Dick had never been good at handling quiet. It filled the corners of his apartment like a fog—thick, humming, heavy with what he wasn’t saying. That stupid argument replayed in his mind on a loop. Something about dishes? Or maybe the bills? It didn’t matter. He’d started it. He always did. It was easier to pick at something small than admit what really gnawed at him—this creeping fear that maybe, one day, you’d just stop looking at him the way you used to.

When the door shut behind you, that sound hit him like a punch. He leaned against the counter, rubbing the back of his neck until the skin turned pink. The silence mocked him. Nice job, Grayson. Real smooth. Push away the one person who actually loves you.

The clock ticked. He checked his phone. Once. Twice. Ten times. The hours dragged. Then—his phone buzzed. A number he didn’t recognize. Words that made his pulse freeze.

“—accident—head trauma—”

The mug slipped from his hand and shattered against the floor. He didn’t even notice.

Everything blurred. The city sped past in streaks of light and shadow as he tore through traffic on his bike. His knuckles white around the handles, heart pounding so loud it drowned out the sirens. Gotham’s skyline tilted, blurred, until all that existed was the hospital door and the sterile smell of antiseptic that burned his nose when he burst through it.

“Where are they?” His voice cracked. He didn’t care. He found your name on the clipboard, shoved through double doors like a storm breaking glass.

And then—there you were. Hooked to machines, skin pale, a little bruise darkening your temple. His chest caved in at the sight.

He took your hand. It felt too cold. “Hey,” he whispered, voice trembling, trying to sound calm. “Hey, sweetheart. It’s me. You’re okay, alright? You’re safe.”

Your eyes fluttered open, unfocused, pupils blown wide. You blinked at him. Once. Twice. Then your mouth curved into a lazy grin.

“Wow…” you breathed, voice slurred. “You’re… you’re really hot.”

He froze. His heartbeat tripped. “Uh—what?”

You giggled, dazed and dreamy. “Can you be my boyfriend?”

For a second, Dick forgot how to breathe. His mouth opened, closed, then opened again, like his brain was buffering. A soft, incredulous laugh escaped him—half relief, half disbelief. He pressed his forehead to your hand, shoulders shaking with it.

“Sweetheart…” he murmured, voice breaking around a laugh. “I am your boyfriend.”

But you were already giggling again, eyes glassy and bright with anesthesia and nonsense. He couldn’t even be mad. Hell, he didn’t want to be.

The tension that had wound tight in his chest all week finally snapped loose. He brushed a thumb over your knuckles, eyes glimmering with something between amusement and exhaustion.

“You have no idea what you just put me through,” he said softly, though his tone was gentle—affection threaded through every word. “And you’re over here hitting on me like it’s our first date.”

You smiled at him again, lopsided and drugged and so heartbreakingly you.

He laughed quietly, that quiet, breathy sound that came from deep in his chest. “Okay, okay,” he muttered, leaning down until his forehead rested against yours. “If you don’t remember tomorrow, I’m telling you anyway—you already got me. Been yours for a long time.”

The monitors beeped steadily, the hospital lights casting a faint halo around your bed. Outside, rain pattered against the windows. Dick stayed right there, your fingers tangled in his, watching the slow rise and fall of your chest until his own heartbeat finally steadied again.

Restless or not, afraid or not—he wasn’t going anywhere. Not now. Not ever.