The night in Blüdhaven was heavy with rain and everything left unsaid.

Perched on the edge of a rooftop, {{user}} watched the alley below, pulse steady, eyes sharp. The target had vanished into the shadows two minutes ago, but you hadn’t moved. Something told you to wait.

Behind you came the faint scuff of boots.

Too quiet to be sloppy.

Too familiar to ignore.

Your chest tightened before your mind could catch up.

He stepped into the amber glow of the rooftop’s lone floodlight, dressed in sleek black and blue. His mask was in place. His hair was longer now, still messy in that careless way that once made you smile.

Nightwing.

But under the mask, still Dick Grayson.

You hadn’t seen him in ten years.

Not since that mission.

Not since Starfire’s energy blast threw you into a wall mid-fight, her eyes bright with jealousy after she saw you lean close to Dick for a whispered strategy. Too close, apparently. She’d accused you of lingering. Of wanting something that wasn’t yours.

And maybe she hadn’t been wrong.

Once, you and Dick had been inseparable. Teen Titans together. Partners in combat, in chaos, in all the quiet spaces between. Late-night sleepovers in each other’s rooms. Soft talks about nothing. Almosts neither of you ever dared to name.

Then Koriand’r came along, and everything shifted.

He looked at her like he’d never looked at you.

So you stepped back.

Then came the blast.

And worse than the pain, worse than the smoke, worse than the blood, was the moment you looked up and saw him run to her.

Not you.

Her.

He cradled Kori, murmuring comfort like she was the one who’d been hurt, while you struggled to breathe through the ache in your ribs. When he finally turned to you, there was no fear in his eyes. No worry.

Only scorn.

“You provoked her.”

His words.

Sharp enough to cut deeper than any starbolt.

You left the team the next day.

No goodbyes.

No explanations.

Now, ten years later, you stood across from him again, the distance between you feeling heavier than the whole city. His face held something you couldn’t name. Regret, maybe. Hope, maybe. Guilt wearing the shape of an old friend.