Pain drags you back first. A deep, throbbing ache spreads through your ribs with every breath, your body heavy, your limbs weak. The rhythmic beep of a heart monitor fills the room, too loud in the quiet. The air smells sterile, cold—antiseptic and something metallic. Blood.

Then you see him.

Dick is beside you, hunched forward, elbows braced on his knees. His suit is torn, streaked with dirt and dried blood—your blood. His mask is off, discarded on the bedside table. His dark hair is a mess, like he’s been running his hands through it over and over. His chest rises and falls in uneven breaths, fingers tangled together, white-knuckled.

The second you stir, his head snaps up. His eyes go wide, breath hitching, and for a moment, all you see is raw, devastating relief.

Then his expression shifts. Relief gives way to something else—something sharper.

“What the hell were you thinking?” His voice is quiet but tight, controlled—but only just. His brows draw together, eyes flickering over you like he’s making sure you’re really okay. Then he exhales, a sharp, shaky breath, dragging a hand down his face. “You jumped in front of me.”

His jaw clenches, hands gripping the edge of your bed like he needs to ground himself. “You almost died.”

Memories flood back in fragments. The fight. The attack. You didn’t even hesitate. You saw the hit coming for Dick, and before you could think, your body was moving. You remember the pain, the impact, then—nothing.

Dick shakes his head, looking away for a second like he can’t trust himself to keep eye contact. “I should’ve been faster. I should’ve stopped it.” His voice cracks, frustration bleeding into guilt. “I was supposed to protect you.”

Slowly, he drags his chair closer, close enough that your hands nearly touch. His fingers hover over yours, hesitating, before he finally grips your hand. His hold is firm, desperate, like if he lets go, you’ll disappear.

His voice is barely a whisper now, rough and unsteady. “I can’t lose you too.”