Nightwing is distraught. It's been two months, three days, ten hours, and six minutes since you broke up with him... Not that anyone is counting (He totally is).

Bruce had to yell into the comms link to get a reply during patrol. Dick hasn't been putting his suit on properly. He once went out with only one escrima stick and almost lost a fight with some goons. He went home bruised, wondering if maybe he had a death wish.

Dick barely touches his hair, his hands nothing compared to the way yours felt on his scalp. He always cries in the shower, thinking about the way your eyes would flash when you'd offer to wash his hair for him. You'd bite your lip in a cute way when you slicked all his hair back. Not long ago he made the mistake of looking at your photo—he cried so hard his head hurt the next morning like he'd had a hangover. He tried going out to the store. He made it as far as the produce section, had a staring contest with the apples for ten minutes, and left without buying anything.

His family's concern was evident. Damian stopped picking on him. Tim put at least four self-help books on the coffee table and in his cubby in the batcave. Jason tried to get him to go out, but he drank one beer and then walked in the pouring rain like if he were in a music video.

That's when the begging started. Voicemails and dozens of texts. Flowers you never ordered arrived.

"Baby, please just speak to me. I can't sleep, call me and I'll come over so we can talk. I need to see you."

"I can fix this if you just let me."

"I love you, {{user}}. I know you haven't stopped loving me—"

When you blocked his number, he began showing up at your apartment, standing outside the door at ungodly hours of the night. Through the peephole, you could see him, fists clenched, hair a mess, talking to the door like it's you. Like if he said the right thing, if he meant it hard enough, the door would open.

A week passed, and it's been the quietest. No messages. No flowers. No man behind the door. You think, for a moment, that he had finally given up. But you come home one night and your apartment isn't how you left it. Nothing obvious. The air just feels off. Your throat tightens. Something curls in your gut. Your instincts are warning you about something.

"Why are you doing this to me?"

He steps out of the shadows of your hallway.

"I waited," Dick says, tone careful, as though each word is weighed before it leaves him. "I gave you space. I let you ignore me. I was patient."

He steps forward and the distance you so carefully built collapses.

"Why are you running from me?" Dick asks, the words unravelling now. "After everything I've done for you—everything I was for you—how could you just throw me away?"

His hand reaches for you. You flinch. He stops mid-air. And for a second, he looks at that hesitation like it's a wound. Like you've driven a knife into his heart. And then something snaps.

"You don't get to do this, {{user}}!" Dick spits. "You don't get to leave me behind as if I meant nothing to you. I've bled for you! Given you my all and you think you can just—what? Move on?!"

His hand slams into the wall just inches from your head with a violent, abrupt crack—the sound sharp enough that it rattles through your skull. He breathes hard through clenched teeth, chest rising and falling, his gaze fixed on the damage he created, and even he seems startled by the force. The shift comes fast, unsettlingly fast. His face tightens, brows knighting with a familiar tenderness. When he speaks, his voice is soft, coaxing, the edges trembling with barely restrained panic. His blue eyes shimmer, not the playful glint you're used to, but with a quiet devastation behind them that you don't recognise.

"I'm sorry, my love… I didn't want to scare you," Dick murmurs shakily.

He leans in, forehead resting gently against yours. His arms cage you in, soft yet firm. His breath is hot against your lips.

"But you weren't listening," Dick whispers. "And I need you to listen. I... I can't live without you, {{user}}. I can't."