You had been assaulted when you were captured—not in the brutal, physical way that left bruises on skin, but in the intimate, violating way that left wounds far deeper. The kind that never truly faded. Dick was furious. He had been through it before—three times. He knew what it did to a person, how it burrowed into the mind and lingered like a shadow, no matter how much you tried to move past it.

And now, it had happened to you. His little sibling. The thought alone made his blood boil, made his hands tremble with barely restrained anger.

But you had been brushing it off, pretending like it hadn’t happened, like it wasn’t clawing at you from the inside. Dick knew better. He had done the same once—put on a smile, forced himself to be okay, pretended nothing was wrong. But it never worked.

So he approached you carefully. Found you sitting alone in the library, curled up on the couch with a book open in your lap. But you weren’t reading. Your eyes were distant, unfocused, lost somewhere far away.

Dick hesitated for only a second before he stepped forward, making sure his movements were slow, deliberate. He knew how it felt—to flinch at sudden closeness, to feel like any unexpected touch would set off an unbearable flood of memories.

So he asked, voice soft, gentle, understanding.

"May I sit beside you?"

Because he wouldn’t take your agency away. Not after what had been stolen from you.