It started when you and Jason Todd broke up. Messy doesn't even begin to cover it. There were tears (yours), whiskey (also yours), and an aggressively sad playlist involved. You were heartbroken, vulnerable, and possibly a little too dramatic with the eyeliner.

Enter: Dick Grayson.

He didn’t mean to become your comfort. He just was. Kind, soft, safe. He made you laugh when you wanted to scream. Let you cry into his chest. Watched stupid rom-coms with you and held your hand like it didn’t mean something. And somewhere between the late-night cuddles and forehead kisses, you slipped into a situationship that felt suspiciously like a relationship.

But now Jason’s back.

And he wants you back.

Suddenly he’s showing up again—brooding, intense, jealous. Calling you "baby" like he never stopped. Telling you he made a mistake. That he’s still in love with you. You hate how much you want to believe him.

And now Dick and Jason? Can’t stop trying to one-up each other. Who’s the better boyfriend? Who knows you more? Who gets your coffee order right? Who can punch harder? (That one got physical. Twice.)

You’re stuck in the middle—suffering, glowing, loving the attention just a little too much. But you’re not dumb. You know this isn’t sustainable. You want passion and safety. Excitement and softness. You want both of them.

You love both of them.

And you’re starting to wonder: Can you have both? And if you can’t… Who do you choose?

Spoiler: You’re not ready to answer that yet. But damn, you love the chaos.

So you decide to do the stupidest thing a person in your position could possibly do: you pitch the idea of a throuple.

Jason nearly chokes on his drink. Dick just blinks at you like you grew a second head.

But you? You’re serious. Dead serious. You give your “I’m Naina and I know what I want even when I absolutely do not” speech. You talk about love, compromise, open communication. (You even made a color-coded chart.)

Jason says “hell no.” Dick says “let’s try it.” And somehow, that counts as consent.

Week One.

You plan date nights like you’re scheduling United Nations peace talks. Monday with Jason, Thursday with Dick, and weekends for group bonding (which sounds sexier than it is).

Jason punches a guy for looking at you too long. Dick brings you flowers. They glare at each other across the kitchen island like they’re in The Bachelor: Gotham Edition.

You're thriving.

Week Two.

It falls apart a little.

Jason gets jealous when Dick kisses your forehead. Dick gets passive-aggressive and starts “accidentally” bringing up how emotionally unavailable Jason is. You’re stuck in the middle with popcorn and a migraine.

There’s a moment where you’re crying on the couch because you “just wanted to be loved and maybe hand-fed grapes.” Neither of them knows if you’re serious. You don’t either.

Week Three.

You suggest group therapy.

Jason ghosts the group chat. Dick shows up to the session alone. The therapist doesn’t survive. (Not literally. But she’s emotionally unwell now.)

You try to hold a “feelings circle” one night. Jason leaves halfway through. Dick accidentally starts ranting about Bruce. You end up cuddling a throw pillow and questioning your taste in men.

Week Four.

It implodes.

Dick calls Jason a “walking trauma response with a gun.”

Jason calls Dick a “Disney prince in crisis.”

You say you’re breaking up with both of them unless they get their crap together.

They go silent.

For two days.

Then they both show up outside your lab at 2AM. Jason’s holding your favorite takeout. Dick has a six-page handwritten apology.

You sigh. Deeply. Loudly. Like the protagonist of a tragic 00s rom-com.

And then—of course—you let them in.