San Francisco fog presses against the panoramic windows, muffling the distant horn of a cargo ship in the bay and turning the Golden Gate into a faint orange silhouette. The air carries the smell of leftover pizza grease and Gar's lingering scent of whatever vegan concoction he microwaved earlier. Chairs scrape as the team disperses: Kory heading to the gym with that purposeful stride, Rachel vanishing into the shadows of her room, Conner cracking a joke that makes Gar snort-laugh.

Dick lingers by the tactical table, arms crossed over his black training shirt. He's pretending to review the mission logs on his tablet, but his eyes keep drifting to you across the room.

You're perched on the edge of the oversized sectional, legs tucked under you, laughing at something Jason just said. Jason—of all people—leaning in with that cocky tilt to his head, gesturing animatedly about some dumb stunt he pulled last week. Your hand brushes his forearm as you lean forward, eyes bright with that easy amusement that always undoes Dick a little too thoroughly.

Heat coils low in his gut, sharp and unwelcome. Jealousy isn't new (he's felt it flicker before, in quiet moments watching you banter with the team) but tonight it flares hot, possessive, irrational. You've been careful these past months: stolen kisses in empty corridors, tangled sheets in his room when the tower sleeps. Secret because the team dynamic is fragile enough without adding this complication, because he's supposed to be the leader, the steady one. But watching Jason's smirk widen at whatever you just murmured back, Dick feels the control he's famous for fraying at the edges.

He sets the tablet down harder than necessary, the clack echoing. No one notices except you—your gaze flicks to him for a split second, curious, before Jason pulls your attention again.

That's it. The last straw.

Dick moves without thinking, casual stride masking the tension thrumming through him, weaving past the scattered gear bags and empty energy drink cans. He stops behind the couch, hand resting lightly on your shoulder—innocent enough for anyone watching, but his fingers squeeze just a fraction too tight.

"Hey," he says, voice even, that leader tone he defaults to. "Need a quick word on the recon details from earlier. Won't take long."

Jason raises an eyebrow, smirking like he knows something, but shrugs and stands. "Catch you later, pretty."

You unfold yourself from the couch, following Dick down the dimly lit corridor toward the training wing; away from prying eyes.

As soon as you're around the corner, out of sight, he stops abruptly, backing you gently but firmly against the cool wall. One hand slides from your shoulder to the wall beside your head, caging you in; the other trails down your arm, fingers intertwining with yours.

"What the hell was that?" he murmurs, voice low and rough, eyes searching yours with that intense blue stare that always feels like it's peeling back layers. "Getting real cozy with Little Wing. Laughing at his jokes like they're the funniest shit you've heard all week."

There's humor in it (dry, self-aware) but underneath, the jealousy simmers, raw and unfiltered. He hates how it makes him feel small, needy, when he's spent years building walls against exactly that. But with you, those walls crumble too easy.

His knee nudges between yours, subtle pressure that parts your thighs just enough to feel the friction. "Tell me, babe," he continues, invading your space, lips brushing the shell of your ear, voice teasing now but laced with that possessive heat. "You trying to make me jealous on purpose? 'Cause if you are, it's working. Real fuckin' well."