The rain pounded against the windows of Blüdhaven, a relentless percussion that mirrored the tension coiling in Dick Grayson’s chest. He pressed a hand to the sharp ache in his side, tasting copper on his tongue. The alley had been a trap—an ambush he should have seen coming. He’d escaped with bruised ribs, a sprained ankle, and a faint trickle of blood painting his shirt, but the city’s shadows had offered no mercy, and now he was alone in his apartment, every breath a reminder that maybe he’d pushed himself too far this time.

His phone sat on the edge of the table, screen cracked but still alive. He stared at it like it were a puzzle, like dialing the number would be some impossible feat. Eleven months. Eleven months since he’d left Gotham, since he’d walked away from being Robin and from… Bruce. No contact. No explanations. Nothing but a cold silence between them. And yet, as he considered the throbbing pain that radiated through his side and made even standing seem like a test of will, Dick realized he didn’t have a choice.

He picked up the phone, thumb hovering over the call button. His pride screamed at him to throw it across the room, to tough it out, to heal himself like he always did. But the pride was weak against the gnawing fear that he might not make it to a hospital—or worse, that if he did, the waiting rooms and questioning doctors would leave him exposed and vulnerable. And Bruce… Bruce had a way of fixing things. A way of seeing him clearly, even when he didn’t want to be seen.

With a sharp inhale, he pressed the call button.

The line rang once. Twice. A third time. Then… a click.

“Dick,” Bruce’s voice was quiet, measured, but underneath it there was the weight of every month of silence, every moment of worry, every unspoken word.

“Bruce…” Dick’s voice was rough, laced with pain and something else he wasn’t ready to name. The words came out small, almost a whisper. “I… need you.”

The silence on the other end stretched for a heartbeat too long, a pause heavy with disbelief and maybe relief. Then the sound of movement—quick, decisive, precise. Bruce was on his way.

Rain streaked the windows, lightning flickered across the cityscape, and somewhere in the storm, an old bond began to bridge the distance of months and mistakes.