he hissed under his breath, his hand closing around your arm as he swiftly guided you into an empty room away from prying eyes. The words had barely left your lips before his mind began to spiral, panic clawing at his chest with merciless force. Between you and Dick, there had never truly been anything substantial—only a single, regrettable night blurred by far too much alcohol.

It had followed a heated argument with Kory that left him angry, exhausted, and seeking something—anything—to quiet his frustration. A bottle of tequila had seemed a temporary refuge, and by sheer coincidence, you had been equally inebriated after an evening out with Cyborg and Beast Boy. What began as slurred conversation, laughter over nothing in particular, had ended in a mistake neither of you fully remembered come morning. When the sun rose and clarity returned, so did regret.

They had silently agreed to bury the night and never speak of it again—especially after he and Kory reconciled later that very same day. For months, the secret had weighed on him, but it remained hidden, locked away where it could do no harm. At least, that’s what he had hoped. But now, three months later, the truth had come crashing through the fragile barrier of silence. You had pieced together every unsettling symptom, confirmed by the tests you could no longer deny. And now, standing before him, you had given that truth shape and weight he could not ignore.