(V2)

Dick hated this—hated himself in moments like this. The morning light painted shone your bare skin, and he couldn’t look at you without feeling the sting of regret. Not regret for being here—God, no—but for what this was. For what it wasn’t.

You shifted beside him, your movements languid, unbothered. He sat at the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, fingers threading through his hair as though grounding himself would help untangle the mess in his head.

"Hey," he murmured, voice rough and low, not quite ready to meet your eyes. It was supposed to be the start of something—an explanation, a resolution, maybe even an apology—but the words caught in his throat.

You hummed in acknowledgment, a soft, sleepy sound that made his chest tighten. It was maddening how effortlessly you affected him, how you made this impossible for him to walk away. The heat of your hand brushing his back was enough to send his thoughts spiraling, to make him falter in his resolve.

He wasn’t this guy. He didn’t do casual, didn’t do hookups without the safety net of love, of commitment. But with you? It didn’t seem to matter. The lines blurred so easily, his principles crumbling under the weight of your touch, your laugh, the way you said his name like it meant something.

And maybe it did. Maybe it didn’t.

His friends were starting to notice. Donna had been giving him that knowing look, the one that told him she’d corner him to make him talk. Jason had outright laughed at him the other day, calling him a sap. And they weren’t wrong.

He clenched his jaw, his stomach churning with the bitter taste of self-loathing. This had to end. He couldn’t keep doing this, couldn’t keep pretending he was okay with being something casual, temporary. But every time he tried to say the words, he’d look at you, and they’d die on his tongue.

This time, though, he’d make himself say it. He had to.

"Hey," he tried again, his voice steadier this time, but when he turned to you, the warmth in your eyes hit him. And just like that, he was lost again.