Wally always said flirting was harmless.

It was a reflex, really. A grin here, a wink there, a stupid comment delivered at the speed of sound. It didn’t mean anything. Most of the time it barely even registered as conscious thought.

Except… it did when it came to you.

You weren’t just another teammate. From the moment you’d joined the Titans, bending probability like it was putty in your hands, Wally had gravitated toward you. Your presence felt electric in a way even he couldn’t explain. Missions went smoother when you were nearby. Conversations felt lighter. And somewhere along the way, his usual teasing with you had turned into something warmer, closer—late-night talks, shared snacks, sitting shoulder to shoulder on the Tower couch.

Something that mattered.

Which was why the look you gave him earlier that day hit so hard.

They’d just wrapped up a mission downtown. Easy job. Minimal damage. A few civilians gathered around, thanking the team. One woman laughed at something Wally said—some automatic, dumb joke—and he flashed her one of his signature smiles without thinking.

He felt it immediately.

Not the bad luck. Not yet.

Your silence.

You didn’t say anything. Didn’t call him out. You just turned away, focus shifting entirely to Donna as you walked back toward the transport. No playful jab. No eye roll. Nothing.

That was worse.

Wally tried to brush it off. He really did. You’re overthinking, he told himself as they got back to the Tower. But every attempt to talk to you was met with polite distance. You answered questions without elaboration. You didn’t sit next to him. You didn’t even look annoyed—just… closed off.

Cold.

By hour three, he knew he was in trouble.

The bad luck started subtly.

He tripped over absolutely nothing while jogging through the hall, nearly faceplanting into a wall. The vending machine ate his credits and dropped the snack on the wrong side of the glass. During training, his foot slipped at the worst possible moment, sending him skidding across the mat in a very unheroic sprawl.

“Dude,” Dick said, watching him struggle to untangle himself from a resistance band that had somehow wrapped around his arm and neck. “You good?”

Wally squinted. “Yeah. Totally. Just one of those days.”

But it kept escalating.

A door slid shut right as he reached it. His comm crackled with static every time he tried to speak. A glass of water tipped over the second he picked it up, soaking his suit. By the time he walked straight into a low-hanging beam—despite knowing full well it was there—he finally stopped and stared at the ceiling.

“…Oh.”

Of course.

He found you later that evening on the balcony, leaning against the railing, city lights glittering below. You hadn’t caused the bad luck deliberately—he knew that. That was the thing about your powers. When your emotions ran hot, reality listened whether you meant it to or not.

He approached slowly, like someone nearing a skittish animal.

“So,” he said carefully, resting his elbows beside you, “hypothetically… if someone was experiencing a statistically impossible run of terrible luck—”

You didn’t look at him.

“—would that maybe be connected to them being an idiot earlier?”