dollette

At first, accepting his offer had felt almost natural.

How could it not?

You had spent your entire life starving for the exact things he promised so easily. Attention that didn’t have to be earned through pain or perfection. Appreciation that didn’t disappear the moment you failed. A family that actually looked at you instead of through you.

He offered you all of it without hesitation.

Without conditions—at least, not openly.

And that terrified you more the longer you sat with it.

Because nothing in your life had ever come without conditions before.

Love had always been fragile. Temporary. Dependent on how useful you were, how quiet you stayed, how little trouble you caused. Affection was something that could vanish overnight if you disappointed the wrong person.

You learned that young.

So now, sitting alone in a room built from stolen pieces of your old life, your confidence began to crack beneath the weight of your own thoughts.

Your gaze drifted toward the door he’d exited through only minutes ago.

In return, I ask for you to trust me.

The words replayed again.

And grow to exceed my expectations.

Your stomach twisted.

Expectations.

God, you hated that word.

It dug beneath your skin and lodged itself somewhere deep, somewhere sore. Expectations meant pressure. Meant performance. Meant the looming fear that one mistake would make everything collapse around you.

And what if you failed him?

The thought came suddenly enough to make your chest tighten.

Not failed accidentally. Not in some small, forgivable way.

What if you simply weren’t enough?

Your fingers curled tightly against your sleeves.

He looked at you with such certainty. Such unwavering belief that it almost made your head spin. Like he’d already decided what you could become before you even understood it yourself.

But what happened if reality didn’t match whatever image he had created of you in his mind?

Would his warmth disappear?

Would that soft voice sharpen into disappointment?

Would he look at you the same way everyone else eventually did?

The thought left something bitter pooling at the back of your throat.

You hated how quickly your mind spiraled there. Hated how even now—even after being chosen so completely—fear still rooted itself inside you before comfort ever could.

But maybe that was inevitable.

Neglect changes people.

It teaches you to search for the hidden catch behind every act of kindness. To wait for affection to rot into resentment. To brace yourself for the moment someone realizes you were never worth the effort they spent on you.

And despite everything he promised—

despite the warmth in his voice, the care in his touch, the way he looked at you like you were something precious—

you still couldn’t fully silence the quiet, aching fear curling inside your chest.

Because a part of you still believed that eventually, if he looked close enough,

he’d regret choosing you too.

But as much as you wanted to stay there and drown in your own thoughts, you had promised him something.

Training.

And with the ugly feeling of doubt still clawing around inside your chest, part of you needed it. Needed to prove—if not to yourself, then to him—that choosing you hadn’t been some mistake he’d eventually regret.

With a quiet sigh, you pushed yourself off the bed and wandered toward the wardrobe.

The moment you opened it, you just stared.

“…You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Your entire wardrobe sat inside like someone had ripped it straight out of your old room and relocated it here piece by piece. Same oversized hoodies. Same dark shirts. Same sweatpants you wore when you didn’t want people looking at you too long.

Even your favorite training clothes were there.

You let out a dry laugh, rubbing a hand down your face. “Cool. Awesome. Love that my kidnapper apparently knows my clothing size better than I do.”

Honestly, you weren’t even surprised anymore.

At this point, finding out he somehow replicated your entire existence down to your laundry habits barely cracked the top five weirdest things he’d done.

Still, you grabbed the clothes anyway.

Because unfortunately, the asshole had good taste.

Or rather—your taste.

The shirt slid over your head perfectly, sleeves falling exactly where you liked them. You hated how comfortable it felt. Hated it even more when you realized he probably knew you’d pick this specific outfit too.

“Insane behavior,” you muttered while fixing the sleeves.

Then you stepped out into the hallway.

The house greeted you with the same eerie silence as always. Long corridors stretched endlessly beneath warm lighting, every corner too polished, too pristine. The place still didn’t feel lived in. It felt arranged. Carefully maintained like a display someone was terrified of ruining.

By the time you reached the front of his office, he was already there waiting.

Of course he was.

“I believe a proper tour is necessary later,” he said warmly, falling into step beside you.

You snorted. “If you thought I was somehow gonna memorize this maze on my own, you seriously overestimate me.”

His lips curved slightly.

“Conversations with you are always refreshing.”

There it was again.

That weird feeling.

Not quite discomfort anymore. Something stranger than that. The way he spoke to you—amused, patient, almost fond—felt dangerously easy to get used to.

You decided not to think too hard about that.

As the two of you walked, he casually gestured toward different hallways and doors as if this were completely normal. Like he wasn’t guiding you through an absurdly massive house that looked like it had been designed by someone with too much money and far too much time.

“The kitchen is through there,” he explained smoothly, motioning toward a hallway branching off to the left. “Third door down.”

You nodded instantly.

Now that was useful information.

Everything else could wait.

“The guest rooms are down this corridor,” he continued as the two of you turned another corner. “Most of them aren’t in use, so you’re free to choose whichever you prefer if you ever want a change of scenery.”

“Thrilling,” you deadpanned.

A quiet chuckle left him.

Another hallway.

Another turn.

“The library is here,” he said, resting a hand briefly against one of the large doors. “I think you’ll enjoy it.”

That one caught your attention for half a second longer. Mostly because the room looked massive enough to qualify as a public institution.

Then he kept walking.

A medical room came next.

Which you intentionally chose not to think too hard about.

Then some sort of office space filled with monitors and shelves of files you weren’t allowed close enough to inspect. Then another sitting room that looked nearly identical to the last one.

Seriously, how many sitting rooms did one person need?

At some point the directions stopped sounding like actual information and started blending together into meaningless rich-person architecture.

Left turn. Hallway. Fancy door. Another room. More hallways.

You were fairly certain this place had been designed specifically to make escaping psychologically exhausting.

By the time you finally stepped into the indoor gym, he had introduced at least eight separate rooms and enough corridors to qualify this place as its own zip code.

You remembered exactly one location.

The kitchen.

Because if you were going to be trapped in a mysterious mansion with a suspiciously affectionate lunatic, you at least needed to know where the snacks were.

“How’s your combat knowledge, dear?”

His voice echoed lightly through the indoor gym as he guided you further inside.

The room itself was ridiculous.

Massive enough to fit an actual training facility, lined wall-to-wall with equipment you didn’t even know how to use properly. Mats stretched across the floor. Weapons were displayed neatly along one side of the wall. The air smelled faintly of rubber, metal, and something clean.

It reminded you painfully of the manor’s training room.

And with that came the memory of late nights spent getting thrown onto mats by Dick while he lectured you about self-defense.

“Read their shoulders first.”

“Your greatest strength isn’t brute force—it’s observation.”

“Anyone can throw a punch. Predicting one is harder.”

Your chest tightened briefly at the memory before you shoved it aside.

“Basically nothing,” you admitted with a shrug.

One of his brows lifted.

“And yet you intended to become a vigilante?”

You rolled your eyes immediately. “Okay, first of all, rude.”

Still, instinct kicked in anyway.

You lifted your fists automatically, stance shifting into something rough and half-practiced. Not perfect, but familiar enough from the handful of times Dick had forced you through drills. Your guard came up near your chin as you waited for him to strike first.

Except—

nothing happened.

Instead, a laugh escaped him.

Warm. Amused.

“We’re not doing that yet.”

Before you could question him, he stepped closer.

His hands closed gently around your wrists, lowering your guard without force. The touch wasn’t rough, but it was firm enough to guide you where he wanted. His gaze moved over you thoughtfully, analytical in a way that made you feel strangely exposed—not in a cruel sense, but observant. Like he was mentally taking note of every weakness your body carried.

“Hey, at least pretend I look intimidating,” you muttered.

“You look exhausted,” he corrected smoothly.

Rude.

Then his hands moved again.

It rested briefly against your shoulder, then your arm, your side—careful, assessing touches that felt less invasive than they probably should have. Like he was checking your posture. Your balance. The lingering damage your body still carried after the explosion and weeks of recovery.

By the time his hands reached your waist, he gave a quiet hum of confirmation and finally stepped back.

“Well,” he concluded after a moment, finally pulling his hands away from your waist, “I was right.”

You narrowed your eyes immediately, arms crossing over your chest out of instinct more than actual annoyance.

“Right about what exactly?”

A small smile appeared on his face then. Not smug this time. Something lighter. Amused in a way that almost felt unfair.

“We won’t be sparring anytime soon.”

The offense on your face was immediate.

Your jaw dropped slightly as you stared at him. “Wow,” you said flatly. “Okay. That’s actually insane to say to someone’s face.”

“It’s true.”

“You’re supposed to lie.”

“I don’t strike you as someone who enjoys being lied to.”

That made you pause for half a second.

Unfortunately, he had a point.

You clicked your tongue and looked away instead. “Still rude.”

A quiet chuckle slipped from him as he leaned casually against one of the nearby benches, arms folding loosely across his chest.

“Our focus,” he explained more patiently this time, “needs to be improving your body first.”

His gaze drifted over you again—not judgmental, not cruel. Analytical. Careful.

“You’re still recovering,” he continued. “Your balance is weak, your stamina’s inconsistent, and your muscles haven’t fully regained strength yet.” Then, after the slightest pause, his lips twitched again. “At this point, I’m fairly certain a strong gust of wind could take you out permanently.”

You let out an offended noise and immediately smacked his shoulder.

Not hard.

Just enough to make your point.

“Oh my god, shut up.”

His laughter came easier this time.

Softer too.

The sound echoed lightly through the gym, warm enough that something inside your chest loosened before you could stop it. It wasn’t mocking laughter. Wasn’t sharp or mean like you’d grown used to from other people.

It felt… easy.

And that realization hit strangely.

Because somewhere between the sarcasm and the bickering and his stupidly calm smile, the air between you had shifted into something lighter than before.

Something that almost resembled normal.

Which honestly felt more dangerous than fear ever had.

Because you weren’t used to this feeling.

Not the exhaustion. That part was easy enough to understand.

It was everything else.

The attention. The patience. The way someone stood there watching your progress without irritation simmering beneath their expression. Without disappointment waiting behind every mistake.

It felt unfamiliar in the softest way possible.

Your whole life had been spent trying to earn approval that always felt just out of reach. A glance. A word. Something small enough to prove you mattered for more than just existing quietly in the background.

But him?

He watched you like your effort already meant something.

And maybe that was why you found yourself trying harder than you intended to.

Because despite how bizarre your situation still was, despite the lingering uncertainty hanging over everything, this was still the first time someone had looked at you and decided you were worth teaching instead of dismissing.

So you ran.

Again.

And again.

And again.

The indoor gym felt massive when you were sprinting across it repeatedly. Your shoes squeaked faintly against the polished floor every time you pivoted at the wall, lungs beginning to burn harder with each run. Sweat clung to the back of your neck beneath the shirt, your breathing growing uneven no matter how much you tried controlling it.

Meanwhile, he stood nearby with a timer in hand, looking entirely too calm while observing you.

“You’re breathing wrong.”

You nearly stumbled from sheer disbelief.

Slowing to a stop, you turned toward him with genuine disbelief written all over your face. “How,” you demanded between breaths, “the hell am I breathing wrong?”

A smile tugged at his lips immediately.

Not smug.

Just amused.

“You’re breathing from your chest instead of your diaphragm,” he explained calmly. “You lose rhythm every time you get tired.”

You stared at him for a moment, chest rising unevenly.

“That is the least helpful thing you’ve ever said.”

A quiet laugh escaped him as he clicked the timer off.

“It’s still correct.”

“It’s still annoying.”

“Those two things can coexist.”

You scoffed loudly, bending slightly with your hands braced against your knees while trying to catch your breath.

This was ridiculous.

You had barely been doing this long and already your legs felt heavy.

“You tense your shoulders every time you inhale,” he continued. “Relax them. You’re wasting energy.”

“Talking just to talk,” you huffed dramatically.

“You complain a lot.”

“I complain professionally.”

That earned another laugh from him.

A real one this time.

Warm enough that you found yourself fighting back a smile before immediately pushing into another sprint to hide it.

Honestly, this entire exercise reminded you way too much of those endurance tests schools forced students to do every year. The exact same miserable runs where everyone acted like they were dying afterward.

You could almost hear the old sounds again—students whining dramatically, sneakers screeching across gym floors, your deskmate laughing while you complained about how unfair running was as a concept.

The memory settled into you softer than expected.

And somehow, between the sarcastic comments, his quiet corrections, and the steady sound of him timing your runs, the gym no longer felt so cold.

For the first time in what felt like forever, you weren’t trying to prove your worth through pain or recklessness.

You were simply there.

Breathing hard. Complaining. Running laps while someone stayed beside you the entire time.

“Are you familiar with weapons?”

His question came casually between the sound of your footsteps against the floor.

You slowed slightly during your next turn, following his gaze toward the far corner of the gym where several weapons rested neatly along the wall. Training staffs. Knives. Handguns locked behind reinforced glass.

The sight alone made something nostalgic tug at the back of your mind.

“I mean…” you started between breaths, wiping sweat from your forehead with the sleeve of your shirt. “Depends.”

Another lap.

“I know how guns work. Technically.”

You pointed vaguely toward the weapons corner while jogging past him again.

“Safety. Reloading. Basic mechanics. Stuff like that.” You shrugged. “But I’ve never actually used one.”

Not really.

There’d never been a chance to.

The Batfamily’s rules on guns had always been painfully strict. Bruce especially treated firearms like they carried some irreversible corruption inside them—as if touching one wrong would turn you into something unforgivable.

Except Jason, apparently.

Jason existed outside the rules the same way storms existed outside open windows.

The thought almost made you smile tiredly.

“Guns would likely suit you,” he mused after a moment, watching you carefully. “Perhaps more than direct hand-to-hand combat.”

That got your attention instantly.

You slowed to a stop again, turning toward him with the beginnings of a smug grin already forming.

“Well then,” you breathed dramatically, slowing your run entirely as you placed a hand over your chest like you’d just received life-changing news, “I think we can all collectively agree physical training is no longer necessary.”

One of his brows lifted slowly.

“Oh?”

“Yes,” you continued with growing confidence, already walking toward him now instead of running. “I think it’s very brave of me, actually, to specialize early.”

“Specialize.”

“Mhm.” You nodded seriously. “Why waste time suffering through cardio when I could simply stand far away and shoot things?”

A quiet laugh escaped him at that.

You pointed accusingly. “See? You get it.”

“I don’t believe I said that.”

“You implied it emotionally.”

That earned a fuller laugh this time—warm and low enough that it made your own grin widen despite yourself.

“If we’re going with guns,” you continued proudly, “then clearly I should be allowed to retire from suffering effective immediately.”

“No.”

Your entire face dropped in offense.

“That’s actually evil.” you whined.

He stepped a little closer, folding his arms loosely across his chest while watching you with open amusement now. There was something strangely easy about the expression on his face lately. Less unreadable. Less carefully composed.

“I need you prepared for both forms of combat,” he explained patiently. “Ranged and physical.”

You groaned loudly enough for it to echo through the gym walls.

“This is oppression.”

“This is training.”

“Tomato, tomahto.”

A soft chuckle escaped him again as he shook his head slightly.

“Whatever,” you muttered while pushing yourself back into motion again. “You just enjoy seeing me suffer.”

“That too.”

You let out an exhausted noise of disbelief, but this time it dissolved into laughter before you could properly complain again.

And somehow, hearing him laugh quietly behind you while you resumed your miserable sprinting made the entire thing feel a little less miserable after all.

The next part of training involved weights.

Or at least, you assumed it did.

Somewhere between the endless complaining, your aching arms, and the constant back-and-forth bickering between the two of you, your brain had stopped properly processing the actual workout itself.

Time blurred strangely after that.

One moment you were dramatically arguing about why lunges should be considered psychological warfare, and the next he was adjusting your posture with a sigh that sounded far too entertained for your liking.

“Your form is terrible.”

“My form is creative.”

“That’s not how exercise works.”

“Says who?”

“Says basic anatomy.”

You had rolled your eyes so hard it nearly hurt.

And somehow, despite the exhaustion clawing at every muscle in your body, you found yourself laughing more than sulking.

That part surprised you.

You liked the way he indulged your complaints instead of shutting them down immediately. Every sarcastic remark you made was met with one of his own. Every dramatic protest earned some calm response that only made you complain louder.

It felt… easy.

Bittersweet too.

Because you couldn’t remember the last time someone had listened to you this much.

The last time someone had stayed.

By the end of training, your limbs felt heavy enough to collapse on the spot.

So when you eventually dragged yourself into the kitchen afterward, the sight waiting there nearly felt unreal.

He stood across from you by the kitchen island, sleeves rolled slightly past his wrists while setting a plate down in front of you.

The smell alone made your stomach twist painfully with hunger.

The meal itself looked far too carefully prepared to be casual. Balanced. Thought out. Every ingredient chosen with intention instead of convenience.

You stared at it for a second before slowly looking up at him.

“…You cooked?”

His lips curved faintly.

“I’ll be giving you a more appropriate diet soon,” he explained calmly. “But for now, this will suffice.”

You dropped dramatically into one of the stools by the island.

“I stand by my claim that you enjoy seeing me suffer.”

“And I admit that I do.”

The response came so smoothly you almost laughed.

Almost.

“Don’t worry,” he continued, quieter now as he leaned lightly against the counter across from you. “You’re free to eat whatever you want for the time being.”

A pause.

“Until we do a blood test.”

You looked up from your plate immediately.

“That sounds vaguely threatening.”

“It’s necessary.”

“That doesn’t make it less threatening.”

A soft chuckle escaped him under his breath.

The kitchen settled into something calmer.

Not awkward.

Not tense.

Just… still.

The overhead lights cast a warm glow across the marble island, softening the sharp edges of the room. Somewhere in the distance, you could hear the faint hum of ventilation running through the house, low and steady enough to blur into the background.

You ate slowly, exhaustion weighing heavily through your limbs now that the adrenaline from training had finally worn off. Every muscle in your body ached in protest whenever you moved, but the warmth of the food grounded you a little. The meal itself was good—annoyingly good, actually.

Balanced. Warm. Comforting in a way that felt deliberate.

Of course it was.

Across from you, he stayed quiet.

He didn’t interrupt your eating. Didn’t lecture you about posture or nutrition or whatever else he easily could’ve turned this into. He simply leaned lightly against the counter, watching you with that same calm attentiveness he always carried around you.

Not intensely.

Not in the suffocating way that should’ve made your skin crawl.

Just… attentive.

Like he genuinely enjoyed being there with you.

Like watching you exist was enough to hold his interest completely.

It was strange.

Stranger still was the fact that you were slowly getting used to it.

Your fingers tightened slightly around the fork resting in your hand as your thoughts drifted again.

How much did he actually know about you?

Because sometimes it felt endless.

Uncomfortably endless.

He knew your routines without needing to ask. Knew what foods you liked enough to recreate them almost perfectly. Knew how your room had looked before the explosion—before your “death.” Even the replicated wardrobe upstairs proved he’d paid attention to details most people wouldn’t even notice.

The folded sleeves.

The oversized hoodies.

The specific shirts you reached for when you were tired.

It felt impossible sometimes.

Like he had studied your life piece by piece until there was nothing left hidden from him.

And yet—

he still acted like there were things left to discover about you.

That was the part that unsettled you most.

Because from the moment you woke up in this place, it had already been painfully obvious just how much he knew. Not guessed. Not assumed.

Knew.

Your routines.

Your habits.

Your insecurities.

The exact way your room used to look before the explosion.

The books left half-finished beside your bed. The oversized hoodies you wore when you were overwhelmed. Even the food sitting in front of you now had been made with an almost invasive level of familiarity—as if he already understood what comfort tasted like to you.

It should’ve terrified you more than it did.

Maybe part of it still did.

But another part of you—the selfish, aching part that had spent years unnoticed—couldn’t stop reacting to the attention anyway.

That was the worst thing about all of this.

He paid attention.

To everything.

And still, despite seeming to know your life down to its smallest details, there were moments where he looked at you with something quieter than certainty.

Curiosity.

Real curiosity.

You noticed it in the pauses between conversations. In the way his gaze lingered whenever you said something unexpected. Whenever your reactions didn’t align with whatever image of you he’d built inside his head.

Like he was trying to compare the real you to the version he had spent so long observing from a distance.

It was strange.

Strange enough that you found yourself thinking about it more than you wanted to.

Because the more you thought about it, the more impossible it became to tell where his knowledge of you ended.

@ TTDAMIAN. pretty please, translate and rewrite any of my works, or repost my works in any other platform without asking. (ts a joke get out)

You've decided to fully ignore the whole ‘got bit by a spider and am developing weird side effects’ for the time being, afterall the doctor still hasn't called you back.

You've also noticed something strange whenever you are in the manor there are always at least one other person besides you and Alfred. At first you didn't think much, maybe a special case was up and Bruce needed extra help, or maybe they were training together to make sure they stayed on their physical capabilities.

That would have stayed your guess until said people started talking to you, well talking is a strong word, more like small talk than actual conversation.

First it was Dick.

“Well, well, well if it isn't my favorite little birdy!”

You just stared at him before looking to your left and right and looked right back at him. You saw his smile falter slightly.

“Yes you! How's it been? Do anything fun lately?”

You didn't answer for a moment but the way he was staring at you made you speak up.

“Uh fine, I've been fine. Nothing you'd want to know about.” You quickly shut the fridge door with a flavored water in your hand, you were going to go meet up with Peter when Dick decided to come up to you in the kitchen.

You felt the tingling sensation on the back of your neck again and your hand darted out to grab Dick's wrist, which was coming to pat you on the head. You could see the shock on his face and you felt heat begin to crawl up your neck in embarrassment.

“Uh well it was nice to uh see you but I gotta go so..” You let go of Dick's hand and quickly began to walk out of the kitchen and left the manor, not wanting to be in there anymore. What the hell was up with him?

You were going to kill Peter.

He had been bombarding you with questions since you saved him at the gala, Peter wanted to know how you caught an almost 400 pound piece of debris. Which was a valid question.

You tried putting it off and even tried lying but Peter didn't fall for it and eventually you told him. You told him about the incident at Oscorp and how you still haven't gotten your results back, you even took him to the abandoned warehouse to show him how you could stick to any surface. That's when Peter began asking questions, and when he has questions then he must get answers.

They started off simple. Testing your reflexes, seeing how long you can stick to a surface, comparing your strength from before to now, and many more.

“So since you got spidey related abilities does that mean you have webs you can use?”

“I don't shit out webs if that's what you're asking.” You chugged down another full bottle of water.

“But can you produce them? Like maybe you spit out webs or-”

“Peter.”

You looked down at your hands, everything was already a lot, especially since you knew how Bruce felt about Meta humans. You weren't a Meta human by technicality but in no way were you going to go ask him about it either.

Suddenly you got a text message and you looked down expecting to see Alfred's name or even Dr. Connors, but instead of either it was Tim? Why was he texting you?

You picked up your phone and clicked on the message.

‘Where are you? Wanna meet up for lunch? Just us. :)’

Where did this come from? Why does Tim want to meet up with you? And why did he send a smiley face??

You looked between the phone and Peter, who was still rambling about webs, you looked back at your phone and typed out a response, clicking send and putting your phone away and back to Peter.

‘Got plans with a friend.’

Bruce was confident in his children, they were all smart in their own ways, some having memorized roads and sewers while others more tech savvy.

So how did he miss how smart you were?

After watching some recordings that Alfred had of you, he was a little embarrassed to find out that he had no idea that his only non-violent child was a genius.

It wasn't just the videos either, he had Tim look into finding more about you via articles and interviews, which there was a lot of.

Bruce never realized how much like, well, like him. At least in the public eye. You just screamed ‘Wayne’ with the way you carried yourself and the confident grin you always wore. Were you always like this?

“Damn. Who would have thought that outta all of us they ended up more like Bruce then anyone of us?” Jason leaned against his motorcycle, his arms crossed over his chest.

“Not only has she kept up with doing all the Gala's but get this-” Tim pulls up a video of you and an older man standing next to you “-this was the night of the attack. This is Dr. Connors, head scientist at Oscorp and apparently they have been guaranteed a high position job at Oscorp after they finish graduating college.”

“College!?” Dick stares at the black and white photo of you on the moniter.

“Yes, college. They're graduation is in about a week and supposedly they are valedictorian.” Tim leans back on the chair.

Bruce's jaw clenched, why didn’t you say anything? Why didn’t he know? How did you grow up so fast?

“According to this interview, apparently Oscorp plans on collaborating with another company, The Life Foundation. Dr. Connors even mentions that our sibling could be the bridge between the two companies.”

“Bridge between two companies? What could that even mean?” Damien finally speaks up, eyes glaring at the large screen in front of him. “That sounds sketchy.”

“Everything sounds sketchy to you.” Jason snickered.

“There's something else.” Dick looks up at everybody. “I said hi earlier and they acted really confused that I was talking to them. I went to pat their head and they caught my hand, like they had eyes on the back of their head.”

Silence filled the room before Damien scoffed.

“Impossible. Such reflexes are from people who have training, which they have none.”

“How would you know?” Cassandra stepped besides the boy. “How would any of us know? Just because they don't train with us doesn't mean they don't.”

That got them all to be silent, cause Cassandra was right. They knew that none of them spent time training you and Bruce knew that your mother wasn't a trained vigilante or anything.

How could he know so little about one of his own children? His biological child, well of them, he knew plenty about Damien.

“Why don't we just go talk to them? Maybe even all go out.” Steph suggested.

“I’m afraid the Master Y/N is not in the house currently.” Alfred stands in front of the elevator, his arms folded behind his back.

“What? They don't need to attend classes anymore so where are they? The Oscorp building?” Dick scratches his chin lightly in confusion.

“They went out with the Parker family for breakfast a few hours ago, I can only assume she is with Peter now.” Alfed had to fight to keep a look of amusement off his face when he saw all of them snap their heads to look at him.

“Parker family?”

“A few hours?”

“Peter sounds like a boys name, are they with a boy??”

Alfred just motioned towards the ceiling where your room would be “I'm sure you can find photos of them in their room, and Peter is a boy, they have been friends since the beginning of high school and are together a lot.” So he may be adding fuel to the fire but Alfred needs the family to actually make an effort to see you. “They often go to gala's together as Peter is the plus one-”

“PLUS ONE DATE!?” Dick gasps at the realization, his baby bird was going to these gala's with a boy!? Absolutely not!

“That Peter must be the one we saw at the gala.” Damien looks up at Bruce. “They were dancing together-”

“DANCING!?”

“Will you stop yelling?” Jason barks at Dick, even if the idea of you dating this Parker made him sick to his stomach. How could he be happy about his baby sibling dating? You were way too young.

“Alfred.” Bruce turned to the family butler. “You have met this boy many times yes? And his family? What do you think of them?”

Alfred smiled softly. “The Parker family are very nice, Peter was raised by his Uncle Ben and Aunt May and currently live with them in the more suburban side of Gotham. Peter himself is very smart and an optimistic boy, he seems to spread said optimism as he is over very often.”

The room dropped a few degrees.

“He's been in the house?” Damien scowled, how could he not notice a whole other human being in his home? Sure he didnt see you a lot but he knew that you lived here.

“Many times Young Master.” Alfred felt a little bad about spilling all this information and he knew that you wouldn't be happy with him but it was for your own sake. “They are often in their roo-”

“WHAT!?”

“They have had a boy in their room!?”

“Did they have the door open!?”

Alfred couldn't help the small chuckle that left his mouth, ever the instigator. “Door has been shut the entire time.”

Alfred sweeped his eyes over the room, looking at the family in amusement as they all processed the information. He knew that after this bit, that he would witness them all try and connect with you in their own little ways.

Which is exactly what he wanted for you.

You scratched your ear gently, why was it burning? Maybe you’ve been out in the sun for too long.

Right now you were currently leaving the hospital as you got the call from the doctor that your results had come in. You went in immediately and after some time for the doctor to bring out all the tests you had done, nothing was wrong.

Your bones seemed very healthy, your eyesight was good, and your hearing was out of this world! According to the doctor at least, they concluded that while you were very obviously bitten, no venom was in your bloodstream. So good news at least!

After walking down the street for a while, you got a call from Dr. Connors. Apparently after your graduation he wanted to hold a meeting so you could finally meet the man beind The Life Foundation. Carlton Drake. You knew little about this man, other than his company has done a lot of good for finding ways to battle diseases in the world and that he was obsessed with space.

You discussed some boring details with the doctor before you hung up and decided to head home. You still had a lot to do, your valedictorian speech wasn't gonna write itself, not to mention your final report as an intern talking about your experiences that you would share in an interview in a couple of days.

You haver never been more glad that Peter dragged you to lunch at that noodle place, because you had a lot of work to do.

You stepped inside the manor and closed the door only for you to stiffen immediately. You turned your head to see your family standing there. Not just Bruce, not just Damien or even Jason but everyone and your gaze flickered to Alfred who shot a small apologetic look towards you.

Why was your family here now?

And maybe that was the point.

To unmoor you. To loosen your grip on before and after, until there was only now—this room, this quiet, this version of you he seemed so determined to keep intact. Preserved. Contained.

Without clocks. Without windows. Without certainty.

Just you, suspended in forced comfort, waiting for a moment that might never come.

It was another day. Or what passed for one.

The quiet was the same as always—thick, padded, deliberate. It pressed in from the walls and settled in your chest, heavy enough that even your thoughts felt muted. Silence wasn’t the absence of sound here. It was something curated. Maintained.

This time, though, he let you out.

The door opened without ceremony, and you followed because there was nothing else to do. No resistance left worth spending. The space beyond wasn’t what you expected—not stone corridors or sterile halls, but something carefully arranged to resemble a home. Not the manor. Never that.

Only your room had been recreated.

The rest of the house felt wrong in a way you couldn’t immediately name. Too unfamiliar. Too neutral. Like a stage set built around a single, stolen centerpiece. Furniture placed for function, not history. Hallways that didn’t echo with memory. No ghosts. No Alfred. No life.

Just structure.

And that realization sank its teeth in deeper than fear ever could.

Because your room was perfect.

Every detail matched—down to the placement of objects you didn’t remember ever showing nor telling anyone. The way the light fell across the desk. The angle of the bed. The things you kept hidden, and the things you left out. It was terrifying how precise it was. How intimate.

He knew your life.

Your routines. Your habits. Your schedules. He knew what your space looked like before you ‘died’.

You never asked how.

You didn’t want to hear the answer.

“You never told me your name, y’know.”

Your voice sounded small in the open space. Too loud. Too real. You didn’t turn when you spoke—you could feel him behind you without needing to look. That presence had become another fixture of the house. Constant. Watching.

When he answered, it came easy. Amused.

“You can call me anything you want, sweetheart. Names have never mattered to me.”

That smile was in his voice even before you saw it—the same one he always wore. Soft. Knowing. Like he was indulging you.

Sweetheart.

The word crawled down your spine, cold and unwelcome. You hated it. Hated the way he spoke to you like you were something fragile. Something kept. Like a daughter shaped by his hands rather than a person with a past that existed beyond him.

You hated it even more that he hid behind mystery so easily. That he could strip you of time, of place, of certainty—yet keep himself just out of reach. Undefined. Untouchable.

And worst of all—

You hated how powerless and dumb it made you feel.

After all, this should’ve been easy for you.

You were used to understanding people in seconds—trained yourself to, really. A glance, a tone, a hesitation, and the pieces would start lining up. You knew how to read what was said and, more importantly, what wasn’t. Names came first. Then habits. Then history. Friends. Teachers. Patterns that traced back as far as middle school if you cared enough to dig.

And you always cared enough.

You hated to admit it, but you were meticulous in the same way Tim was. Cautious. Analytical. You never walked away from an interaction without already pulling threads, without already cataloging weaknesses and motives in the quiet corners of your mind. Information was safety. Knowledge was leverage.

That had always been your edge.

But with him—

There was nothing.

No tells you could latch onto. No inconsistencies. No background noise to sift through. Every attempt to place him—to define him—slid off like water against glass. He gave you nothing to chase. Nothing to pull apart.

You couldn’t read him.

And that terrified you more than the locked doors ever could.

Because he knew you.

Not just your name, or your face, or the things anyone could learn with effort—but everything. Your rhythms. Your tells. The way you thought before you spoke. The things you hid and the things you pretended not to care about. He knew the shape of your life well enough to recreate it, piece by stolen piece.

And you had nothing in return.

No history. No trail. Not even a name.

Just a man who stood behind you, smiling like he already owned every answer you were desperate to find.

“Take a seat.”

His voice cut clean through your thoughts—too smooth, too certain. You hadn’t realized you’d stopped walking until you did. Until you were standing still in front of him, the room around you finally bleeding into focus.

Office wasn’t quite the word for it.

It was a space crowded with intention. Shelves lined with books that looked handled, not decorative. Stacks of files arranged with unsettling precision. Screens dark but waiting, wires disappearing into walls like veins. Gadgets sat half-assembled across surfaces, abandoned mid-thought rather than unfinished. It felt less like a workplace and more like the inside of someone’s head.

You obeyed.

The chair across from his desk accepted you with a quiet creak, the sound loud in a room that seemed to listen. You folded your hands in your lap out of habit, posture stiff, eyes flicking everywhere but him.

“Curious?” he asked.

The word landed lightly. Too lightly. Like he already knew the answer.

You exhaled through your nose and looked around again, letting your gaze linger this time. “What is this place?” you asked. “An office… or something else?”

He leaned back, unbothered, fingers steepled as if the question amused him. “Like I said,” he replied calmly, “names have never mattered to me.” His eyes never left you. “You can call me anything. You can call this room anything as well.”

That casual dismissal scraped against you.

You scoffed before you could stop yourself, the sound sharp in the stillness. “Quit the mysterious act, Mr. Unknown.” You rolled your eyes, jaw tight.

He’d insisted names didn’t matter.

So you gave him one.

Was it stupid? Probably. Was it lazy? Definitely. But you weren’t here to be clever. You were here to survive. And if he wanted ambiguity so badly, you’d throw it back at him.

“Mr. Unknown?” he echoed, testing it like a flavor. A low chuckle slipped from him, genuine—or close enough to pass. “That’s… something.”

Silence settled after that.

Not empty. Not comfortable. It pressed in, thick and deliberate, like it was waiting for one of you to make the wrong move.

Then he spoke again.

“You’ll learn more about me soon,” he said lightly. “Just not now.”

Your fingers twitched in your lap.

“Patience is key, after all.” He tilted his head, smile faint but knowing. “Though it’s never really been your specialty, has it?”

The words struck with surgical precision.

And once again, you were reminded of the imbalance—of how he sat there, relaxed and unreadable, while you were left guessing in a room full of answers you weren’t allowed to touch.

“Are you just here to insult me,” you snapped, the words spilling out sharper than intended, “or is that all part of the routine?”

For a brief moment, something unreadable crossed his face. Not anger. Not offense. If anything, it looked like satisfaction—quiet and contained, like you’d just proven a point he’d already settled long ago. Then it was gone, replaced by that same unnerving calm.

“No,” he replied smoothly. “Of course not.”

He leaned forward, folding his hands together atop the desk, posture relaxed in a way that felt deliberate. Controlled. “You’re here to learn,” he continued. “I’ve given you another chance after your… fall from grace.”

The words wrapped around your ribs and tightened.

“And I won’t allow you to waste it.”

Something cold unfurled at the base of your spine. Not panic—not yet. It was subtler than that. The creeping awareness that this wasn’t about punishment, or even rescue. This was about direction. About ownership disguised as guidance.

Plans, carefully laid.

“Scared?” he asked, his tone almost kind.

You hadn’t moved. Hadn’t said anything. And still, he knew.

“Don’t be,” he said, standing at last. The chair barely made a sound as it slid back. “My intentions toward you are anything but harmful.” A pause. Thoughtful. “At least… not in the ways you’ve been harmed before.”

He circled the desk slowly, each step unhurried, measured. Predatory without the need to bare teeth.

“I’ll give you everything you’ve ever wanted,” he said, voice lowering as he drew closer. “Attention.” One step. “You’ll never have to beg for it again.”

Another step.

“Family?” His smile was small, almost indulgent. “I’ll be your family. You won’t be left behind. You won’t be overlooked. Not ever again.”

Your throat tightened.

“Appreciation?” His gaze found yours and didn’t let go. “You won’t have to bleed for it. You won’t have to earn it. You’ll simply have it.”

The promises pressed in from all sides, heavy and suffocating. They didn’t sound like lies. That was the most terrifying part.

“In return,” he said softly, stopping beside you, “I only ask for your trust.”

His hand came up without warning, fingers curling around your jaw, tilting your face toward his. The touch wasn’t rough—but it wasn’t gentle either. It was precise. Claiming.

“And your growth,” he added. “I expect you to exceed what you thought you were capable of.”

Your pulse thundered, loud enough you were sure he could hear it.

“I want you,” he said quietly, reverently, “to become the person you were reaching for when you were still with them.”

The room seemed to close in.

Because suddenly, you understood.

He wasn’t offering you freedom.

He wasn’t saving you.

He was rewriting you—taking every fracture they left behind and shaping it into something that belonged to him.

And the most dangerous part?

A small, traitorous part of you wondered what it would feel like to finally be chosen— even if it meant disappearing in the process.

Something inside you steadied.

Not healed. Not soothed.

Just… hardened.

You lifted your chin, meeting his gaze at last, and a smile curved your lips—slow, deliberate. It wasn’t joy. It wasn’t relief. It was the kind of confidence that comes from exhaustion finally giving way to resolve. From being too tired to keep begging for scraps.

You’d spent your whole life waiting to be noticed. Waiting for someone to choose you without hesitation. And now—now that the choice was being placed directly in your hands—you refused to flinch.

You were done hesitating.

Done wondering if you deserved it.

“I won’t fail you,” you said, your voice steadier than you felt. Quieter. Certain in a way that surprised even you.

The words tasted strange on your tongue. Final. Like a door closing behind you.

His hand loosened its grip on your face, but he didn’t step away. Instead, his thumb brushed along your jaw with something dangerously close to approval.

That was all he needed.

The room felt different after that—charged, almost expectant. As if something had settled into place. As if a decision had been made long before you ever spoke, and your agreement was merely the last piece snapping neatly into alignment.

You didn’t notice when the line was crossed.

Only that it was gone.

And for the first time in a very long while,

you weren’t invisible anymore.

@ TTDAMIAN. pretty please, translate and rewrite any of my works, or repost my works in any other platform without asking. (ts a joke get out)

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The streetlights outside your window flickered weakly, as if unsure whether they wanted to keep illuminating your life. Their glow dragged across the walls in thin, trembling lines, and the night itself whispered things you couldn’t quite make out. Maybe it was your imagination trying to soften the edges of the quiet. Maybe it was just Gotham breathing.

Either way, it didn’t matter.

Not when there were bigger things demanding your attention.

Like the bottles.

Dozens of them. Scattered across the wooden floor like little casualties of a war you didn’t remember starting. They were empty—every single one. Hollowed out and discarded, their glass throats reflecting the dim streetlight like open wounds.

You stared at them for a long time.

As if they might rearrange themselves. As if they might offer some explanation. But all they offered was the truth you’d been avoiding:

Their ends were already met.

And you—sitting there in the half-dark, surrounded by the remnants of your own bad decisions—

you weren’t far behind.

The room smelled faintly of alcohol and something softer beneath it—a sadness you didn’t have the courage to name. You pulled your knees closer to your chest, letting your head fall forward, hair brushing your face like a curtain meant to hide you even from yourself.

The night whispered again.

Or maybe it was the part of you that still wanted to believe someone might come through the door.

Someone might notice.

Someone might care.

But no footsteps came.

No knock.

No voice calling your name.

Just the bottles.

Just the dimming lights.

Just your own breathing, unsteady and uneven, echoing in a space that felt too big for one person and too suffocating at the same time.

You knew then—  this wasn’t peace, and this sure as hell wasn’t coping. It was just another way of breaking.

Quietly. Slowly.

And alone.

The day had been cruel enough to you.

Your parents once again came with their cruel and sharp words. Words that cut far deeper than any trap ever could. They didn’t shout them this time—not in the frantic, heated way you’d grown up with.

No, tonight their voices were quieter.

Quieter meant sharper.

Quieter meant deliberate.

“You’re a disappointment.”

“I wish you were never born.”

“Where did we go wrong with you?”

Each sentence slipped under your skin like a blade made of familiarity, the kind of pain that didn’t hurt as loudly as it used to but still found the softest parts of you to dig into.

You didn’t even flinch anymore.

That was the worst part.

Once upon a time, you thought parents were meant to love you.

Meant to guide you, protect you, hold you when the world felt too heavy.

Meant to tell you it wasn’t your fault.

Meant to be the place you could run to when everything else shattered.

But that had never been your reality.

Not once.

For you, “home” had always been raised voices behind thin walls. Arguments that never ended, only paused. Doors that slammed so hard the frames rattled. Nights where you’d curl under your sheets, small and shaking, pretending your pillow could muffle the sound of two people trying to destroy each other—and taking you down with them.

You remembered every moment of it as you sat in this room, surrounded by empty bottles and the stale echo of words you couldn’t unhear.

You remembered the first time your father said he wished you were never born. How the world seemed to tilt.

How you didn’t cry until hours later, alone, when the weight of it settled in your chest like a stone.

You remembered your mother asking what went wrong with you.

As if you were a broken toy she couldn’t return.

As if you were a mistake she kept trying to scrub out of her life.

And you remembered—unfortunately—how quickly their voices became your own.

Within time, you started questioning yourself too.

Why were you born?

What was the point of you?

How did you end up this way, always wanting, always trying, always failing?

Your breathing hitched, barely noticeable except to yourself, as those thoughts—those old, scrabbling, poisonous questions—clawed their way back up your throat.

The bottles didn’t help.

They never did.

They only loosened the grip those memories had on you long enough to pretend they weren’t there.

But pretending had stopped working.

And tonight…

Tonight everything felt too loud inside your head and too quiet outside of it.

The streetlight flickered again, casting a brief, trembling halo over the mess around you— like it was illuminating your sins, lining them up in glass reflections on the floor.

You closed your eyes.

But their voices followed.

They always did.

And as you hugged your knees tighter, you didn’t know what hurt more— the things they said back then, or the fact that even now, even after everything, some part of you still believed them.

Your fingers tightened around the neck of a new bottle, the cool glass trembling faintly against your palm.

It felt heavier than it should have—

or maybe you were the one who felt too light.

Hollow.

Like everything inside you had been scraped out and replaced with cold air and the lingering sting of old words.

You lifted the bottle by inches.

Slow.

Mechanical.

A motion carved into muscle memory after too many nights like this. The rim hovered close to your mouth, catching a sliver of streetlight that flickered through the blinds.

Just one more sip.

Just one more second of relief.

Just one more moment where the noise in your head went quiet enough for you to think— or to stop thinking entirely.

But before glass could meet lips—

your apartment door creaked.

A thin, cautious sound.

Not intrusive.

Not violent.

Just enough to slice the silence cleanly down the middle.

You froze.

The bottle hung in midair, suspended by the tension in your fingers. Your heartbeat stumbled once, then quickened, pulsing against your throat so loudly you wondered if whoever entered could hear it.

The door pushed open another inch.

Your breath hitched.

A silhouette stepped inside— and the shape of it, the posture, the familiar broadness of the shoulders— hit you harder than any sound ever could.

“…Dick?”

Your voice scraped out of you like a cracked whisper, thin and unsteady.

You tried to sit up.

Your body protested instantly—knees wobbling, back curving the wrong way, the room tilting slightly as if the ground had shifted beneath you.

But before you could fall back—

he caught you.

Two hands—warm, steady, solid—slipped beneath your arms and guided you upright with a care that felt almost unreal. Like he was afraid you might break if he moved too quickly. Like he already knew how close you were to shattering.

His presence was overwhelming this close. Not because of his size, but because of the silence he carried with him.

A silence that wasn’t empty.

A silence that noticed.

He knelt in front of you, supporting you without crowding you.

He didn’t pry the bottle from your hand.

He didn’t sigh.

He didn’t scold.

He said nothing.

And that terrified you.

Your mind sparked with panic, quick and uncontrollable, like an electrical wire snapping under pressure.

Was he angry?

Was he disappointed?

Was he giving you space to explain yourself—or waiting for you to make it worse?

Dick didn’t yell.

He never had.

He wasn’t like them.

But your body didn’t understand that. Your body only remembered what silence meant in your parents’ house— the heavy, poisonous quiet right before the storm, right before the venom, right before the words that cut deeper than fists ever could.

Your stomach twisted painfully.

What if he thought the same things?

What if he finally realized what a disaster you were?

What if this was the moment he looked at you and saw the truth everyone else had always seen?

Your hand shook.

The bottle rattled faintly against your knee.

You couldn’t look at him. Your gaze dropped to the floor, where the scattered glass bottles reflected you in fractured pieces—blurry, disjointed, wrong.

Your parents’ voices surged up like a tide you’d been trying to outrun.

You shouldn’t have been born.

You don’t deserve anything good.

Everything you touch falls apart.

Everything about you is a burden.

The words echoed with perfect clarity, even though they were old.

Old enough that they’d become part of you.

Old enough that you didn’t need them spoken aloud anymore—

your brain recited them all by itself.

Your breath shuddered. Your shoulders curled inward as if you could fold yourself small enough to disappear. To fit between the words. To slip out of a world you were so certain you ruined by existing.

A tear slid down your cheek before you felt it.

Then another.

You didn’t even wipe them away.

You just blinked, and they fell—

quiet, helpless, unannounced.

Dick moved.

Slowly.

Carefully.

As if you might flinch.

His hand lifted, stopping midway as if asking permission without speaking. Then he brushed his thumb across your cheek, catching a tear before it could fall.

His touch was warm. So unbearably warm that your throat constricted. For a moment, you couldn’t breathe. Because this wasn’t how people touched you. This wasn’t how anyone held you.

Not with gentleness.

Not with worry.

Not with this devastating, disarming tenderness.

And suddenly—

it wasn’t anger you were afraid of.

It was the opposite.

It was the fear that he wasn’t upset.

That he did care.

That he saw you at your worst—your weakest, your most pathetic—and still chose to kneel here in front of you.

You weren’t sure you deserved that. You weren’t sure you knew how to accept it.

Your voice cracked when you tried to speak.

“I—I shouldn’t…”

The rest tangled in your throat, choked off by another sob you didn’t mean to let slip.

Your fingers trembled harder.

The bottle almost fell from your grip.

Dick’s brows knit together, not in anger—never in anger— but in something softer. Something aching. Something that made everything inside you collapse inward like a dying star.

He wasn’t yelling.

He wasn’t judging.

He wasn’t leaving.

And maybe…

maybe that was the part that hurt the most.

Because deep down, beneath every bruise your parents’ words had left on your heart, another truth whispered—

Someone caring for you feels more terrifying than being hurt by them ever did.

And Dick cared.

You could see it.

You could feel it in the way his fingers held yours, in the way he steadied your breathing with his own, in the way he stayed kneeling in front of you like he wasn’t planning on moving until you did.

And for a moment—

a brief, breaking moment—

you wondered if maybe, just maybe…

maybe you didn’t ruin absolutely everything.

Not him.

Not this.

For a moment, the apartment settled into a stillness that felt almost unreal— as if the entire world was holding its breath with you.

Dick stayed exactly where he was, his hands resting lightly on your arms, grounding you without trapping you. His presence pressed against the suffocating quiet like a soft, steady weight. Not heavy. Not demanding. Just… there. And somehow that made it easier to breathe, even if each breath felt uneven and shaky.

The silence wasn’t sharp anymore. It wasn’t the kind that echoed with someone else’s anger.

It wrapped around the two of you like something fragile, something warm, something neither of you wanted to disturb too quickly.

And eventually, he was the one to break it.

“What happened?”

The question was gentle—so gentle you almost didn’t recognize it for what it was.

His voice wasn’t rough or rushed; it was soft, coated in concern that curled around your ribs like a careful hand trying to keep you from falling apart again.

His fingers slid into your hair, slow and deliberate, combing through the strands as if every touch needed permission.

He didn’t tug.

He didn’t push.

He simply touched you like you were something breakable—and worth the effort of protecting.

Your lips parted, but your throat tightened immediately, choking the words before they could form. Your breath stuttered in your chest. You swallowed, tried again, failed again. Your fingers clenched reflexively around the bottle until your knuckles ached.

“I… I just—”

The sentence cracked apart as soon as it left you.

Your whole body felt like it was vibrating, trembling from the inside out, the shakes too deep to fully stop. Tears clung to your lashes, blurring Dick’s face into something soft and shimmering, like he was made of light instead of flesh.

“I don’t know, okay?” you finally forced out, the words ragged. “My parents came… and they were just—” You sucked in a shaky breath, the air burning as it hit your lungs. “Suffocating.”

The word broke open something inside you.

Your voice wavered.

Your shoulders curled.

“And I haven’t been able to get their words out ever since,” you whispered, barely audible. “They’re just… stuck. They won’t stop.”

Your breath hitched again, and your eyes shut tight as another wave of sobs rolled through you, silent but consuming.

“I’m sorry,” you choked, your voice cracking straight down the middle. “I’m a mess, aren’t I?”

The guilt came in hot, heavy, relentless. It slithered up your spine, constricting your chest.

“I didn’t call you.”

Your voice trembled, small and almost ashamed. You stared at the floor because looking at him felt impossible.

“I know,” he said, and somehow those two words didn’t sound disappointed. They weren’t sharp or cold. They were steady, warm, like he’d been expecting that answer all along. “Don’t be sorry.”

You felt his hand move again, brushing your cheek, wiping away a tear with a care that made your breath falter.

“You’re not a mess or anything,” he murmured, his tone firmer now—not harsh, just certain, like he needed you to hear it. “Not even close.”

The reassurance settled over you slowly, like a blanket dropped onto trembling shoulders. You didn’t believe it—not really—but hearing it made something inside you ache in a way that wasn’t entirely painful.

His gaze flicked down to the bottle still clutched in your hand.

His eyes softened, sadness pulling gently at the corners.

“You shouldn’t always resort to this, y’know…?” he said quietly.

There it was—his scolding.

But it didn’t sting the way you expected it to.

There was no accusation.

No disgust.

No distance.

Just concern. Just care.

It felt so unfamiliar it almost hurt.

You swallowed hard, the sound thick in your throat. Because it wasn’t anger, and it wasn’t disappointment— he wasn’t trying to fix you, only to reach you.

It was almost as if he really, truly wanted you to be okay.

“I’m here because I was scared,” he admitted, voice low but steady. “You hadn’t called at all, so I knew something was wrong.”

Your eyes widened slightly, breath catching. The words wrapped around your chest, squeezing tightly but not painfully—more like something trying to hold you together.

He’d noticed.

He always noticed.

Even when you tried to disappear.

“And I couldn’t just sit around and hope you were fine,” he added softly. “I care about you too damn much for that.”

His voice dipped on the last part, almost like he didn’t mean to say it out loud.

But he did.

And you heard every syllable.

Those words hit you somewhere deep— somewhere far beneath the alcohol, beneath the exhaustion, beneath every fake smile you’d forced onto your face in the past weeks.

And with that you asked the question you always wanted to.

“Dick… what do you really want from me?” Your voice trembled, small, brittle. “It’s not like I’m a good person or anything.”

He paused. Just for a heartbeat. And in that pause, the world seemed to tilt, waiting for the answer. His eyes softened. Lowered. Quiet. Almost gentle. “I don’t want anything from you.”

You blinked. Confused. A flicker of disbelief ran down your spine. His words didn’t fit the way the world had always worked. People wanted something. They wanted things you couldn’t give. They wanted answers you didn’t have. They wanted to leave.

But not him.

“I just…” His voice dipped, low, careful. Slow. “I just want you to stop looking for answers in places that only ever hurt you.”

Your chest tightened. Hurt. Confusion. The bottle still trembled faintly in your hand. Not down. Not from a bottle. The words pressed in like a pulse, like a warning. Like a lifeline you weren’t sure you deserved.

“And you don’t need to be a good person for me to care for you.” His grip on your arms tightened, not crushing, not demanding—holding. Anchoring. His breath hitched just slightly, almost unconsciously.

You wanted to laugh. Wanted to cry. Wanted to argue. Wanted to throw the bottle across the room and let it shatter into nothing. But instead, all you could do was whisper: “Where… where do I look then?”

Exhausted. Raw. Shaking. Bare.

“I don’t know,” he said after a long beat. “But… not down. Not from a bottle. Not into the places that keep breaking you.”

The words hung in the air, heavy, weighty, and somehow… possible. Somehow… different. You wanted to doubt them. You wanted to cling to the familiar—pain, self-doubt, the dull ache of failure. But something in the way he stayed, still, steady, careful, made the ache inside you shift.

Not gone. Not erased. But… lighter.

And for a moment, you allowed yourself to breathe.

“Why do you keep showing up?” Your voice is small, brittle, barely there.

He tilts his head, just slightly. Eyes steady. Quiet. “Because you… matter. To me.”

You scoff, bitter, a laugh that tastes like ash. “Even… like this?”

“Especially like this.”

And something inside you cracks. Not a little. Not gently. It shatters. The tears come sudden, unstoppable, almost choking you, and you turn your face away, ashamed, but he’s already leaning closer. Arms open, careful, warm—not holding you, not forcing, just… offering.

You let yourself lean. Your head finds his shoulder. Fingers clutch the fabric of his shirt, desperate for something solid.

He doesn’t say anything when your body starts shaking. Doesn’t comment. Doesn’t judge. Just… holds space for the part of you that’s small. That’s broken. That’s real.

The sobs roll through you, quiet and raw, until eventually, they fade into hiccups, into silence, into something that isn’t empty.

“I know,” he says after a long pause, voice low, steady, almost fragile. “I know it’s hard. Some days feel like walking barefoot on glass while everyone else is dancing on clouds.”

You nod.

He slides a hand along your back, slow, deliberate. “But you’re still here. You’re still you.”

Your eyes squeeze shut.

“Just… hold on,” he whispers. “Even if it’s ugly. Even if it’s quiet. Even if all you can do… is breathe.”

Later, he helps you to your bed. You don’t sleep alone. He sits at the edge, eyes flicking to the balcony, to the faint city lights, to the empty bottles somewhere in the living room that don’t matter now.

You breathe.

You’re here.

And for tonight… that is enough.

@ TTDAMIAN. pretty please, translate and rewrite any of my works, or repost my works in any other platform without asking. (ts a joke get out)