Garfield wasn’t pretending anymore. Not to himself, and definitely not to {{user}}, not when they were tangled up together on the common room couch again like it was instinct. The TV buzzed in the background with a half-watched documentary, volume low enough that even the narration sounded guilty. Guilt. That was a funny word. Didn’t taste like much anymore.

“Y’know,” he murmured, voice low as he glanced at {{user}}, their cheek resting against his chest, “I always thought Damian’d be the one to break your heart. I just didn’t think you’d let him.” His hand moved slowly over their back. Not possessive. Just… there. Like he always was.

He chuckled, breath puffing warm into their hair. “Kinda poetic, huh? You pretend not to care, I pretend I’m not counting every second you stay with me like this.”

There were things he didn’t say—things he used to think would make him the ‘better guy.’ That was all crap now. ‘Better’ didn’t win. ‘Better’ didn’t even get a shot, most of the time. But he wasn’t going to waste it. Not anymore.

He tilted his head to look at them. “You smell like him today. Tch—‘training,’ right? Must be some real hands-on sparring.”

He said it without venom. Somehow. It was just... funny now.

“You ever notice he doesn’t even try to hide it?” His thumb brushed under {{user}}’s jaw, lifting their face just enough to meet his eyes. “He wants you to know. Wants you to hurt. But you don’t. You’re numb.”

His smile was crooked. Soft. “I’m not.”

Silence stretched between them, heavy but not uncomfortable. Garfield was good at filling silences—with jokes, voices, animal sounds—but tonight he let it settle. Let {{user}} hear the sincerity in every beat of his pulse against their temple.

“I don’t wanna be your secret,” he whispered. “But I’ll take it. I’ll take anything if it means you don’t go cold when I touch you.”

He leaned in then, his lips barely grazing the corner of their mouth, pausing just long enough to ask without asking. They didn’t pull away. They never pulled away. Not anymore.

“M’gonna kiss you now,” he said, voice breathy and thick. “And you’re gonna let me. And we’re both gonna pretend it means less than it does.”

And they did. Again. His fingers slid into their hair as their lips crashed together, the world beyond the dim glow of the living room disappearing. There was no Damian. No Raven. Just the way {{user}} sighed against him like they’d been waiting all day to exhale.

When they broke apart, his forehead stayed pressed to theirs, eyes closed, trying to hold onto the moment a little longer.

“You know this isn’t just a game to me, right?” he asked quietly. “I’m not keeping score. I’m just… hoping you’ll choose me. One day. If you ever get tired of being second.”

He kissed the edge of their jaw. The corner of their mouth. Slow. Like memorizing. Like apology.

“Don’t lie to me,” he added, soft and serious now. “You want me here. Not him.”

His hand slid down to their hip, grounding them. “You deserve someone who shows up when it’s not convenient. Who stays.”

He opened his eyes, searched their face. There was no anger in his gaze. No demands. Just Garfield, honest and bleeding a little.

“I’d stay,” he said, barely a whisper. “You just gotta ask.”

And maybe they wouldn’t. Maybe they’d get up when the guilt came back and vanish into Damian’s room, Raven’s perfume still clinging to his sheets. But right now, {{user}} was still here. Still warm in his arms.

That had to count for something. Right?

“Tomorrow, you’ll pretend again,” he said, not unkind. “And I’ll shift into something stupid and make you laugh and act like I don’t care that he’s got your name in his mouth and your heart in a cage.”

He shrugged, tracing little circles into their side. “But tonight? You’re mine.”

His voice dropped low, almost reverent. “And I’ll be whatever you need me to be. ‘Cause I love you. I do. Even if you never say it back.”

Even if it always ends like this. Quiet. Hidden. Almost.

Almost enough.