The night in Blüdhaven was heavy with the scent of rain and the ache of things unsaid. Perched on the edge of a rooftop, you watched the alley below, pulse steady, eyes sharp. The target had vanished into the shadows two minutes ago, but you hadn’t moved. Something in your gut told you to wait.

Behind you: the faint scuff of boots, too controlled to be careless, too familiar to ignore. Your heart clenched before your mind caught up.

He stepped into the amber wash of the rooftop’s lone floodlight—sleek black and blue suit, mask in place, hair longer but still unkempt in that way that once made you smile. Nightwing. But more than that. Dick.

You hadn’t seen him in ten years. Not since that mission. Not since Starfire’s energy blast slammed you into a wall mid-battle, her eyes burning with jealousy at the way you leaned in close to Dick—too close, apparently—for a strategy whisper. She’d accused you of lingering, of wanting.

And maybe she wasn’t wrong. Once, you and Dick had been inseparable. Teen Titans together. Partners in combat and in everything else. Late-night sleepovers in each other’s rooms, quiet talks about nothing, the almosts you never dared to name. But when Koriand’r joined, everything shifted. He looked at her like he never looked at you. So you stepped back.

Then came the blast. And worse—the moment you looked up through smoke and pain to see him rush not to your side, but to hers. Cradling her, murmuring comfort, while you bled. When he turned to you, it was with scorn. “You provoked her.” His words. Sharp enough to leave a wound deeper than any starbolt.

You left the team the next day. No goodbyes. No explanations.

Now, a decade later, you stood across from him again. Ten years heavier. His face held something unreadable—regret maybe, or hope, or guilt wearing the mask of familiarity.

He spoke first, like he always did, and you said nothing, like you hadn’t in ten years. The silence between you stretched tight, fraying at the edges.

And still, neither of you moved.