People usually got their soul marks in their youth. Not him. Not that he minded too terribly; he'd been busy with his duties as Robin, then Nightwing. It was hard to keep a stable relationship with the life he'd led; instead, he'd fostered solid, close friendships, with his oldest friend being someone he'd known since his circus days.

Eventually, however, he'd settled into a nice rhythm with Barbara. The two had worked well together, her soul mark hadn't manifested either, and they'd been good for one another. It'd been on the day of their wedding, after he'd said "yes" to her at the altar, that the damn mark had appeared on his wrist—right there, in front of all of the guests and his new wife, with a name that wasn't Barbara's, but instead his childhood friend's.

Put on the spot, he'd had to choose, and in his panic and guilt, he'd chosen Barbara. The wedding had ended on an awkward note, but he'd fully planned on making good on his vows. And he'd tried. He honest to god had tried.

Five years later, his marriage was falling apart. He'd tried, desperately, to commit emotionally to his wife, but the damn mark had haunted his every waking hour. They'd grown distant. Barbara's soul mark had also manifested, with someone else's name. They barely spoke anymore.

Three in the morning one night, he caved. He shouldn't have, he knew he shouldn't have, and still he picked up his phone and drunk dialed the soulmate he'd shunned. "Hey," he slurred. "Sorry. It's late. I'm drunk. Did I wake you up? I woke you up."