#very angsty

click for pt2 here

Is someone telling me don't get in the water? What have I done?

heavy warnings: miscarriage, grief, suicidal ideation, suicide attempt (non-graphic), recovery, emotional distress.

a/n: please read with care. You are loved baby, reach for help if needed, you are not a burden. Even cracked walls let the sunlight in. You’re not broken, just healing. 💙

I DID, IN FACT, CRY LIKE A BABY W THIS ONE

support me here: ko-fi

🔊 listening to: Heavy - the Marias

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You were supposed to be happy.

That’s what everyone said. Married, stable, in love, expecting a baby.

Lando and you were the dream couple on social media. Everything looked perfect from the outside.

But “perfect” ended the afternoon you collapsed in the kitchen.

One second you were standing, thinking about dinner. The next, you were on the floor, dizzy, terrified, bleeding through your clothes.

The ambulance lights, the cold bed, Lando’s voice shaking every time he said your name—everything blurred together.

And then the doctor said it.

“I'm sorry Mrs Norris, you had a spontaneous miscarriage.”

You felt yourself disconnect from your own body as Lando grabbed your hand, panicked and crying but trying so hard to stay calm for you. He didn’t blame you. Not for a second.

But you blamed yourself more than you could ever admit.

The pregnancy had been public, everyone knew, everyone had celebrated. Your families cried happy tears. Your friends jumped and hugged you both knowing the loved you both shared for kids. Strangers online called you “mama” before you had even decided how you felt about the whole thing.

Losing the baby felt like losing everything in front of millions of eyes.

Therapy helped—sometimes. That’s what you liked to tell yourself. Maybe if you kept saying it out loud, it would start to feel true. Other days, you couldn’t even drag yourself out of bed.

You followed Lando to the races because he had to work anyway (when bad things happen, time stops only for you—everyone else keeps eating, sleeping, breathing) and being alone at home felt dangerous.

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Monaco was supposed to be a distraction.

It wasn’t.

Lando had a team dinner that night. He didn’t want to go, but you told him to. He needed to be with his team; he needed a break, he had lost the baby too, your baby, the one you were supposed to raise together.

“I’ll be fine,” you said. And you meant it when you said it.

But as soon as the door closed, you felt yourself unravel.

The hotel room was too quiet. His shoes by the door. His hoodie on a chair. The ultrasound picture still tucked inside his wallet—he carried it everywhere.

Your chest tightened. Your throat burned. You couldn’t get a full breath in.

You went to the kitchen to grab a glass of water, but your hands betrayed you. The glass slipped, crashing to the floor in a million tiny pieces. You just stood there, staring at the shards, heart thumping.

You ended up in the bathroom, not entirely sure how you got there.

You ran the bath.

You didn’t think about dying. You didn’t decide anything.

You were just tired, and therapy felt like a waste of time. Exhausted from carrying pain that didn’t give you one minute of peace.

You stepped into the bathtub. It was warm.

First, you dipped your feet in, then your legs. The Lando shirt you wore as pajamas was too long, soaking up the water as it clung to you. You sank into the full bathtub, the water still running, spilling over the tiles. For a moment, you just stared at your fingers, then tilted your head back, eyes on the ceiling, feeling the water trace every inch of your skin.

The thought came again, like it always did since that day. What would the baby have been like? A boy or a girl? You had wanted a boy, imagined him running alongside Lando, speeding in the garden in a makeshift go-kart like his. The thought made your chest ache, heavy and hollow.

Your eyes burned, tears came.

I just want the pain to stop. I just want to see my baby. Just for a second.

You plunged your head under without thinking, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling through the water. Your lungs burned as you held your breath, and when you finally let go, bubbles tore through the quiet of the house.

You wondered what people in Monaco might be doing right now. Some sleeping, some having dinner, some lost in their studies. And then your mind, as always, found its way back to Lando—how his soft curls framed his face, how he smiled, the way he always looked at you.

Lando.

You didn’t think about consequences. You didn’t think about Lando coming back.

You just let go.

The world went quiet. Your breathing slowed. Everything faded into a numb, heavy nothing.

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Lando came back earlier than expected.

He had dessert in his hand—your favorite. He wanted to surprise you.

“Love? I’m back!”

Nothing.

His expression tightened immediately.

“Love?”

Then, through all the silence, he heard the sound of running water. He thought you must be in the shower, so he made his way to the bedroom where the bathroom was.

He went to drop off his sweatshirt when his sneakers splashed. He looked down—only to find the floor wet. Quickly, he raised his eyes to the bathroom, where the door was slightly ajar.

“Baby… are you okay?”

He asked, getting no answer. Lando peeked through the half-open door.

“Love?”

His voice cracked.

He shoved the door open—and froze.

You were underwater.

His body reacted before his brain did.

“NO—no, no—baby, please—please—”

He reached into the tub and dragged you out, water splashing violently over both of you. Your body fell against the cold tiles—heavy, unresponsive.

“Baby, look at me! Love!” Lando shook you hard, panic rising as he saw you didn’t respond. Your lips were purple, and you felt cold to the touch.

His hands shook uncontrollably as he started CPR on the cold bathroom floor.

He counted out loud because he couldn’t think straight. He breathed for you. He pressed your chest harder than he meant to because he was terrified of losing you.

But he didn't want to hurt you, he didn't know what he was doing so he took his phone out and called for an ambulance.

“Come on—come on—come on—please—”

Minutes later paramedics rushed to the bathroom, it was too crouded. They made Lando step away from you so they could work, he still wouldn’t let go of you.

He could only see you, with his favourite shirt, pale and wet.

Paramedics continued with the CPR alternating with some shots of what Lando guess it was adrenaline.

And then—

You gasped. Coughed violently. Your lungs burned.

Your eyes opened.

“Lando?” you whispered softly.

He broke. Completely. He pulled you into his arms, crying so hard he was almost choking on it.

“Don’t do that to me—please—please—don’t ever—”

You were shaking too hard to answer.

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The hospital felt cold. You were so ashamed, if anyone found out you were done for.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. It was the only sentence you could form.

“Don’t,” Lando said instantly, grabbing your hand like he feared you’d disappear. His wet clothes were a reminder of what had happened hours ago.

“Don’t apologise for hurting. Don’t apologise for something you didn’t choose.”

Your eyes filled with tears.

“I didn’t want to die,” you said, voice cracking. “I just… wanted the pain to stop.”

Lando nodded, breathing hard like he was fighting tears again. “I know. But I can’t lose you. I already lost one of you. I can’t—”

He stopped talking, swallowing, eyes full of love and exhaustion. “Next time it gets that bad, you tell me. You call me. You scream my name. I don’t care if I’m racing or asleep or in another country—I’ll be there.”

“I didn’t want to be a burden, I didn't want to be heavy” you whispered.

A week later.

Richard

He honestly didn't even know what he wanted coming here,he had said everything he had to say to his father the last time he came around.

There was yelling,like always, hurtful words,he kept telling himself all those months he was just matching Bruce's energy

But in reality,he was a coward.

His mind kept nagging at him to check on Bruce,to apologize,to ask how his day was or how was patrol and if Gotham was finally free from the years of crime like everyone kept saying around Blüdhaven,in whispered prayers that the same thing happened in their town too.

But he didn't,he's a coward.

He didn't sent a text on mother's day,it was a stupid tradition anyways,a tradition made when he was young and stupid after reading a book about Gotham and learning about the infamous 'Mother Gotham' and how it 'Protected the city like it was their own flesh'he still remembers the way Bruce smiled at him when he gave him a small cupcake(way too salty to be good) and a dumb card,that soft smile he thought no one noticed.

Like he said,dumb tradition that went long enough.

The house was awfully dirty,there was dust everywhere and it looked like it went abandonedHe knew that it didn't,the paparazzi wouldn't live it down if Bruce did move out.

But it was still a mess,he knew the old bat had paranoia problems but not even calling a cleaning lady to do the job for a couple of hundreds?That is a new low.

"Bruce?Old man?" He said to the empty mansion,it didn't answer back, something in his gut said it never would but he pushed it down way to quickly to actually mean something.

He moved through the house in sections,the living room, dinning rooms,private areas, random rooms he had no idea what existed for"Not on the first floor then huh?" He thought exasperated, quickly making his way upstairs,he made that path so many times he could've done without eyesight.

"That's the last time you're doing it." The small voice in his mind said,he quickly erased the thought,he wasn't there to bring the mood down,he was going to apologize,help the old man clean the house and find a good maid/Butler and go back to the comfort of his routine.

When he got upstairs he felt it, something was different,he looked around and his eyes fell into a family portrait of an old lady, Bruce's great-grandmother from generations of generations,her portrait was off the wall, leaving a small gap that was completely empty.

His stomach turned,he remembered what was on that wall, a derringer pistol,he remembered Bruce telling him the story about it,the old hag was the only woman in the Wayne lineage,hated by all,ended her own life using a pistol she found on her daddy's locker.Apparently her dumb son thought it was noble to put up a portrait of her and hide her gun behind it.

In case someone needed it again.

Was Bruce in danger?Was someone else in this house?

He started frantically opening rooms,by the third empty he was checking to see where Bruce was on his tracker

The trackers Bruce purposely put into all of their spines as a way to make sure they're safe.

It showed he was down the hall.On his parents room.Bruce never,in all the years he lived with him,entered that room,he said it was full of memories he was not ready to rediscover yet.

When did he realized he was ready?

Richard ran and open the door of the last room off the corridor

"Bruc-" the smell hit him first,like a pile of meat got left into a open room to chill and got forgotten.

He never liked comparisons much.

The second thing that he noticed was Bruce, laying peacefully on the bed,like he just went to take a big nap.If it wasn't for the smell,for the putrid liquids going out of his eyes and nose,and of course,the giant hole on the back of his head, probably made,no definitely made,with a palm pistol

A derringer pistol.

"Dad.." He said breathless,tears dropping to his shoes

When did he started crying?

He approached the bed,he felt like a little kid again, approaching his dead parents body like they were going to disappear if he moved too fast,and that moment he never wished more for Bruce Wayne to come rushing down to hug him and tell him he was going to be okay.

Because Bruce Wayne was the one Infront of him now.

No one was going to pick up the pieces.

He touched the older man's face,it was old and wrinkle,cold like ice,it made Grayson feel disgusted

Bruce wasn't supposed to be like thisHe was supposed to smile at seeing him arrive, probably with a helper or two, taking care of his meals and being an actual old grumpy man.

He wasn't supposed to be a dead body on a two dead person's room.

He didn't had that right to leave them.

His tears felt harder,he was full on wailing and sobbing

He wanted his papa,his dad.

Why couldn't he just wake up?..

[...]

The funeral was a small thing,most of the invites went unopened.

Or opened but they just didn't want to come.

Bruce's will was very specific about where he wanted to be buried, between his parents,like it always should've been.

Like it wasn't supposed to be.

Richard vomited twice during the preparations,the lawyers spoke with calm precises tones to divide everything Bruce owned, everything that was his father's,that he wanted to cry,to punch that man in the face and tell him his dad was going to wake up soon.

"He would be proud of you for keeping your cool" his inter voice said,it sounded disgustingly like Bruce,and he despised it for that.He never cried as much as he did that day,when Bruce Wayne got buried to the ground,like all those years were just stupid memories he made with them.

He had so much to beg his father for.

He had to check up on everyone,hold the points together,he hated this

He hated that Bruce wasn't here anymore.

He wanted his dad.

Jason

12 broken ribs,not his of course,this stupid serial killer that thought he knew better than the hands of justice.

Although he didn't even know what justice meant anymore.

He didn't went to the old man's funeral,he couldn't,he knew Bruce wanted to go back to his parents, that was a selfish reasoning they both had in common for their unhealthy tendencies,he knew that if he did went,he would find the first Lazarus pit and throw the bat inside it,and then punch and kick him for ever thinking about doing something like that.

The man whimpered on the ground,Jason kicked him straight on the balls making him yowl in pain.

Why was his screaming?He deserved this shit.

He pulled out his gun(trying not to think too hard about how a gun like this had taken his mentor away from him,just a different type of pistol) and pointed straight into the man's head

"wait dude wait!I was just- Dude please!I can change!I have a daughter alright? Don't you assholes believe in change or some shit like that?Give me something" The man rambled,his hands up in the sky like it was going to mean something

It never meant anything

Jason felt his anger start to bubble inside him,the nerves getting to him

His tears blurring his eyes.It was stupid,this pitiful act he seen thousand times before,a couple of times this pass week,but this time it got to him different.

Bruce would believe this man could change.

Why?Such an excuse for a human being,why would Batman think of him as someone worthy of another chance to do better?

"The man that would forgive you is 6 foot underground,dead." He said, pulling the trigger.

For the first time in days he wept,for the man that always forgave him no matter what,for the man that held his shit together,for the man he never showed enough trust to forgive again.

Hell his last words to the man were "You're an asshole",he didn't even know that would be the last thing he would said to him,to his dad.

If he did,he would've hugged him,begged him not to leave,to just stay a bit more.

For him,for them.

MY GOSH WASN'T THAT SOMETHING HA! Anyways here's part two, exactly a week later(totally intentional,I had to do research for this)

If you ask yourself "where's all the others?" Well I'll have you know dear reader, BRUCE WAYNE HAS 6 FUCKIN KIDS AND ASSOCIATES. ITS TOO MANY PEOPLE.

so here's a resume on what's going on with everyone I guess:

Dick→ thinks he's holding everyone together but in reality he's crying while laying in bed eating pizza,the manor went into his name and he buried the batcave down(don't worry it was bat-less) and build a orphanage full with medical wing and school inside the property.

Jason→ he's the one taking care of the few dumb criminals that are still trying to mess up Gotham,crime in the city is basically nonexistent,other than that he's doing shitty

Tim→ Moved out of Gotham,administrates the Drake empire from out of state,he couldn't deal with being on the same city knowing he couldn't safe Bruce.

Cass→ wanted to cremate Bruce and take some of his ashes to put into a necklace for keepsake,but her idea got denied,she's taking care of the Wayne empire making sure it's smooth and strong,other than that she has constant hallucinations of her papa,and she cries a lot that she will never get to hug him again,but she's healing slowly.

Duke→ he went to live with his uncle full time,he's still learning how to deal with the grief and it's taking off on kids in his class,he's getting into a lot of fights

Damian→ Moved out of Gotham to go to medical school,Titus became his support dog without meaning to,he cries a lot when he thinks no one is looking,and he also at night before going to bed tells his day out loud for his father,it helps him feel better.

That's a big resume,but yeah,it took me way too long to write all of this,but it was so worthy, Bruce is with his mama again everyone!

Part 2 of my mother's day fic btw(check this link if you want to see the whole deal: https://www.tumblr.com/lilyshootingstarr/816242416292184064/maybe-it-always-supposed-to-feel-like-this-bruce?source=share)

Some people that wanted to be tagged:

@whatamisupposedtotyphere , @javieyau

@nikiexe0 , @cloudy-skys-9 (yes for incredible as it sounds you wrote your comment at the moment I was posting this lmao)

tim probably jokes about rematches all the time, jason too. jason and tim have beef, but like they're still brothers, they still care for each other. it's just that next wednesday tim's going to the outlaws current hideout, dressed in a party city red hood suit, and beating the shit out of him because he's planned this shit for years and now is when jason will least expect it. he's not trying to kill him but a few broken bones wouldn't hurt, and then he's going to take some of jasons blood and write 'tim drake was here' just to spice things up.

My new angsty doomed amourshipping AU...

I don't have time for a full comic or fic (Might consider a fic for the future) as this is VERY long concept. So I'll sketch the various stuff of it :3

A story about love blooming alongside grief, coping, moving on.

This story has two finales.

𝘕𝘰𝘵𝘦 - 𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘐 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘵 𝘵𝘰, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘐 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘢 𝘭𝘰𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘧𝘶𝘯 𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘵. 𝘐 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘨𝘨𝘭𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘴, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘪𝘮 𝘩𝘰𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵. 𝘐’𝘷𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘵 𝘵𝘰𝘰 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘶𝘯𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘬𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘺 𝘥𝘳𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘳𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘵𝘦… 𝘩𝘰𝘱𝘦𝘧𝘶𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘐’𝘭𝘭 𝘶𝘱𝘥𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘈𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘭 𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘴. 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘮𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘣𝘦 𝘢 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵 2 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴? 𝘞𝘩𝘰 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸𝘴?

𝙏𝙖𝙜𝙨 - 𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙜𝙣𝙖𝙣𝙩 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧, 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧 𝙞𝙨 𝙖 𝙬𝙤𝙢𝙖𝙣, 𝙅𝙖𝙨𝙤𝙣 𝙩𝙤𝙙𝙙, 𝙙𝙞𝙘𝙠 𝙜𝙧𝙖𝙮𝙨𝙤𝙣, 𝙖𝙣𝙜𝙨𝙩, 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙥𝙧𝙤𝙤𝙛𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙 𝙖𝙩 𝙖𝙡𝙡

“Can I help you with something?”

Dick was dumbfounded to say the least.

With everything that had happened in these past few weeks— his presumably dead brother returning as the crime lord Red Hood after sending Batman on a wild goose chase for the fun of it— this isn’t what he was expecting at all.

He knew Jason well. Behaving as the new underworld lord and redirecting crime and controlling it from the source itself, Dick had thought it was irresponsibly smart. Not only did Jason redirect women and children from being caught in the crossfire of crime, drugs and trafficking, but he had a firm grasp over his territory. Dick had been expecting… something.

Something else.

Not you.

When Dick failed to respond with coherent words, you subtly started to push the door closer, readying yourself to slam the door in his face at a moments notice. Dick caught on to this, his fried brain scrambling for some sort of semblance of words that would hopefully form an eligible question.

“Who are you?” Dick asked quickly, his eyes blinking rapidly.

You seemed taken back by this. You blinked back at him, head tilting to the side. Dick noticed the way your tongue poked the inside of your cheek, noting that it could be a habit of sorts while you thought. Your eyes moved to look at the hallway beyond him, as if surveying for bigger signs of danger. When you found none, you quirked a brow upwards, seemingly unimpressed by Dick’s presence.

“I think I should be asking that,” you pointed out, a chuckle leaving your lips but not at all sounding humoured. “Do you think it’s funny to show up to a random persons door and ask who they are? I live here, you know.”

Dicks mouth fell open then immediately snapped shut again. “Alone?” He wondered, his eyes flicking towards the rusty door number. This was definitely the correct apartment— Tim was never wrong with intel like this.

You started to close the door, less subtle now at whatever you found to be implicating in his dumbfounded question. “Don’t do anything stupid,” you warned, voice sounding steady, but Dick didn’t miss the quiver of nerves. “I have the Red Hood on speed dial— he’ll be here faster than you can scream for mercy.”

Red Hood.

Dick couldn’t help but perk up at the mention of his beloved, resurrected brother. His heart ached at the thought of Jason Todd, the sweet, wears-his-heart-on-his-sleeve brother, the one who selflessly put his birth mother before his own safety despite her selfish betrayal. The fifteen year old kid who died in a savage way at the hands of the Joker. The fifteen year old kid who dreamed of turning sixteen so he could be taken an ounce more seriously in the eyes of adults, despite being miles ahead more mature than them.

The fifteen year old kid who should have been dead, but somehow crawled his way out his own grave using his hands, who took a dip in the Lazarus Pit and lived like a mindless zombie in the hands of the League of Assassins for years. The fifteen year old kid who came back as a twenty-year old man, full of anger and rage and the desire to enact revenge.

The fifteen year old kid turned twenty, who wouldn’t come home because he no longer saw it as his home.

“Sorry— I just- I was looking for my brother. Someone told me he lived here so I thought I’d drop by to visit,” Dick explained, his voice somehow shakier than he’d like to admit. He couldn’t decide if he was nervous or not; he hadn’t spoken to Jason as brothers since he died, and their last conversation (if it could even be called as such) ended in a fist-fight, broken bones and bloodied noses.

You eyed Dick suspiciously. “Brother?” You repeated, as if unsure of this explanation. Dick knew you had every right to be skeptical.

Dick nodded. He reached up and ran his fingers through his hair, nails scratching over his scalp in a soothing motion. “Yeah, his name is Jason. I don’t suppose you know him?”

Your eyes darted away, and it made Dicks heart skip a beat. You chewed your lower lip and glanced into the apartment behind you, your mind buzzing with thoughts and internal debates. And when you finally looked back at Dick, he felt giddy at the obvious resolve in your eyes.

“Jason lives here. He’s not home at the moment, but I can tell him that you stopped by?” You suggested with a cute tilt of your head. You still seemed uncertain of Dick standing there in the doorway, but Dick noticed how more relaxed you had become since he explained his relation to Jason.

Dick made a small noise and shook his head. “Uh, no— no, don’t tell Jason that I stopped by.” Dick awkwardly stepped back from the apartment door and glanced down the corridor, cringing as his own voice carried. “We haven’t spoken properly for a few years. But would you be able to tell me when he’s next home?”

“He’ll be home in an hour…” you trailed off, a small sigh leaving your lips. You pushed them together in a small pout, sighed again, then stepped aside and gestured for Dick to enter. “You’re welcome to wait inside, if you’d like? But don’t go getting any funny ideas! I have the—“

“Red Hood on speed dial,” Dick finished quickly, not at all nervous by the fact that you were on familiar terms with the crime lord. “Yeah, you said earlier.”

Dick stepped over the apartments threshold and followed you into the narrow space. Subtly, he eyed the furniture like it might give him a clue as to whatever is going on here, like something might jump out and tell him why Jason is living in the same space as a civilian woman. By the door sat a chipped and wonky-looking side table, a cute pastel ceramic bowl on top with a couple loose keys at the bottom. A hallway rug runs through the narrow hall, a beige colour with, what looks to be, a small coffee stain that failed to scrub out.

Further into the apartment and Dick can only notice how normal it looks. Lived in and homely. A beat up couch, possibly second hand, and a hand-knit crochet blanket thrown over the back. The coffee table looks like it’s seen better days, with coasters stacked neatly in the centre, but with tea/coffee rings staining the surface. A bookshelf sits on the furthest wall, stacked with second-hand classic literature books, all paperback and well loved.

Dick sets himself down on the couch, his head slowly turning as he soaked up every inch of the lounge. You stood nearby, arms folded a tad awkwardly across your chest.

It was with this stance that Dick spotted the subtle swell of your stomach.

His eyebrows dart upwards.

“Are you pregnant?”

You blinked at him, hands gently moving down to press against your stomach. “Yeah, I’m fifteen weeks,” you answered softly, “we only found out a few days ago.”

Dick drummed his fingers into the arm of the couch. “Congratulations,” he blurted out, doing his best to sound thrilled. He was discovering a lot of new things about Jason today— specifically that he’s kept a very private, civilian lifestyle hidden despite his crusade as Red Hood. It felt odd that the brother he thought to be long dead has been building a life for himself without them— without Bruce and him. Instead of coming home after returning from the dead, he deliberately stayed away to seek vengeance on the psycho that killed him, to do the thing Batman wouldn’t.

You crossed the room and perched yourself on the chair opposite him, leaning forwards and dragging a laundry basket close to your feet. Without saying anything, you started to pick out random articles of clothes to fold them into neat little piles. It was painfully domestic, and Dick couldn’t help but stare and try to imagine Jason settling down to do something like this. Not that he didn’t deserve to after everything he had been through, but it felt odd nonetheless.

“So…” Dick started, paused, then cleared his throat. You lifted your eyes to look at him through your lashes, but you didn’t pause your folding. “How did you meet Jason? He isn’t the most social kid I know.”

You made a small huffing noise, one that Dick couldn’t decide to be a laugh or a sigh.

“Kid?” You repeated back to him, lifting a brow at the habitual nickname. “I know you said you haven’t seen him for a few years, but surely you’re aware that he’s bigger than you?”

Dick knew that. Of course he knew that. When Red Hood revealed himself as Jason for the first time that horribly rainy night, the first thing Dick noticed was how big his younger brother had become. How could he not have noticed? How could he not be aware that the boys hair he used to ruffle is now taller and buffier than him? Dick was hurt by the fact that during the time he spent mourning Jason, his younger brother had been aging and growing regardless. He mourns the loss of his younger brother, because he never got to see him grow up to become who he is now.

“Jason will always be a kid to me,” Dick answers simply, flashing his teeth in that friendly, boyish smile he’s so infamously known for— the very same one that charms reporters and Gothamites alike. “No matter how tall or beefy he gets.”

You suppress a snort of laughter. “We met a year ago— I’d just moved into the apartment next door and I’d accidentally locked myself out. Who knew apartments in this area have latches that automatically lock? A safety feature I guess,” you explained, waving your hand lightly while you spoke. “He wasn’t really interested at first, and neither was I, but our mailman kept getting our post mixed up so we were sort of forced to keep talking to each other. Those exchanges turned into small talk, then into dinner invites, and then… well, now I’m pregnant with his kid. So…”

Dick swallowed thickly. “Jay’ll make a good dad,” he weakly forced out, like it was painful to say. It was still hard for him to imagine that emotional-fifteen year old boy in the position of being a loving partner to someone, let alone becoming a father. Not that he thought Jason wasn’t capable— if anyone was capable of becoming the best father anyone had ever seen, it was Jason.

You hummed and went back to folding a white shirt, an obviously large shirt that could only be Jason’s. “That’s what I keep telling him, but he’s not too sure,” you confess, your fingers digging into the soft fabric. “He thinks he’s too broken to be a dad—“ you cut yourself off with a small, harsh laugh, “I mean, he thinks he’s too broken to be involved with me. But he’s such a sweetheart, and he’s so gentle and caring, but he always second guesses himself and I wish he wouldn’t.”

Despite all these years apart from Jason, Dick couldn’t deny that this description sounded exactly like him. He felt a pang of guilt for the relief that bloomed in his chest, because after that harsh confrontation with the Red Hood a short while back, Dick had that nagging doubt that this Jason wasn’t the same one they knew. But listening to you speak about him, it put those very worries to rest.

Dick really didn’t have anything to be worried about.

Dick opened his mouth to say more, to fill the growing silence with light conversation. He was eager to get to know you better, to uncover the type of person that you are. But he never got to speak a word when the sound of the apartment door clicked open, and the telling noise of boots shuffling in the hallway.

You perked up at the sound and called out Jason’s name. Dick couldn’t help but blink dumbly at the soft, affectionate smile that blossomed across your face. It was so much more relaxed compared to the tight, polite smiles you had been offering Dick so far— not that he could really feel resentful for it, he knew he was a stranger intruding in your safe space.

“Did you eat yet?” Jason called back, still shuffling around in the hallway. Dick couldn’t tell what he was doing, but he imagine he was probably taking off his boots and possibly his jacket. “There’s this new place that just opened up a few blocks away, it smells really good—“

Silence.

Dick tried his hardest to remain composed, keeping his hands steady in his lap. But his legs felt restless, and suddenly he found himself rising up to his full height, his eyes not once leaving the sight of Jason, his little brother, appearing in the doorway to the lounge.

Jason paused, his eyes darting between the unexpected sight of Dick to the way you were sitting calmly in the chair opposite. You held one of Jason’s shirts in your lap, half folded and slightly wrinkled from where you had been toying with the fabric.

Then, finally:

“What the fuck are you doing here, dickhead?” Jason demanded, moving to your side in short, fast strides. His hand came down protectively on your shoulder, his blue eyes steeling and narrowing in on Dick. With the way the lamp shone in the corner of the room, Dick could see unnatural green flecks in his eyes.

Dick shuffled in place, his hands slowly coming up in that universal signal to say ‘I’m not a threat’. “Jay, listen—“

“No,” Jason cut him off with a strained ferocity. It almost looked like he was starting to shake from how much he was trying to control his emotions. “You have ten seconds to tell me why you’re here, and if I don’t like the answer then we’re gonna have some real problems.”

Dick felt his throat close up. He wasn’t sure how he expected any of this interaction to go— he knew it wouldn’t be a simply reunion with happy smiles and embraces. And he absolutely anticipated Jason becoming hostile, but he had that deep rooted hope that maybe this would go better…

“Jay,” Dick repeated, the noise in his throat sounding pleading and almost pathetic. “Please, hear me out. We haven’t seen you in years— we thought you were dead. I wanted to see you. You can’t expect me to have stayed away after finding out you’re alive.”

You looked up from your place on the chair, eyes moving between Jason and Dick. You remained quiet and simply soaked it all up.

“I expect you to mind your own fucking business,” Jason snaps back without hesitation. “Finding me out in the streets? Fine; whatever. I can deal with that. It’s mutual grounds.” Jason let go of your shoulder and stepped closer— the coffee table separated and acted as a barrier between him and his brother. Dick wasn’t naive enough to believe it was preventing Jason from lunging at him. “But coming into my home where she is? You’re crossing a line. I don’t have to take any guesses to know that my replacement found out where I live.”

Dick slowly shook his head. “I asked Tim to find you,” he corrected quickly, fast to defend his youngest brother. “He didn’t do it to be nosey. He did it because I wanted him to. I wanted to see you Jay.”

“Well now you’ve seen me,” Jason said with a dramatic flourish of his arms. He then aggressively gestured to the hallway, where the apartment door stood. “Now get out.”

“Jay—“

“Get. Out.”

“Wait.”

Both Dick and Jason’s heads snapped towards you, both evidently shocked at your interruption. You remained sitting on the chair, perched closer to the edge than could be considered naturally comfortable, your whole face scrunched into a frown.

Jason opened his mouth to say your name, to protest against your interruption, but you levelled him with an unimpressed stare. You turned your eyes back to Dick, who lingered awkwardly between the motion of leaving and staying exactly where he stood.

Dick knew he was overstepping Jason’s boundaries now. He’d made it painfully clear he didn’t want to speak with him. And that’s fine— Dick can accept that. It wouldn’t be the last time he attempts to reach out, and honestly he isn’t going to stop until Jason comes to terms with the fact that his big brother isn’t going anywhere. Dick had missed out on crucial parts of Jason’s life, and he wasn’t about to miss out on more of it.

“Jay,” you said with the softest voice Dick had ever heard anyone speak with. It was almost like you were coaxing a frightened animal— and the strangest thing is that Jason seemed to respond far better to that tone than Dick would have ever expected. “Maybe we should hear your brother out.”

Jason’s hands flexed at his side, his jaw twitching in restraint of snapping. Not once did he look back at Dick; his eyes remained fixed on you, the green flecks in his eyes shining in a way that seemed like they were pulsing. And then, like a fire being put out with a bucket of water, Jason deflated with a simple exhale.

He nodded. “Fine,” he said, though it didn’t sound any less strained. “Say your piece, Grayson, then I want you out.”

Dick didn’t hesitate. Everything came out at once, all of those emotions he’d contained from the past handful of weeks since the initial reveal of who wore the Red Hood.

“Jay— Little Wing— you have no idea how good it is to see you’re alive. For years I thought we failed you, that you died hating us in that warehouse for not saving you in time. Bruce didn’t tell me until I got back from space with the Titans, until they’d already had the funeral, and believe me I was furious with him. And mixed with grief and guilt for not having been there? I went on a rampage— I hunted that bastard down and I beat him to near death.”

“Near death,” Jason echoed back, voice flat yet filled with that irritating bite. “Because you have those exact same morals as Bruce— you think every damn person is capable of saving and rehabilitating despite the heinous shit they’ve done. You act like you’re better just because you refuse to cross that line and wipe out the scum that took me away from you.”

You let out a small huffing sound. “That’s not fair for you to expect your family to murder someone on your behalf,” you pointed out, raising a brow at Jason like you were scolding a child. “You might be perfectly fine with taking a human life, but you can’t expect everyone else to be okay with that too. You do realise that if every single person was capable of killing someone, there’d be a lot less empathy and compassion? That’s not something the world can afford to lose.”

Dick could have sworn an angel’s wings wrapped around you in that very moment. Or perhaps a halo began glowing from above your head. Either way, he’d never expected someone to fully understand and formulate the very words he had been thinking.

Jason’s mouth twisted downwards into a scowl. “I’m not talking about killing every asshole that we deal with— I’m just talking about him. The Joker.” Jason squeezed his eyes shut, his hands balling into fists at his side. Dick couldn’t decide if he was containing his anger, or fighting back tears. “After everything he’s done, after everything he’s going to continue to do… he evades the justice system on the technicality that he’s insane. How is that fair to the thousands he’s wronged, harmed and killed? The children he killed. The innocence he’s ripped from people because of a technicality.” Jason reopened his eyes and levelled his stare at Dick, and Dick inhaled sharply at the fact that his eyes were almost entirely glowing green.

“He’s locked up in Arkham,” Dick said softly. He wanted to try the same approach that he had witnessed from you.

Jason barked out a laugh. There wasn’t an ounce of humour found in it. “And you expect him to stay there?” He sneered, his hand pointing towards the window, where beyond the city stood the infamous insane patient asylum. “How many times has he escaped from that shithole? How many times has he tore that place apart and turned it into his domain? How many times is he going to continue to do so until someone takes him out?”

Dick opened his mouth to answer, to try and interject with something—anything.

But Jason kept going.

“How many times is he going to escape from Arkham and kill innocent people?” Jason demanded, his chest puffing in and out in deep, heavy breaths. You shuffled in your seat, brows drawn together in a concerned furrow, index finger tapping in a focused rhythm on the arm of the sofa. “Bruce’s ‘No Killing’ rule gets people killed, Dick. Look at what happened to me!”

Dick could only shake his head. He understood completely where Jason was coming from, what point he was making. He’d questioned Bruce’s morals on not killing plenty of times; even now he second guessed the rule. But the clarity of him crossing that line and having taken a life dangling over him like that? That’s something he’d have to live with forever. Killing someone, even the Joker, would make him just like all the other criminals and sicko’s he’s dedicated his life to bringing to justice.

But this whole conversation, this debate, seemed to be going around and round in circles. An endless, angst-filled circle. Dick understood Jason— well, at least he hoped he understood Jason. Having died and come back? That’s a level of trauma Dick isn’t sure he could ever understand. It’s not something he hopes to ever experience so he can understand why Jason is the way he is now— why his thoughts have become so… dark.

“I’m sorry it happened to you,” Dick breathed out, voice heavy with exhaustion. How many times would he have to apologise for his guilt? “I’m sorry you suffered like that— that you continue to suffer like this…”

“But?”

“But I can’t kill him, Jason.”

Jason’s nostrils flared like an angry bull about to charge. “Can’t or won’t?”

“Can’t,” Dick insisted, though his resolve on the issue sounded far weaker than he had intended for it to be. Because he was starting to second guess himself now, he was starting to wonder if maybe killing the Joker would truly be the correct course of action going forwards. But what would that make him? A murderer. A killer. How could he expect himself to hold himself to high standards if he lowers himself to killing?

“Jason, please come home.”

Jason shook his head. “The Manor hasn’t been my home in a long time,” he said with a controlled amount of resentment. “You know what sucks, Dick? The fact that I don’t regret being Robin for a single second. I don’t regret being the Batmans partner at all. Being Robin was one of the greatest experiences of my life. But what I do regret is obeying Batmans rules— look at where it got me.”

“Come home,” Dick repeated, now stepping around the coffee table to inch closer to his brother. He’d wait to see if doing so was a mistake or not. Surely Jason wouldn’t do something as reckless as starting a fight in front of you, his pregnant girlfriend? “We can figure this out together, Jay. As a family. You, me, Bruce, Tim—“

Jason barked out another laugh, his head tilting back towards the ceiling. Then he lowered his gaze again, a smile on his face that looked forced. It didn’t reach his eyes. It looked pained and fractured, broken and betrayed.

“Tim?” Jason echoed back, his brows shooting up. “Tim Drake? Yeah, no thanks. I don’t consider the kid who replaced me three months after my death to be family.”

You let out a small gasp. Your head turned to look at Dick, horror drawn onto your own delicate features. “Three months?” You repeated, your hand reaching down to gently rest against the soft swell of your stomach. “You replaced Jason three months after he died?”

“No!” Dick cried out. He paused, panicked eyes flicking back towards Jason, who simply stared back at him. “Jason, Bruce didn’t replace you,” Dick insisted, voice desperate to be believed. “Tim showed up one day— a thirteen year old kid— and revealed he knew who we were. He basically blackmailed Bruce and tried to make me Robin again.”

Jason let out a derisive snort. “So Bruce made him Robin instead to shut him up?”

Dick was trying his hardest to not lose his temper. He’ll admit that he had some reservations against Tim when he first joined the family, but over these few years he’s grown extremely fond of the current Robin. “No— Bruce rejected him over and over and over again. Bruce didn’t want another Robin, he didn’t want to have that chance of losing another kid.” Dick’s eyes flickered over to you, sitting attentively and listening to every single word, hanging on like it was a bedtime story of sorts. “Bruce got into some trouble, and Tim showed up on his own accord. He was sloppy, undisciplined and utterly unskilled. He had no business being out in the field physically supporting Batman— Tim easily could have gotten himself killed. But he got Bruce out regardless. Bruce made him swear he’d train the proper way, and only if Bruce was satisfied— only if he was confident Tim could hold his own— would he give Tim the chance to be Robin. Bruce worked that kid to the bone to prove he could handle everything that came with wearing the mantle.”

Jason rolled his eyes and let out a scoff. “I’m not sure what your definition of replacing someone is, but that whole story sounds a lot like replacing me.”

“Jason…” you said his name softly, your hand reaching out to gently touch his.

Dick was surprised when Jason let out the tiniest of flinches, like your touch had burned him somehow. You noticed too, and you withdrew your hand, placing it back on your lap and trying to conceal the frown on your own face. Jason realised fast that he’d unconsciously reacted wrong, but he stepped away with a rough shake of his head.

“I’m going out. When I get back I want you gone,” Jason said with a sharp gesture towards Dick. He left no room for argument— he turned on his heel and stalked out the room, heading for the apartment door and letting it slam shut behind him.

You winced as the wall shook slightly from the impact. You looked to Dick and slowly rose to your feet, your fingers fiddling with the hem of your shirt. “That…” you trailed off, unsure how to even finish your sentence.

Dick dragged his hands down his face. Again, he didn’t know how this conversation was going to go. He had hoped it would end somewhat more positively than this, that Jason would atleast agree to come home, even briefly. He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t expected Jason to storm off— but he’d also be lying if he said he expected Jason to be thrilled to see him.

“I’m sorry,” Dick apologised with a small incline of his head. What else was he supposed to say? He’d showed up unannounced on a pregnant woman’s doorstep, brought up traumatic memories for her boyfriend, made said boyfriend storm off… yeah, there wasn’t much else for him to say to you other than a genuine apology.

“You should probably leave,” you said, gesturing with a nod of your head towards the very same door that Jason had left through. “I’m sorry the reunion didn’t go well— I really wish I knew how to make the situation better. But I don’t.”

“It’s fine,” Dick said with a wave of his hand. He was failing at coming across as nonchalant. He made a start for the door, preparing himself to confront Bruce and Tim and Alfred, to tell them about his tense conversation with the thought-to-be-dead-but-is-actually-alive-Jason.

Dick opened the door and stepped out into the apartment hallway, his eyes snapping instantly to the chipped wallpaper across from him. He wasn’t going to bother hanging around any longer— there wasn’t much point. “Thank you for letting me come in. Please tell Jason…” Dick trailed off, unsure of what message to even pass on. What else could he even say at this point? He shook his head, changing his mind. “Don’t worry about it. Thank you.”

“Wait.”

Dick paused again, now curiously glancing over his shoulder at you. He was surprised to see you scribbling something onto a torn scrap of paper, leaning against the doorframe. You then held up the paper and handed it to him, giving him no chance to understand what you were doing. You basically forced him to accept it.

“What’s this?” Dick asked, brow raising as his eyes flew across the string of numbers. It took only a second to realise you had given him a phone number. “Whose number is this?”

“Mine,” you explained with a sheepish shrug of your shoulders, a nervous smile curling your lips. “I’m not going to pretend I understand this whole… double-life thing you and your family share. I only found out about Jason’s nightly escapades a few weeks ago, and I’ll admit it’s still a lot to wrap my head around. But I think he needs family, whether he realises it or not.”

You paused and chewed on your lower lip, mulling over a series of thoughts in your head. “I’d give you Jason’s number, but I doubt he’d like that. So if you need anything or want to try and talk to him again… maybe send a warning next time? I think the shock of seeing you in his home made him more defensive than he’d probably have been if he knew you were coming.”

Dick could only nod, his chest squeezing at the gesture. “Thank you. This means a lot. Thanks.” He tucked the slip of paper into his pocket, fully intending on saving the number to his phone once he returned back to the manor.

{Mute Sienna! Anyone is welcome to join}

The call was sudden. And probably surprising to receive.

'You're her emergency contact. She's been found in an alleyway, slit throat. She suffered many wounds and was badly injured. She's out of surgery- her vocal cords damaged.'

That's all the nurse said over the call. The hospital was supported by Sword, the agency that took over after Shield fell.

There in the vastly sterile room, she sat staring out towards the window. Her hair was a mess, hints of it white.

Sienna was merely watching the vast land outside. Her eyes shook as she couldn't produce a sound, not a hum or a word. Her eyes shimmer with tears as she lost the one thing she thought she couldn't- her voice.

The older woman stared back with sharp eyes, she remembered her attack so well. Being dragged into a warehouse, bleach was poured over her. Her body was abused and discarded after days in there. She still wasn't aware who got her, she planned once she could, she'll find them.

But she was stuck to this bed. Stuck to relying on a notebook and whiteboard to communicate. Her hands even wrapped up with bandages.

If you are comfortable with that 💞

Thanks!! Love your stuff!

Hope you enjoy!!

Even on Hard Days

Rafe Cameron x Chronic Illness! Reader

Prompt: “I’ve never wanted anything the way I want you.”

Most mornings were hard.

Some felt impossible.

Pain had become a quiet, ever-present part of her life. Not loud enough to drown her completely, but always there—persistent, low, and cruel, like the hum of a refrigerator in the middle of the night. You forget it’s there until everything else goes quiet. Until it’s all you can hear.

It clung to her bones like something alive. Settled deep in her hips, curled up in her shoulders, threaded tightly through the muscles in her back like wire pulled too tight. It wrapped itself around her ribs and squeezed until she forgot what it meant to breathe without bracing for it.

And today was one of the bad ones.

The kind of day that started before the sun even thought about rising. The kind that ripped her from sleep with sharp, seizing aches in every joint. Her body felt like it had fought a war in the night—and lost. Her legs were leaden, her arms too heavy, her spine stiff and screaming.

She lay there, staring at the ceiling, trying not to cry. Trying not to move.

Even the thought of standing sent a cold rush of fear through her. She didn’t have the strength. Not yet. Not today.

The sheets were bunched under her palms where she gripped them tight, her breaths shallow and shaky. Pain pulled tight across her back every time she inhaled too deep. Her throat ached with the effort not to cry, her eyes already stinging with frustrated tears.

She hated this part.

Hated the helplessness.

The pain was awful—but it wasn’t the worst of it. No, the worst part was the shame.

Because Rafe was just down the hall.

She could hear him. The faint buzz of music drifted into the room—his usual morning playlist, upbeat and lazy. The clatter of pans in the kitchen, the smell of bacon and coffee curling through the house like a promise she couldn’t reach. He was probably dancing, like he always did when he thought no one was watching. Shirtless, socks sliding over the floor, singing under his breath.

And she couldn’t even get out of bed.

She didn’t hear him come in. But the mattress dipped under his weight a moment later, and she caught the warm scent of fresh soap and coffee before she felt the brush of his fingers against her hair.

“Baby…”

His voice was low. Softer than anyone would expect from him—except her. It wrapped around her like a blanket, careful and warm, pulling her out of the fog just enough to feel the sting behind her eyes.

She didn’t look at him.

“Didn’t wanna wake you,” she mumbled, still staring at the ceiling. Her voice was hoarse, fragile.

Rafe didn’t answer right away. He shifted closer, brushing the hair back from her face with the back of his fingers. His hand lingered at her temple, thumb sweeping gently beneath her eye, catching a tear she hadn’t realized had fallen.

“I knew it was a bad day,” he murmured, his breath brushing her cheek. “Could feel it before I even walked in.”

She swallowed, blinking hard. “Sorry.”

That made him still.

“Don’t do that,” he said quietly. Not unkind, but firm. “Don’t apologize for something you can’t control.”

She knew what came next. The part where he reminded her—gently, always—that he wasn’t mad. That he wasn’t tired of this. That he didn’t see her as broken. Still, no matter how many times he said it, the feeling crept in.

Like she was dragging him down.

Like he was getting the short end of a deal.

He was Rafe Cameron—golden, confident, charismatic. The kind of guy people looked at twice. The kind of guy who filled every room without even trying.

And she was just… tired. Every day.

She closed her eyes.

“I can try to get up,” she whispered. “Just give me a second.”

But instead of getting up himself, Rafe slid beneath the blanket beside her. He moved with such care, like he was afraid of hurting her without meaning to. Like every inch of her mattered.

Then his arms wrapped around her, pulling her gently into his chest.

“You’re not getting up,” he said, voice sure but impossibly tender. “Not until your body says it’s okay.”

A shaky breath left her as she let herself fold into him, bury her face in the worn fabric of his t-shirt. He smelled like detergent and sleep, like warmth and home. His hand began moving slowly over her lower back, soft circles that didn’t fix everything but helped. They always helped.

He didn’t rush her.

Didn’t speak just to fill the silence.

He held her like he had all the time in the world. Like there was nowhere else he needed to be.

Eventually, after the tightness in her chest eased just enough to let the words out, she whispered, “I hate this.”

“I know,” he said, his lips pressed against her hair. “I hate seeing you in pain.”

Her voice cracked, barely audible beneath the weight of everything she’d been holding in.

“I hate not being able to do anything. You shouldn’t have to take care of me all the time.”

She didn’t mean for it to sound so bitter. But the frustration simmered just beneath her skin, and on days like this—days where even breathing felt like a battle—it boiled over in small, splintering ways.

Rafe didn’t respond right away.

Instead, he shifted beside her, moving slowly and carefully, like he was afraid she might shatter if he moved too fast. His hand found her neck, fingers brushing the sensitive skin just below her jaw, tracing a line down the slope of her shoulder. Gentle. Reverent. Like she was something precious.

When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet—but serious in a way that made her look at him.

“You think I don’t want to?” he asked.

She blinked, startled by the question. “What?”

“You think I don’t want to be the one who takes care of you?” His brows drew together, his blue eyes searching hers. “You really think I wouldn’t give anything to be the person you trust enough to let in on your worst days?”

She opened her mouth, but the words tangled in her throat.

Rafe exhaled, jaw tight like he was trying to hold something in.

“I know you think you’re a burden. I know you think you’re holding me back,” he continued. “But that’s not how I see you. That’s not how I ever see you.”

Her eyes burned. Her lips parted.

“It’s not fair,” she whispered, the guilt cracking wide open in her chest. “I can’t be what you deserve. I can’t go on trips with you. I can’t dance with you. Or stay out all night like we used to. I can’t even stand long enough to shower some days, Rafe. And I hate that. I hate that this is what I’ve become.”

Rafe’s expression faltered.

His jaw tensed, but not in anger. Not even close.

It was heartbreak.

She saw it in the way his throat bobbed when he swallowed, in the way his hand stayed firm and warm on her skin like he was anchoring her to him.

“You think I give a shit about any of that?” he said, voice rough. “You think I care about clubbing or weekend trips or hiking when I get to come home to you?”

She tried to turn her face away, cheeks burning with shame, but his hand gently caught her chin, guiding her back to him. His touch wasn’t forceful—just steady. Like he needed her to see the truth in his eyes.

“I’ve never wanted anything the way I want you,” he said.

And she froze.

The words hung in the air between them, thick and full of meaning. They hit her like a wave—heavy and breathtaking. Her heart stuttered in her chest. The sincerity in his voice—raw and unshakable—broke something loose in her.

His voice cracked just slightly as he continued, like it hurt him to even think she didn’t already know.

“I mean it,” he whispered. “I want all of you. The good days, the hard ones. I want the mornings where you wake up smiling and the nights where you’re too weak to stand. I want to be the one you let hold you when it hurts. I want to be the person you don’t have to pretend with. Because you—you—are everything to me.”

Her throat tightened.

Tears welled again, spilling before she could stop them. But this time, it wasn’t the pain. It wasn’t shame or frustration.

It was the overwhelming, aching relief of being seen—and still being wanted.

She buried her face in his chest, her fingers clutching the fabric of his shirt like she needed to hold on to something solid.

“I just…” Her voice trembled. “I don’t want you to get tired of me. I’m scared one day you will.”

Rafe didn’t answer with words.

Instead, he pressed his lips to the crown of her head—slow and sure. Then her forehead. Then her cheeks. Every tear that fell, he kissed it away with a kind of devotion that made her chest ache.

His hands were steady as they cradled her, like she was fragile and still the most precious thing he’d ever touched.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured against her temple, his breath warm and soft, “you are the only thing in this world I never get tired of.”

And that did it.

The dam broke.

She let herself cry then—really cry. Not just from pain, but from the sheer relief of being loved so deeply. Of being held so gently. Of being told—again and again—that she didn’t have to earn his love. That she already had it.

She let the weight she’d been carrying fall away for a moment.

Safe in his arms.

Grounded by the steady beat of his heart.

⸻

Later that afternoon, when the sharp edges of her pain had dulled into something she could breathe through, she slowly made her way out of the bedroom.

Her body still ached with every step—each movement calculated and cautious—but the fog had lifted enough for her to crave the comfort of him. Of them.

She padded down the hall in thick socks and an old oversized shirt that used to be his, dragging her fingers along the wall for balance. The soft murmur of the television met her ears first, followed by the faint scent of peppermint—her favorite pain relief balm.

And then she saw him.

Exactly where she expected him to be.

Rafe was sprawled on the couch, legs kicked up on the coffee table, surrounded by a fortress of throw pillows and soft blankets. The heating pad—her heating pad—was already plugged in and waiting on the cushion beside him, gently humming. A glass of water and her pain meds sat neatly on the side table. He’d even lit the candle she liked, the one that smelled like vanilla and warm linen.

When he looked up and saw her, his whole face lit up.

Like she was the best part of his day. Like nothing else mattered but the fact that she was there, walking toward him.

“Hey, baby,” he said, soft and full of warmth.

She flushed, the corners of her mouth lifting into the barest smile. “Hey.”

“I got your spot all ready,” he said, patting the cushion beside him with boyish pride. “Even fluffed the pillows this time. Like, aggressively.”

Her smile grew a little, despite the dull ache in her muscles. “Wow. I’m honored.”

“You should be.” He grinned. “I risked carpal tunnel fluffing those things.”

She let out a breath that was almost a laugh, then made her way over—slow and stiff. Rafe was already reaching for her before she could lower herself onto the couch. He supported her gently, guiding her down with both hands, careful not to jostle anything that might hurt.

Once she was settled, he tucked the blanket around her legs like he’d done it a hundred times before. Then he draped the heating pad across her lap, adjusting it just right, and clicked it on without needing to be asked.

And before he sat back, he leaned down and kissed her knee—soft, deliberate, like a promise.

“I love you,” he said simply, looking up at her like the words were the easiest truth in the world. “Just as you are. Always.”

The lump returned to her throat before she could stop it.

“Even when I’m cranky and look like I haven’t showered in three days?” she asked, her voice barely above a murmur. “Even when I can’t… do anything?”

He looked at her like she’d asked the most ridiculous question imaginable.

“Especially then,” he said, grinning like she’d walked in wearing diamonds. “Cranky and half-asleep is when you’re at your cutest. It’s when I get the soft little sighs and the dramatic blanket huffs. I live for those.”

She couldn’t help it—she laughed. A real, bright laugh that cracked the tired shell around her heart. It made her shoulders shake, made her hand clutch his arm to steady herself. And God, it felt good to laugh again.

Rafe’s grin stretched wider at the sound. He looked proud of himself—like her laughter was a gift he’d been hoping for all day.

He stayed watching her for a beat longer, as if committing the moment to memory. Then he slid into the space beside her, his arm looping around her shoulders as she instinctively curled into his side.

Her head rested against his chest, right over his heart. The steady rhythm of it grounded her. His fingers brushed slow, soothing lines over her arm. Not rushed. Not impatient. Just present.

The movie he put on was one of her favorites—one she’d watched a dozen times, one he always pretended to forget the ending to just to see her roll her eyes. She smiled at that too.

He always remembered the little things.

Even when her body didn’t cooperate. Even when her energy was gone. Even when she didn’t feel like herself.

He remembered the things that made her feel like her.

She didn’t feel perfect.

She didn’t feel strong today, or independent, or easy to love.

But wrapped in Rafe’s arms, surrounded by the soft hum of comfort and care, she felt safe. She felt seen.

And more than anything… she felt enough.