Dick lands lightly on the balcony outside his apartment, escrima sticks still warm in his hands. The city hums below, neon reflecting off damp rooftops. His chest rises hard beneath the suit. Another close call. Another crisis barely contained.

He allows himself a small, tired smile as he keys the window open. “Made it home in one piece,” he mutters to the empty night.

The lights are off.

He frowns. The place smells faintly sweet—vanilla and something savory underneath. Not the usual takeout cartons he leaves by the sink. He steps inside, boots silent against hardwood.

His foot catches a stray ribbon.

He stills.

A banner sags from the far wall, letters crooked now, tape peeling at the edges. Balloons hover half-deflated near the ceiling. Confetti litters the floor like abandoned stars. On the table sits a cake, box closed again, condensation fogging the plastic. Plates stacked. Food wrapped tight. Cold.

Dick’s throat tightens.

“Oh,” he breathes.

Memory hits like a punch. The way you’d looked at him earlier that week. The warning. The promise he’d made so easily, so confidently. I’ll be there. I swear.

He drags a hand down his face, mask pushed up into his hair. “No. No, no, no…”

He checks his phone with shaking fingers. Missed calls. Messages. The time stamp stares back at him, hours too late. His stomach drops through the floor.

He steps further in, gaze sweeping the room as if the scene might reset if he looks at it long enough. Chairs pulled out. Music speaker still plugged in. A lighter left beside untouched candles.

“You waited,” he murmurs, voice rough.

His shoulders slump, the acrobat’s perfect posture collapsing in on itself. He sets the escrima sticks down carefully, like they might break if handled wrong. The suit suddenly feels suffocating. He peels off the gloves, tossing them aside, staring at his bare hands.

“These are supposed to save people,” he says quietly. “So why do they keep costing me the ones I—”

He cuts himself off, jaw flexing.

He moves to the table, lifting the cake lid. The frosting is perfect. His name written across it in careful script. He lets out a shaky laugh that dies almost immediately.

“I promised,” he whispers. “You told me not to mess this one up.”

He presses his palms against the table, head bowed between his shoulders. For a moment he just stands there, listening to the hum of the fridge and the faint pop of a balloon losing air.

“I thought I had time,” he says softly. “There was a call. Kids trapped in a tenement fire. I couldn’t just—” He swallows hard. “I thought I’d make it after.”

His gaze lifts toward the door, toward the silence where you should be.

“I don’t get to keep doing this,” he says, firmer now, though his eyes shine. “I don’t get to ask you to understand every time.”

He reaches for one of the candles, turning it between his fingers.

“You deserved me here. Not a voicemail. Not an apology at midnight.”

He exhales slowly, steadying himself, though the guilt lingers heavy in his chest.

“I’m so sorry,” he says into the quiet apartment. “I would’ve given anything to walk through that door on time tonight.”

His hand lingers over the untouched lighter, thumb brushing the metal.

“I’m going to fix this,” he promises, more to himself than anyone. “Not with excuses. With showing up.”

But even as he says it, his gaze drifts back to the cold cake, the sagging banner, the space where laughter should have been—and the weight of being too late settles deep in his bones.