Wayne Manor was too quiet.

Dick hated that he noticed — that he knew the difference between the manor being “normal quiet” and “everyone’s-walking-on-eggshells-because-I’m-a-dysfunctional-wreck” quiet.

He sat on the edge of his bed, fingers interlaced, elbows on his knees, trying not to imagine how many pitying looks Alfred and Tim had exchanged behind his back today.

He’d broken up with you.

No — that wasn’t right. You’d walked away from him. He’d let you. Which was worse.

All because of one stupid, classified mission. One he wasn’t allowed to tell you about. One that forced him to lie, disappear, dodge questions, and pretend everything was fine until you realized it very obviously wasn’t.

“You don’t trust me.” Those were your last words before you left. No yelling, no tears — just your voice cracking on that devastating conclusion and the sound of the door closing.

He hadn’t slept since.

Dick ran a hand through his hair and exhaled shakily. He could face metahumans, demons, aliens… but the idea of you never walking back into his life made his chest feel like it was collapsing inward.

A soft knock startled him. Before he could answer, the door opened a sliver and Tim poked his head in.

“Hey. You might want to… freshen up or something.”

Dick narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

“No reason.” Tim said this in the tone of someone who absolutely had a reason. “Just… yeah. Freshen up.”

Before Dick could question it, Tim vanished down the hall.

Suspicious. Very suspicious.

He stood, stretching the stiffness out of his back, when a distant voice floated up the staircase.

Your voice.

His heart stopped. Feet rooted. Brain absolutely useless.

Alfred’s warm, unmistakable tone followed: “This way, my dear. I must ask for your assistance with a matter in Master Richard’s room.”

Dick nearly tripped over his own panic.

His door opened.

And you stepped in.

You froze.

He froze.

The silence between you pulled taut — a tight, painful string connecting two hearts that hadn’t properly separated even after you walked out.

Your breath caught. You hadn’t expected him. You clearly thought you were coming here for Alfred’s request alone.

You looked… tired. Sad. Beautiful. And carrying the weight of the past weeks in your shoulders.

Then the door shut behind you.

And clicked.

Locked.

Your eyes widened. “Did he just—?”

Dick tried the handle.

Alfred had, indeed, just locked the two of you in his room like misbehaving children.

He let his forehead rest on the door for one long, humiliated second.

“Oh my god,” he muttered. “They staged an intervention.”

From outside, Alfred’s polite voice drifted through.

“I shall return in one hour. Please, talk.”

Tim added, not bothering to hide the smugness, “We believe in you two!”

Damian chimed in, tone apathetic but absolutely listening, “End this insufferable tension, Grayson.”

Dick groaned. Loudly.