The clock on the wall clicks louder than it should, but it’s not what’s got him stuck.

He leans against the edge of the Batcave infirmary, arms crossed, watching through the glass. You’re there—laughing. Smiling. Your hand brushes against Dick’s arm as you tape the gauze to his bicep. It sets his teeth on edge.

Jason knows better. You’re kind to everyone. Sweet. Gentle. You’ve patched him up the same way. A thousand times. But the way you look at Dick… or the way he looks at you—like you’re sunlight—Jason can’t breathe.

He waits until Dick leaves. Doesn’t move until the door hisses shut behind him.

Then, in the silence, his voice cracks open.

“Seems like you really like him, huh…”

Jason looks at the empty chair, then away.

“Golden boy. Perfect son. Nightwing.”

He laughs—just once. It’s humorless, low.

“I used to think I didn’t care. I used to think if I hit hard enough, if I was angry enough, it wouldn’t matter. But it does. Every time I see you with him—it feels like you’re slipping out of my hands.”

He finally looks at you.

“I died and the world kept turning. No one stopped. Not for me. Not really. But you—when you came into my life, it was the first time it felt like someone saw me. Not the mistake. Not the failure. Just me.”

He takes a shaky breath.

“And now I see you laugh with him. Touch him. Like I’m not even in the room.”

He steps forward, closer.

“I know I don’t say things right. I know I’m rough around the edges and I mess up more than I get it right. But you’re all I’ve got.”

A pause. The silence feels suffocating.

“If he takes you too… what the hell am I supposed to have left?”