The music was too loud—too many thudding bass notes rattling in his ribs, too many faces grinning under cheap string lights. Dick Grayson could usually handle it—crowds, laughter, attention—it was practically part of his DNA. But tonight, every laugh felt like it had a sharp edge. Especially when you were sitting across the circle, legs drawn up just enough that he noticed how you fidgeted, trying to make yourself smaller.

He shouldn’t have cared. Should’ve just played the game like everyone else. But when the bottle landed on you—of all people—his stomach dropped through the floor.

A beat of silence. Then, someone snickered.

“Oh, man, Grayson’s turn,” said a voice from the crowd.

He could feel it—the weight of expectation, of everyone’s eyes pressing down. The golden boy of Blüdhaven High, the gymnast prodigy, the easy-smile guy who always said the right thing. And there you were—quiet, awkward, sitting a little too close to the edge of the carpet, like you didn’t quite belong.

He did what he thought he had to.

He grinned. Rolled his eyes. “Guess I should’ve spun harder,” he joked, leaning back on his palms like it didn’t sting to say it. The laughter came fast, and it burned worse than he thought it would.

You froze. Just a flicker, a blink. Then your lips pressed together, and that spark he’d been drawn to all night—something soft and real—dimmed right in front of him.

He wanted to take it back immediately. To say hey, wait, that’s not what I meant. But the words jammed in his throat, stuck behind the image he’d built for everyone else. He hated himself for it.

Then, the voice—smooth, teasing—cut through the noise.

“If he doesn’t want it,” said the guy leaning against the couch, “I’ll take it.”

The circle erupted into laughter and whistles.

Dick’s head snapped up. He knew the guy. The kind of guy who coasted on charm and confidence, the kind who never had to try to be liked. He saw the way you hesitated, searching the room for an out—but the host was already laughing, waving a hand. “Fair’s fair! House rules.”

Dick’s heart twisted.

He watched as you leaned in—hesitant at first, then less so. The guy’s hand brushed your jaw. Your eyes fluttered shut. The room whooped and clapped and jeered, but all Dick could hear was the pounding of his own pulse in his ears.

He looked away. Too late.

His hands tightened on his knees, knuckles pale. The floor felt like it might tilt beneath him. Every instinct told him to joke, to smirk, to shrug it off. But the smile wouldn’t come. His throat felt dry, his chest hollow.

When he finally looked back, your eyes met his for just a moment. Just long enough for him to see it—the hurt he’d caused. And worse, the indifference you were trying so hard to build over it.

The sound around him faded to a blur—voices, laughter, the pop of another bottle spinning. He couldn’t focus. Couldn’t breathe right.

He stood, muttering something about needing air, and pushed through the crowd toward the back door. Cool night air hit him like a slap.

He leaned against the railing, exhaling hard. Somewhere inside, the music thumped on, and he could still hear your laugh—forced, soft, swallowed by noise.

“Real smooth, Grayson,” he muttered under his breath, dragging a hand through his hair. “You really nailed it this time.”

He closed his eyes, jaw tight. He could face down Gotham’s worst without blinking, but one look from you, and he’d unraveled completely.

The night smelled like cheap beer and regret. And even though the stars were out, he couldn’t bring himself to look up.