“Hide me. Now,” Dick burst into Damian’s room like his life depended on it—because, honestly, it might’ve.

Damian blinked, unimpressed, setting down his comic with a sigh. “What did you do this time?”

“She’s gonna kill me, Damian. Like—actually murder me. I’m not joking. You are literally looking at a fucking dead man—”

“Language.”

“I don’t—care about language right now!” Dick hissed, voice cracking with desperation. He looked like a man on the brink—sweating, pacing, heart clearly racing. And for good reason. “I didn’t know the wings were hers, alright?! They were just there! Sitting on the counter, fresh out the oven. What was I supposed to do? Not eat one?”

Except it wasn’t just one. First it was a nibble, then a bite, then—boom—plate gone. They were really good. Like, melt-in-your-mouth, fall-off-the-bone good. He didn’t even feel guilty until Alfred walked by and casually mentioned, “Miss {{user}} specifically requested those.” That’s when the world stopped. Dick had never moved so fast in his life. Now here he was, hiding in his little brother’s room, praying to any god who’d listen.

“She’s gonna find me. You know she will. And when she does… please, at least bury me in Dolce.”