Raven slept poorly after that night.
Not because of nightmares. Not because of visions or echoes or the usual things that haunted the edges of her consciousness. This time, it was quieter than that. More insidious. She lay awake in the dark, staring at the ceiling of her room, replaying fragments over and over again like they might change if she examined them closely enough.
The sound of his voice.
The way he'd leaned against the railing.
The warmth that had lingered after he left.
She told herself it was nothing. She told herself she was being ridiculous. Dick Grayson was kind to everyone. That was who he was. He listened. He made people feel comfortable. He had always done that. It was one of the reasons the team followed him so easily.
And yet.
She turned onto her side, pulling the blanket closer around herself, as if that might quiet the ache curling low in her chest.
She had seen the way he looked at her before. She was sure of it.
Not often. Not openly. Just small moments, easily dismissed if someone wanted to. A glance held a second too long. His eyes flicking to her mouth when she spoke. The way his attention sharpened when she entered a room, like something in him had shifted without permission.
It could have been coincidence.
Raven knew that. She wasn't stupid.
But coincidence didn't explain the way her pulse quickened when he was near. Or the way she became acutely aware of her own body in his presence, of the slope of her shoulders, the fall of her cloak, the fact that she never quite knew what expression to wear around him.
Around the others, she could be neutral. Controlled. Untouchable.
Around Dick Grayson, she felt seen in a way that made her want to hide.
The next morning, the tower felt too bright.
Sunlight poured through the windows, glinting off polished floors and metal surfaces, bouncing relentlessly from wall to wall. The air hummed with movement. Cyborg was already in the kitchen, clanking around with exaggerated enthusiasm. Beast Boy argued with the toaster. Starfire floated happily above it all, radiating warmth like a second sun.
Raven moved through it quietly, every sound scraping against her nerves.
She took a seat at the far end of the table, hands folded in her lap, eyes lowered. She felt the familiar tug of guilt as soon as the thought crossed her mind.
They were good to her. They always had been.
Starfire greeted her with a bright smile. "Good morning, Raven! I hope you slept well!"
Raven nodded. "Fine."
Cyborg glanced over. "You look tired."
"I'm fine," she repeated, more firmly.
She felt it immediately. The subtle shift. The way they backed off without comment, instinctively adjusting to her boundaries. They always did. They were careful with her. Thoughtful.
It should have made her feel safe.
Instead, it made the hollow feeling inside her deepen.
Dick wasn't there yet.
She told herself she didn't notice at first. Told herself she didn't feel the absence like a missing note in a familiar song. But when he finally entered the room, late as usual, something in her chest tightened reflexively.
"Morning," he said easily, rolling his shoulders like he'd just come from training.
He looked… unfair.
There was no other word for it. His hair was damp, dark curls clinging to his forehead, skin still faintly flushed from exertion. He wore a simple t-shirt, sleeves pushed up, muscles defined without effort. There was an ease to him, a physical confidence that made him seem grounded in his own body in a way Raven had never been.
She looked away too quickly, annoyed with herself for even noticing.
"Morning!" Starfire chirped, drifting toward him immediately. She pressed a quick kiss to his cheek, radiant and unselfconscious.
Raven felt something twist.
It was sharp, sudden, and immediately followed by shame.
Of course Starfire was close to him. Of course she touched him like that, like it was the most natural thing in the world. She had always been warm with affection, always open, always unafraid of connection.
Raven told herself she had no right to feel anything about it.
Dick laughed softly, returning the affection without hesitation, and Raven forced herself to focus on her tea.
Still, she felt it.
The jealousy didn't burn. It settled. Heavy and slow.
Dick's gaze flicked briefly toward her as he sat down. Not obvious. Just a glance. But it lingered long enough that she felt it like a brush against her skin.
Her breath caught.
"Hey," he said casually. "You good?"
She nodded. "Yes."
He studied her for a second longer, brow creasing slightly, like he wanted to say more. Then Cyborg interrupted him with something loud and mechanical, and the moment passed.
But it stayed with her.
Later, during training, Raven found herself hyperaware of him.
The way he moved was fluid, precise, every motion controlled and confident. He gave instructions easily, voice steady, encouraging without being condescending. When he corrected Beast Boy, it was with humor. When he sparred with Starfire, it was playful. When he addressed Raven, it was different.
Quieter.
More careful.
"Take your time," he said when she hesitated during a drill. "You don't have to rush."
She bristled, then hated herself for it.
"I know," she replied flatly.
He didn't look offended. Just smiled slightly. "Yeah. I figured."
The smile lingered longer than necessary.
She felt exposed under it. Like he could see how tightly she was holding herself together. Like he could sense the way she wanted to step closer to something, to someone, without knowing how.
After training, she retreated early, claiming meditation. No one questioned it.
In the quiet of her room, she sat cross-legged on the floor and tried to empty her mind.
It didn't work.
Every attempt at stillness was interrupted by fragments of him. His voice. His smile. The way he'd said you don't have to rush like it was permission, not instruction.
She wanted to be close to someone. Truly close. Not carefully. Not conditionally. She wanted to be wanted without fear.
She hadn't realized how badly until now.
The thought frightened her.
That evening, she found herself drifting back toward the observatory without fully deciding to. The stars were out again, sharp and distant. She leaned against the railing, arms folded, pretending she was alone.
She wasn't surprised when she sensed him behind her.
"Starting to think this is your place," Dick said lightly.
She turned, startled despite herself. "It's quiet."
"So I've noticed," he replied. "Mind if I steal some of it?"
She hesitated. Then shook her head.
He joined her easily, close enough that she could smell soap and something faintly metallic, like the gym. Her heart kicked up painfully.
"You always come up here when things get loud," he said. "I think that's smart."
She shrugged. "Noise makes it hard to think."
He nodded. "Yeah. Same."
That surprised her. She looked at him, really looked at him, and saw something tired beneath the charm. Something heavy.
"You don't seem like someone who struggles with that," she said.
He huffed a quiet laugh. "Guess I'm better at hiding it."
The admission settled between them, fragile and intimate.
She swallowed. "You don't have to hide around me."
The words slipped out before she could stop them.
He glanced at her, something unreadable flickering across his face. Not discomfort. Not rejection.
Interest.
"Good to know," he said softly.
They stood there together, the silence stretching, not awkward, not empty. Charged.
She felt it again. That certainty. That pull. The belief that this was something. That this wasn't just kindness.
That he felt it too.
And for the first time, Raven allowed herself to think it fully, without flinching.
He could be mine.
Raven began to notice patterns.
Not all at once. Not in a way she could have articulated if someone had asked. Just small consistencies that accumulated quietly, like dust settling on a surface no one thought to wipe away.
Dick started checking in with her more often.
Not dramatically. Not in ways that would have drawn attention. Just brief moments threaded into the day. A pause beside her during meals. A question asked a little more softly than necessary. A glance across the room that lingered long enough to register before he looked away.
"Did you get a chance to meditate today?" he asked once, passing her in the hall.
She nodded. "Some."
"Good," he said, smiling. "You always seem steadier after."
The comment stayed with her longer than it should have.
She told herself it was nothing. That this was leadership, not intimacy. Dick looked out for everyone. He made it his responsibility to know how his team was doing, emotionally as well as physically. That was why they trusted him.
And yet, she didn't see him asking Beast Boy about meditation. Or Cyborg about emotional steadiness.
She began to look for him without meaning to.
In common rooms, her awareness would sharpen instinctively, tracking movement, presence, sound. When he wasn't there, something felt subtly off, like a chair left empty at a table she hadn't realized she'd claimed.
When he was there, she felt… alert.
Self-conscious.
She became acutely aware of her posture around him, of the way her cloak draped over her shoulders, of how little she spoke and how much that seemed to intrigue him rather than push him away. She wondered what he saw when he looked at her. Whether he noticed the restraint it took to exist so carefully. Whether that restraint read as mystery. Or distance. Or something he wanted to close.
Once, during a briefing, she caught him watching her while she spoke. Not the polite attention he gave everyone. This was focused. Intent.
When she finished, his gaze flicked away quickly, like he hadn't meant to be caught.
Her heart stuttered.
She told herself not to read into it.
She failed.
Their conversations remained harmless. Safe. On the surface.
"How's the tea rotation going?" he asked one evening as she prepared her usual blend.
She paused. "It's… fine."
"That sounded convincing," he teased gently.
She glanced at him. He was leaning against the counter, arms crossed, expression open and amused. Comfortable in her space. The realization sent a shiver through her.
"You don't have to pretend with me," he added. "I won't be offended."
"I'm not pretending," she said flatly.
He smiled anyway. "Sure."
The way he said it wasn't dismissive. It felt… fond.
She didn't know what to do with that.
Sometimes he talked. Not about missions. Not about strategy. Just small things. Things that felt oddly personal for someone like him.
He mentioned growing up in the circus once, voice light but eyes distant. Talked about how strange it was to miss something chaotic and dangerous simply because it had been familiar.
"I think people underestimate how comforting routine pain can be," he said quietly.
Raven looked at him then, really looked at him, and felt something click into place.
"I don't," she said.
He met her gaze, something unreadable passing between them.
"I figured you wouldn't."
Moments like that piled up.
Not declarations. Not confessions. Just shared understanding. Recognition. A sense of being on the same frequency while the rest of the world hummed elsewhere.
She still spent time with the others. Still trained. Still showed up. But slowly, subtly, Dick became the emotional axis around which her days rotated.
If she felt unsteady, she wondered what he would say.
If something upset her, she imagined telling him about it.
If she caught herself smiling, it was often because she remembered something he'd said.
That frightened her.
She had spent her life controlling her emotions, keeping them locked behind walls reinforced by discipline and fear. Want was dangerous. Attachment was dangerous. She knew this better than anyone.
And yet, she felt herself starving.
Starfire noticed before anyone else did.
Not Raven's fixation, exactly. Just the shift. The way Raven lingered in shared spaces longer than usual. The way her attention drifted more often toward Dick when he spoke.
Starfire's smile never dimmed. Her warmth never faltered. If anything, she made more of an effort to include Raven, inviting her to sit closer, asking her opinions more often, touching her arm lightly in passing.
It only made the guilt worse.
Raven hated herself for it.
Starfire deserved happiness. Deserved love that was loud and open and uncomplicated. Raven knew that. Believed it.
And yet.
She watched the way Dick smiled at Starfire. The way he kissed her temple absentmindedly. The way his affection was easy, unguarded.
And she couldn't stop thinking that he never looked at Raven like that because he couldn't.
Not because he didn't want to.
She started noticing the differences. How his voice softened when he spoke to Raven. How he gave her space instead of touch. How he listened in a way that felt… intentional.
He treated Starfire like a partner.
He treated Raven like a secret.
One night, she found herself in the observatory again. She hadn't planned to be. Her feet had simply carried her there.
He followed not long after.
"Am I interrupting?" he asked lightly.
She shook her head. "No."
"Good," he said. "I was hoping you'd be up here."
Her pulse spiked.
They fell into their now-familiar rhythm. Standing side by side. Talking about nothing. Talking about everything.
"You ever feel like you don't quite fit the shape people expect you to?" he asked suddenly.
She stiffened. "Yes."
He glanced at her. "Yeah. Thought so."
"You fit everywhere," she said. It came out sharper than she intended.
He laughed softly. "That's a generous interpretation."
"It's accurate."
He tilted his head, studying her. "You see things differently."
"I see things clearly," she corrected.
His smile this time was slow. Considered. "That might be the same thing."
Silence settled again, heavy and charged.
"Guess I just wanted some company that didn't feel like noise," he said quietly.
She felt it land like a confession.
He didn't look at her when he said it. Which somehow made it worse.
She wanted to reach out. To close the distance. To prove something she couldn't name.
Instead, she stayed perfectly still.
After he left, Raven remained alone beneath the stars, heart pounding, mind racing.
She told herself she was being careful.
She wasn't doing anything wrong.
She wasn't isolating him. She wasn't pulling him away from anyone. She was simply… there. Available. Quiet. Understanding.
If he chose her company more often, that was his decision.
If he found comfort in her presence, that wasn't manipulation.
That was connection.
And if, slowly, imperceptibly, she began to feel like she was becoming necessary to him…
Well.
That was just what it meant to belong.
If Raven had been asked when it happened, she wouldn't have been able to answer.
There was no single moment where Dick Grayson became central. No sharp turn. No conscious decision. It was quieter than that. The kind of change that crept in through repetition, through familiarity, through the simple fact of being noticed consistently enough that it began to feel necessary.
He didn't seek her out exclusively.
That mattered to her. It became something she repeated internally, like a ward against guilt. He still laughed with Beast Boy, still trained with Cyborg, still shared easy affection with Starfire. He was still the same Dick. Still warm. Still present.
And yet.
He began to look for Raven in rooms.
She noticed it first during briefings. The way his gaze would flick toward her before he started speaking, like he was grounding himself. The way his posture subtly adjusted when she shifted, shoulders angling just slightly in her direction. It was nothing anyone else would have noticed. Raven only did because she was already watching him.
When missions ended badly, when plans failed or someone got hurt, he checked on everyone. But with Raven, there was something different. Less procedural. More careful.
"You holding up?" he asked once, voice low, eyes searching her face.
"Yes," she said automatically.
He didn't accept it right away. Studied her for a second longer. "Okay," he said finally. "If you need anything, I'm around."
The words echoed long after he walked away.
She began to anticipate him.
Not consciously. Not at first. Just small things. Pausing in hallways where she knew he might pass. Lingering in common spaces longer than necessary. Adjusting her schedule so their paths crossed naturally.
It wasn't manipulation, she told herself. It was coincidence. Comfort. Habit.
Everyone gravitated toward people they felt understood by.
That was normal.
Still, she felt the guilt gnawing at her, persistent and dull. She saw the way Starfire watched Dick sometimes, the open affection, the trust. Starfire never guarded herself. Never held anything back. She loved with her whole being.
Raven hated herself for noticing the moments when that love didn't quite land the way Starfire intended.
Dick listened, always. Smiled. Returned the affection. But sometimes his eyes drifted elsewhere. Sometimes he seemed tired in a way Starfire didn't see, or didn't want to.
Raven saw it.
She was good at seeing what others missed.
That didn't make her cruel.
It made her honest.
One evening, she found herself alone in the training room, hands folded tightly in her sleeves, watching dust motes drift through the artificial light. She wasn't meditating. She wasn't training. She was waiting.
She hated that realization.
"You know," Dick said from behind her, "if you wanted the room to yourself, you could've just said so."
She turned, startled. He stood in the doorway, relaxed, arms crossed loosely, expression amused.
"I wasn't waiting," she said.
He smiled, like he didn't quite believe her, but didn't challenge it. "Fair enough."
He stepped inside, closing the door behind him. The sound echoed too loudly in the open space.
"You skipped dinner," he said.
"I wasn't hungry."
"That's what you said yesterday."
Her jaw tightened. "You keep track?"
He shrugged lightly. "Comes with the job."
She watched him carefully. The way he leaned against the wall, casual but attentive. The way his eyes never quite left her face. She felt that familiar self-consciousness creep in, the sense that she was being examined without being judged.
"You don't have to worry about me," she said.
"I know," he replied. "Doesn't mean I won't."
The words settled between them, heavier than they should have been.
"Starfire worries too much," she added suddenly. She didn't know why she said it. The sentence slipped out uninvited.
Dick blinked, surprised. Then smiled gently. "That's kind of her thing."
"She doesn't understand quiet," Raven said.
He considered that. "Maybe not. But she understands people."
"Not all of them."
His gaze sharpened slightly. "You think I don't?"
Raven hesitated. "I think you try."
The corner of his mouth lifted. "I'll take that."
Silence stretched again, familiar now. Comfortable. Dangerous.
"You ever feel like you're performing a version of yourself for everyone else?" he asked quietly.
"Yes," Raven said immediately.
He laughed softly. "Figures."
"For them, or for you?" she asked.
He paused. Looked away. "Depends on the day."
She stepped closer without meaning to. Just a fraction. Enough to feel the warmth of him, enough to make the space between them feel intentional.
"You don't have to perform around me," she said.
He looked at her then, really looked at her. Something flickered behind his eyes. Surprise. Gratitude. Something else she couldn't name.
"Good," he said softly. "Because I don't think I have the energy tonight."
The admission felt intimate. Personal.
She stored it carefully.
When he left later, Raven remained in the training room, heart pounding, thoughts spiraling.
She told herself she was being rational.
Dick wasn't pulling away from anyone. He wasn't choosing her over Starfire. He wasn't neglecting his team. He was simply finding moments of quiet where he could.
And if those moments happened to be with her more often than not…
That wasn't her fault.
That was compatibility.
She began to reframe everything that way.
The guilt softened, reshaped into justification. Starfire was loved. The team was strong. Nothing was being taken away.
She was only adding something.
Balance.
Understanding.
Support.
And if Dick leaned into that support more and more, if he began to seek her out instinctively, if he started to feel steadier when she was nearby…
Then perhaps that meant something.
Perhaps it always had.
Late that night, alone in her room, Raven stared at the ceiling and allowed the thought to fully form for the first time.
I am not taking him from anyone.
I am simply becoming what he needs.
The idea settled into her chest, warm and certain.
And certainty, she knew, was dangerous.
But it felt too good to let go.