In the dim light of the kitchen, he leaned against the counter, staring at the empty space in front of him. A one-night stand, he had to remind himself; that’s what it had been at the end of the day, even if it had been several nights rather than one. So he couldn't have cared for her; he hadn't even liked her.

What? He'd only let her into his bed as much as she'd let him into hers. He was never trying to lead anyone on, and he was sure she wasn't either.

God—there'd been arrangements. She'd told him she wasn't good at talking about stuff. She barely even liked him. It had been awful—so awful, right?

A knock sounded on the door—a sliver of hope. No, it wasn't that bad.

Oh, that wasn’t her. Instead, Dick found {{user}} standing on the other side of his loft door. They mentioned something about him practically being MIA—luckily, in a non-literal sense—and that they had been worried about him. He let them in, and now they were just sitting on his couch, despite the late hour. The TV was on, playing the show Dick had been watching before.

Moments passed, and they said something along the lines of, “Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?”

“What makes you think there’s something up?”

He turned his head toward the TV, shifting his gaze to it to feign nonchalance—it wasn’t subtle. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, a reminder of the effect {{user}} had on him. That, admittedly, earned him a bit of a frown, and soon enough, he caved. They spent the rest of the night like that, on the couch together, Dick complaining about his relationship while they listened.

As Dick recounted the tangled mess of his situation with that girl, he could see the concern etched on {{user}}'s face. “It just felt so easy at first,” he sighed, running a hand through his hair. “But then it turned complicated, and I didn’t even realise how much I’d gotten attached until she just… vanished.” He’d said at one point, the two of them eating some leftovers he’d fished out earlier.