Dick Grayson doesn’t remember what the argument was about anymore—only the heat of it. The way it burned sharp and fast, crackling between them like a live wire. He’s pacing instead of sitting, hands dragging through his hair, jaw tight enough to ache. The apartment feels too small for the anger, like the walls are pressing in just to watch it happen.

“Yeah, no, that’s real mature—just shut down on me when it gets hard,” he snaps, voice edged, too loud for the space. His hands cut through the air, restless, frustrated. “You think I don’t see that? You think I don’t notice when you just—pull away like I’m not even worth the fight?”

The phone rings.

He stops.

It’s jarring, the sound slicing straight through the tension. His eyes flick to it, then to you, brows knitting together. For a second, he expects you to ignore it. To stay here, in this moment, with him.

You don’t.

Dick lets out a short, humorless laugh under his breath as you answer, turning slightly away. “Oh, that’s perfect. Yeah, go ahead—take it. Guess this isn’t important, right?”

He turns his back, shoulders tight, running a hand over his face. He’s still talking, still wound up, pacing a tight line across the living room.

“Unbelievable… I mean, seriously, what does it take to just—”

He cuts himself off.

Something’s wrong.

It’s subtle at first. He doesn’t even realize why he’s gone quiet, only that something in the air shifted. The fight—it’s gone. Just… gone. Like someone flipped a switch.

Dick glances over his shoulder.

And then he really looks.

The color drains from his own face a second later, mirroring yours without him even realizing it. His posture straightens, tension morphing into something sharper, colder. Concern creeps in fast, swallowing the last of his anger whole.

He takes a step closer, slower this time. Careful. Like approaching something fragile.

“…Hey,” he says, softer now, voice losing its bite entirely. “What—”

He stops himself. You’re still on the phone. Still listening.

Dick watches your expression crumble in real time.

His chest tightens.

He doesn’t pace anymore. Doesn’t speak. Just stands there, hands hovering uselessly at his sides, like he doesn’t know where to put them, what to do, how to fix something he can already tell he can’t.

The silence stretches after you hang up.

It feels heavier than anything they were throwing at each other before.

Dick swallows hard, stepping closer, slower still. His voice, when it comes, is barely above a breath.

“…What happened?”

The words land.

And for a second, he doesn’t react at all.

It’s like his brain just… stalls.

Then it hits.

Hard.

Dick’s breath catches, sharp and uneven, like he’s been punched straight through the ribs. His eyes flick over your face, searching, disbelieving—like maybe he heard it wrong, like maybe there’s still time for this to not be real.

“…No,” he mutters under his breath, almost instinctively. “No, that’s—”

His hand lifts, hesitates, then finally settles against your arm, grounding himself as much as you. His grip is gentle, but firm—like he’s anchoring both of you to something solid before everything else slips.

All the fight is gone. Every last bit of it.

“I’m—hey… hey,” he tries again, voice rougher now, softer in a way that feels unfamiliar even to him. His thumb shifts slightly against your sleeve, a small, steady motion. “I’ve got you, okay? I’ve got you.”

He exhales shakily, forehead dipping just a fraction as he steadies himself.

“C’mere.”

It’s not a demand. Not even close.

His arms come around you carefully, like he’s afraid you might break if he moves too fast. The hold tightens a second later anyway, instinct winning out, pulling you in against his chest.

“I’m right here,” he murmurs, quieter now, steadier, even if his chest still feels too tight. “You’re not doing this alone. Not for a second.”