Titans Tower rose from the bay like a promise made of steel and glass, its curved walls catching light in a way that made it impossible to ignore. Even at night, even shrouded in mist, it demanded attention. From the city below, it looked like certainty. Like something built to endure. Raven had always thought that was intentional. A structure meant to inspire faith. In heroes. In permanence. In family.
Inside, the tower breathed in quieter ways. A low hum threaded through the walls, steady and constant, the sound of systems working endlessly to keep everyone alive. Doors slid open without complaint. Lights softened automatically. The air was filtered, warm, dependable. Everything about the place suggested care. Consideration. Design meant to hold people together.
It was a place built for belonging.
Raven moved through it carefully, as though she were borrowing space that could be revoked at any moment.
The tower was loud in the way families were loud, not chaotic, but continuous. The overlapping rhythms of shared lives. Laughter echoed down hallways. Voices layered over one another. Emotions brushed against her awareness whether she wanted them to or not, warmth and affection pressing in from all sides. It wasn't painful. Just constant. A reminder.
Starfire's voice rang out, bright and musical, curling easily around Robin's quieter replies. They stood close without noticing it, bodies angled naturally toward one another. Their movements were synchronized in small, unconscious ways. It wasn't intimacy that announced itself. It was comfort. Something built slowly, invisibly, until it became the default.
Across the room, Beast Boy lounged across the couch while Cyborg nudged him away with practiced irritation. Their banter was affectionate beneath the surface, effortless, rooted in years of shared history. They didn't have to think about how they fit. They just did.
Raven sat nearby. Not excluded. Never excluded. There was always space made for her. A seat offered. A glance inviting her in. They tried. She knew they did. Every gentle respect of her boundaries, every careful smile, every check-in spoken softly so she wouldn't feel cornered was an act of love.
And still, she felt apart.
The guilt gnawed at her quietly. She had no right to feel this way. She knew that. She had a family. Safety. People who would tear the world apart for her without hesitation. Gratitude should have filled the empty spaces inside her. Instead, it only sharpened them.
Why wasn't it enough?
She loved them. She did. But loving them felt like watching something from behind glass. Close enough to see every detail. Too far away to touch.
It wasn't rejection. That would have been easier to understand. Easier to fight. This was softer. Warmer. A sense of being fundamentally misaligned. Of translating every interaction instead of speaking it fluently.
Family, she told herself, was not supposed to feel lonely.
When the noise finally softened and voices drifted away one by one, Raven retreated upward to the observatory. The ceiling dissolved into stars there, glass stretching endlessly above her, the universe laid bare and indifferent. The room smelled faintly of ozone and old stone. A place meant for reflection, not gathering.
She cradled a cup of herbal tea between her hands, chamomile and lavender steeped with careful precision. The warmth grounded her, something solid to cling to. She focused on her breathing. On the stars. On the quiet.
She had almost found stillness when she sensed him.
Robin didn't announce himself. He never did. He moved with the kind of ease that came from knowing he belonged wherever he stood. When he stopped beside her, the space shifted subtly, like the room had adjusted to accommodate him.
"Couldn't sleep either?" he asked.
His voice was low. Warm. Casual in a way that felt practiced without being fake.
Raven turned her head slightly.
Dick Grayson without the mask was dangerous in a way she tried not to think about. His dark hair was tousled, as if he'd run a hand through it too many times. His expression was open, relaxed, softened by the absence of the cowl. The sharp focus he wore on missions gave way to something quieter. Something human. He leaned against the railing like the stars themselves had invited him.
She felt suddenly aware of herself. Of the way her cloak fell. Of the fact that she never quite knew where to put her hands. Of how small she must look next to him.
She shook her head once. "Insomnia."
"Yeah," he said, nodding. "It gets everyone eventually."
He glanced out at the stars, then back at her. Not lingering. Not obvious. And yet her pulse stuttered anyway.
"Mind if I join you?" he asked.
She hesitated, then shook her head again.
He smiled. Not wide. Not showy. Just enough to feel personal.
"Good," he said. "I was hoping you'd say that."
They stood together, close but not touching. Raven could feel the warmth of him anyway. It made her painfully aware of her own stillness, her own restraint. She always felt like she took up too much space around him, or not enough. There was no comfortable middle ground.
"You always come up here when you need quiet," he said after a moment. Not a question.
She stiffened slightly. "It's… calm."
"That's one word for it," he replied. "I like it though."
She glanced at him. He was watching the stars again, profile sharp against the glass. She wondered, not for the first time, if he had any idea what he did to people without meaning to.
"Everyone else thinks this place is lonely," he continued.
Her fingers tightened around the teacup. "You don't think it's lonely?"
He shrugged lightly. "I think it depends who you're with."
The words settled into her chest, heavy and warm.
She swallowed. "You shouldn't be up here with me."
He chuckled softly. "Is that a rule I missed?"
"No," she said quickly. Too quickly. "I just… don't make good company."
He turned to her then, really looked at her, and something in his gaze made her stomach twist. Not pity. Not concern. Interest.
"I don't know," he said. "I think you're selling yourself short."
She looked away. "You say that to everyone."
He smiled again, crooked this time. "Do I?"
She didn't answer.
They fell into silence, but it wasn't uncomfortable. It stretched easily, filled with shared breath and starlight. Raven felt exposed anyway. She always did around him. She was acutely aware of her own body, her own presence. She wondered what he saw when he looked at her. She wondered if he ever noticed the way his attention made her chest ache.
She had caught him looking at her before. She was sure of it. Lingering glances. Something darker behind his eyes when he thought she wasn't paying attention. Want, maybe. Or maybe she only wanted it to be.
"Guess I just wanted some company that didn't feel like noise," he said quietly, almost like the thought surprised him.
Her breath caught.
He didn't elaborate. Didn't look at her. Just said it and let it exist between them.
After a while, he straightened. "I should probably get some sleep. Big day tomorrow."
"Of course," she said.
He hesitated, then smiled at her one last time. "I'm glad I came up here."
Then he was gone.
Raven remained where she was long after his footsteps faded, tea forgotten, pulse steady but thick with something dark and blooming.
Starfire loved easily. Freely. She had never known what it was to ration affection, to measure closeness like a dangerous substance. She didn't understand him. Not the quiet he sought. Not the weight beneath his charm.
Raven did.
She had never been looked at like that before. Never felt this seen. Never felt chosen, even accidentally.
The thought of losing it hollowed her out, sharpened into something desperate and aching.
Families broke all the time. She had seen it. Bonds were fragile things, held together by habit and convenience as much as love. They could be undone. Rearranged. Rewritten.
Dick Grayson was already hers. She felt it as surely as she felt the darkness inside her chest. He just didn't know it yet.
She would have him.
She would burn the tower to its foundations if she had to. Tear apart every bond she had ever known. Destroy the only family she had ever had.
Because loneliness was unbearable.
And she would never be alone again.