knocked the breath from your lungs all the same.

Something shifted in your chest. Warmth bloomed where there had only been emptiness before. Gratitude, yes — but something else too. Something that made your pulse stutter, that made you see him differently all at once.

You looked at him, really looked, and felt it. Wally, who was looking at you intensely, saw it the second it reached your eyes.

His breath hitched, just barely. A slow smile spread across his face; not triumphant or smug, simply tender. Like he’d been hoping for that look without expecting it.

For a heartbeat, neither of you spoke. Then Wally straightened slightly, clearing his throat.

“So,” he said, voice deliberately lighter. “Snacks?”

You laughed, the sound real and surprised, and nodded. “Yeah, snacks.”

“Good,” he said, already turning. “Because I’m starving, and I refuse to have this moment derail my nutritional needs.”

You fell into step beside him, the silence between you no longer empty; just full of things neither of you were quite ready to name yet.

And for the first time in a long while, the ache in your chest didn’t feel like something you had to carry alone.

⚡︎𓅩

The debrief room was louder than usual.

People talked over one another, adrenaline still buzzing from a mission that had gone better than expected. Roy leaned back in their chair, boots propped on the table. Garth was already arguing over credit for a distraction that hadn’t actually been planned.

You sat near the end of the table, tablet balanced against your knee, half-listening while scrolling through post-mission data. This part always felt strange—being surrounded by people dissecting a fight that already felt distant, like it belonged to another version of you.

“…and honestly,” Wally said suddenly, voice cutting through the noise, “the whole thing only worked because she spotted the second location before anyone else did.”

The room quieted. You looked up, startled.

“Wait,” Donna said. “You found it?”

You opened your mouth to clarify, but Wally, already committed, kept going.

“Yeah,” he said, gesturing vaguely in your direction. “She basically mapped the entire pattern on the fly. I mean, she could probably predict weather systems if she wanted to.”

You stared at him.

“No, I can’t,” you said quickly, cutting in before the attention could crystallize into something heavier. “Obviously, the weather’s gotten to Wally.”

A few chuckles rang out through the room before the looks shifted back to Dick and Cyborg for finishing details. The room relaxed again, conversation sliding easily back into overlapping voices and half-formed jokes. Someone changed the subject. Someone else complained about paperwork.

Wally blinked, realization dawning, a sheepish expression on his face. “Okay, yeah, that was—”

“—dramatic,” you finished dryly, smiling as you shrugged. “I just noticed something off in the data. Anyone could’ve.”

Crisis averted. Or so you thought.

You leaned slightly toward Wally and mouthed, What the fuck?

He winced, a grin tugging at his mouth. “Yeah,” he murmured back, lowering his voice and leaning into your space. “Sorry, I got carried away.”

You raised a brow as if to say ‘oh really?’

“But,” he added quickly, earnest now, “you were great. If you hadn’t caught that second location, we would’ve screwed the whole mission.”

You laughed quietly, the sound warm and genuine, and reached out without thinking—your fingers brushing his knee in an easy, familiar gesture.

“Next time,” you said softly, “try not to make me sound like a wizard.”

“No promises, Dumbledore,” he replied, grinning.

The exchange was small, casual, and comfortable.

It didn’t slip past Dick.

He watched it from across the table—the way you leaned toward Wally without hesitation, the way you touched him like it was nothing, the way Wally’s attention never wavered from you. There was no tension or uncertainty in it.

Just ease.

The meeting wrapped up a few minutes later, chairs scraping as people stood and filtered out in loose groups. You gathered your things and fell into step beside Wally, already mid-conversation about something inconsequential.

“Hey.”

Dick’s voice made both of you stop. Wally turned, surprised but not uncomfortable. “What’s up?”

“I’ll catch up with you later,” you murmur to him, touching his arm to grab his attention. You could think of 50 other locations you’d rather be than in the same conversation with just Dick and Wally.

He nodded immediately. “Yeah. Definitely.”

You smiled at him, soft and unguarded, before heading off down the corridor.

Wally watched you the entire time, only turning away once you disappeared around the corner.

“Feels like it’s been a while since we’ve hung out,” Dick said, attempting casual. “Just us. You know?”

Wally considered that for a moment. “Yeah,” he said honestly. “It has, sorry about that.”

Dick’s shoulders loosened slightly. “It’s fine, I’ve been busy too. I was thinking maybe we could—”

“But,” Wally continued, already stepping back, “maybe another time. I’ve got plans.”

Dick’s brow furrowed. “Plans?”

Wally grinned, clapping a hand to his shoulder. “Yeah, with her. Don’t really wanna disappoint her, so I gotta head out now. But we’ll definitely hang out soon! Maybe we’ll do a boys’ night!?”

Before Dick could respond, Wally was gone—a red blur vanishing down the hall in the direction you’d gone.

The room didn’t stay quiet. Someone snorted. “Wow.”

Roy leaned back against the table. “You guys notice how often those two hang out now?”

“On missions, too,” Donna added thoughtfully. “They’re always paired.”

Cyborg chimed in, teasing. “Guess Dick and Kori really inspired love to bloom around here.”

Laughter followed, but Dick didn’t laugh.

Something twisted sharply in his stomach, nausea creeping in slowly and unwelcome. The room felt too warm, too loud. He stared at the doorway where you both had disappeared, chest tight with a realization he hadn’t wanted to make.

Whatever was happening between you and Wally had been growing quietly—right under his nose—while he’d been elsewhere, assuming you’d still be there when he looked back.

He swallowed hard. For the first time, the loss didn’t feel only like heartbreak.

It felt like a consequence.

⚡︎𓅩

Another month passed.

It wasn’t marked by anything dramatic; no declarations, no lines crossed, no moments that demanded names. Just time, shared and unspoken and steadily meaningful.

You and Wally fell into a rhythm without ever acknowledging it as one.

Late-night patrols that stretched longer than necessary. Coffee runs that turned into conversations about childhood, fears, and things neither of you talked about easily. Sitting side by side on rooftops, legs dangling over the edge, watching the city breathe while the world felt smaller and calmer than it had in a long time.

You learned how he liked his coffee — sweet enough to be suspicious. He learned the exact way you went quiet when you were thinking too hard. You learned that he always ran faster when you were tired, and that he always positioned himself just slightly closer when you looked overwhelmed.

He learned when to joke, and more importantly, when not to. Somewhere along the way, you realized you felt… safe again.

Not the fragile kind. The steady kind. The night it finally happened was unremarkable in the best way.

Patrol ended early. The city was quiet, streets slick from earlier rain, lights reflecting like constellations below. You sat on the edge of a rooftop, boots resting against concrete, the cool air settling comfortably against your skin.

Wally stood nearby, stretching, then dropped down beside you with an exaggerated sigh.

“Wow,” he said. “Peaceful. Suspiciously so.”

You smiled. “Don’t jinx it.”

“Right. Sorry.” He mimed zipping his lips.

Silence settled — not awkward, not empty, just unsure as to how to start.

You glanced at him without thinking and caught the way he was already

looking at you.

Wally gave no indication he was startled; he just kept looking, something you couldn’t believe was obvious in his eyes. Your breath hitched before you could stop it.

Wally noticed. Something in his expression shifted. It softened, deepened, like he’d been holding something back and finally decided to stop.

“Hey,” he said quietly.

You turned fully toward him, giving him a small smile. “Hey.”

He rubbed his palms together once, nervous energy bleeding through despite his usual ease. “Can I… say something?”

Your heart thudded painfully in your chest. “You just did.” You couldn’t help yourself from saying.

The look Wally gives you makes you laugh and helps break the uncomfortable tension that was in the air. “I think this is one of those moments you told me about that isn’t right to joke.” He teases you, throwing back your argument you told him.

“Yeah,” you said, giving him a sheepish smile and a shrug. “Sorry, I was nervous.”

“Yeah, I get that.” He murmurs back to you. The nervous energy is gone, and instead, a tension lingers in the air. He looks you in the eyes, then awa,y before looking back and slowly leaning in. His arm reaches out and grabs your hand, holding it gently in his grasp, his thumb rubbing against your knuckles.

He took a breath before letting it out slowly starting.

“I’ve been trying not to,” he admitted with a small, self-aware smile.

“Because I didn’t want to mess anything up. Or rush you, or make things weird.”

Your chest tightened.

“But,” he continued, eyes never leaving yours, “somewhere between the third late-night snack run and the fifth time you fell asleep during movie night… I realized I was already way past that point.”

You laughed softly, more breath than sound.

“Wally—”

“I care about you,” he said, gently cutting in. “Not in a teammate way. Not in a ‘I’ll always have your back’ way — although, yeah, that too.” He swallowed. “I mean… I like you. A lot. And it’s more than friendship, and I didn’t want to keep pretending it wasn’t.”

The words settled between you, warm and terrifying and real. You stared at him for a long moment.

Then you exhaled, shoulders relaxing as if something you’d been carrying finally found a place to rest.

“I was hoping you’d say that,” you admitted quietly.

His eyes widened. “You were?”

You nodded. “Yeah. Because I’ve been trying to tell myself it was just comfort. Or gratitude. Or… anything but this.” You smiled faintly. “But it’s not, and it hasn’t been for a while.”

You looked at him fully now, letting him see it.

“It’s more than friendship for me, too, Wally.”

The relief on his face was immediate — bright and unguarded, like sunlight breaking through cloud cover. He laughed, soft and incredulous.

“Wow,” he breathed. “Okay. Wow.”

You laughed too, the sound lighter than it had been in months.

He hesitated, just for a second, then asked quietly, “Can I…?”

You nodded before he finished.

He leaned closer, his gaze unwavering. As he hesitated, breath hitching in the space between you, the air thickened with unspoken words. Then, with a soft determination, he closed the distance, pressing his lips against yours.

The kiss was tentative at first, a sweet brush that ignited a spark, before deepening into something more, a shared promise that lingered in the cool night air.

Neither of you rushed it because neither of you needed to.

The city hummed below, indifferent and vast, while something small and meaningful settled into place between you.

And for the first time in a long while, the future didn’t feel like something to brace for.

It felt like something you were allowed to want.

⚡︎𓅩

a/n: everyone say thank you to olivia rodrigo for inspiring this! this was originally 3k and was like a little drabble, but then? i just? couldn't stop? and now we have this pretty little baby.

this fic could also be named "wally showing he cares by making sure you eat",

as always, likes, comments and reblogs are always appreciated. here’s a kiss from me to you 💋

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