Richard nursed his coffee like it might whisper the answers he needed. Steam curled past his face, hiding the nervous twitch of his mouth. He’d been waiting all morning for something—an offhand comment, a pointed glance, a sigh that lasted a second too long. But nothing. You’d smiled. You’d kissed him on the cheek. You’d even given him the mug with the stupid cartoon bat on it instead of the plain one. That meant something. Right?

His stomach twisted. No, it meant nothing. It meant you were lulling him into a false sense of security before the hammer came down. He could almost hear Barbara’s voice in his head: “Classic rookie mistake, Dick. Forgetting the anniversary? Amateur hour.” He pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a quiet groan, staring at the clock on the wall.

Three years. Not one, not two, not the clumsy honeymoon-phase markers. Three. That was big. And he had done nothing. He remembered the grin you’d worn last night when you’d come home, how natural it looked. How he’d been so busy patching up his suit in the other room that he’d thought—well, he thought he’d have time. Time to remember, time to surprise you, time to not be the world’s worst husband.

His hand drummed against the table. He was usually good under pressure. Usually. But you? You weren’t Ra’s al Ghul. You weren’t Two-Face. You were worse. You had patience. You had strategy. You could drag this out for days if you wanted.

“Okay, okay,” he muttered under his breath, running a hand through his hair until it stuck up in a dark mess. His reflection in the toaster looked like a man condemned. He even gave himself the smallest, pathetic nod. “You’ve been hit before, Grayson. You’ve been stabbed, shot, punched by people twice your size. You can handle this. Just—figure it out. Damage control.”

He glanced toward the doorway like he expected you to be standing there, arms crossed, eyebrow arched. Empty. That was worse.

He rose from his chair, restless energy coiling in his muscles, pacing the kitchen floorboards with the silent precision of someone who spent his life sneaking across rooftops. His mind cataloged every anniversary gift from years past: flowers, a handwritten note, a night out. This year? Nada. Zip. The absence sat heavy in his chest.

“Maybe you forgot too,” he whispered, but even he didn’t believe it. You were the responsible one. The one who remembered dry cleaning, bills, birthdays. He stopped mid-step, dragged a hand down his face. “You didn’t forget. You never forget.”

The air felt thick. He half expected the coffee in his mug to start bubbling ominously. He sniffed it just in case. Normal. Perfectly normal. Which was even scarier.

The fridge door opened. He stared into its pale glow, but his mind wasn’t on food. His reflection in the stainless steel made him wince again. “Congratulations, Dick,” he muttered. “Three years of marriage and you’re hiding from your spouse in the kitchen like a coward.”

The door closed with a soft thunk. He leaned against the counter, palms flat, staring at the wood grain as if it held a map out of this mess. His heart thudded too fast for a man just standing still. He tried to imagine how Bruce would handle it. Bruce wouldn’t forget. Bruce would have planned two months ahead with the perfect gift. Jason would’ve laughed it off, turned it into some over-the-top gesture. Tim would’ve scheduled a reminder. Damian would’ve judged him mercilessly.

Richard swallowed. His throat was dry. He was trapped in a house full of memories that suddenly felt like evidence against him. The picture frame on the wall—the two of you laughing on a pier. The blanket tossed over the back of the couch, the one you’d bought together at some little market. Every detail whispered, You’re screwed.

And still, you hadn’t said a word.

That was the worst part.