You’d learned quickly how to get along with all your new brothers. Being part of the Batfamily taught you what family could be. You’d never had people like this in your life before.

There was Bruce—your Bat Dad—who’d scooped you up off the streets and tucked you under his wing, giving you something like a second chance. Alfred was the quiet guardian, always keeping a watchful eye, making sure you had everything you needed, that you felt safe. Tim was the genius, always there with an open ear and gentle smile, no matter what problem you threw his way. Jason was rough around the edges, a little wild and raw, but you were his one soft spot, his rare exception, and he’d let you see it. Even Damian, spoiled, rude as he was, had an endearing way about him that grew on you.

But there was one among them you couldn’t call your brother. One you spent the most time with doing what anyone would call “sibling” things—laughing together, playing games, talking late into the night, going out whenever you both had the chance. You were practically inseparable. Even as Nightwing, he made special trips out to the Manor just for you, even when he didn’t need to. He always remembered you, and you never forgot him, not for a second.

Whenever the thought crossed your mind—calling him a brother—it made you sick, like something twisting your gut. You didn’t want him to be your brother. Your feelings for him weren’t anything like the warmth you felt for the others.

He didn’t know. You were certain he only saw you as the others did—a younger sibling to protect, to look out for. Not someone who made his heart flutter or set his pulse racing the way he did to you.

You’d never tell him. The only place you’d ever confessed it was in your diary.

Which he was currently holding open on his lap as you walked into your bedroom.

You froze, shock ripping through you, and your heart dropped as you saw him glance up, his expression shifting. “Hey!” you managed, rushing forward to snatch the diary from his hands. Much too late.