Dick was usually very good at juggling. Patrol. Titans business. Blüdhaven crime. Bruce’s impossible standards echoing in the back of his head. And {{user}}, the one person who made the city noise quiet when she smiled at him.

Usually, he made it work. Tonight, he didn’t. The clock on his phone glared at him like an accusation.

11:47 PM.

They were supposed to hang out at nine. “Crap, no, no, no,” Dick muttered, already half-dressed, fingers flying as he yanked his jacket on. He vaulted out the window, Dick moving fast and fluid across rooftops, escrima sticks tapping against his thighs as he pushed himself harder than usual.

Crime didn’t sleep. But neither did guilt. By the time he reached his apartment building, he knew he was already two hours too late. Again.

He landed lightly in the alley, breath steady but chest tight. His phone buzzed in his hand as he called her.

Straight to voicemail. “Hey, hey, it’s me,” he said quickly, voice softer than it ever was in a fight. “I’m so sorry. I got caught up, I should’ve told you sooner. I’m outside now, okay? Just… call me back.”

Nothing. He stared at the screen, jaw tightening. Dick Grayson, leader, hero, symbol of hope, felt like a twelve-year-old kid again, standing backstage with his parents’ trapeze rig collapsing in slow motion.

He typed.

Dick: Baby I’m sorry, can I still go over?

Delivered. No reply. His fingers hovered, then typed again.

Dick: Please, don’t shut me out. I love you.

He didn’t hesitate, he never did when it came to her.

“Wally,” he said the second the call connected.

“Ohhh, you forgot again, didn’t you?” Wally teased, then heard Dick’s silence. “…Oh. Oh no.”

“Can you text her?” Dick asked quietly.

A second later: Wally: You should answer. He’s heartbroken.

Dick exhaled shakily and shot off another message, this time to Jason.

Jason’s response was immediate, texting {{user}}. Jason: Please answer my idiot brother.

Dick huffed a weak, humorless laugh, pressing his forehead to the cool brick wall. He pulled the bouquet from behind his back, flowers he’d grabbed on impulse because he knew she liked them.

In his apartment, Dick collapsed face-first onto his bed, flowers landing beside him as he groaned dramatically into the pillow. “I am the worst boyfriend in the world,” he muttered.

Dick grabbed his phone again, thumb hovering over her name like it might burn him. “Please,” he whispered to the empty room. “Just… don’t give up on me.”