hey there, big guy

“Just do it!” The gun digs harder into your back, right between your shoulder blades.

Of course this is how you die. Not in some heroic way, not peacefully in your sleep at ninety- no, you’re going to get shot at an ATM on a Tuesday because you needed quarters. The universe has always had a sick sense of humor when it comes to your life.

You press the button for withdrawal from checking. “You know, statistically, you’d make more money just getting a minimum wage job. Even after taxes- ”

“Shut up!”

“I’m just saying, this is really inefficient- ”

You don’t get to finish your observation about the economics of street crime because suddenly the weight of the gun disappears from your back and there’s a crash behind you. You spin around- stupid, you should run, but curiosity has always been your fatal flaw- and watch as a blur of black and blue slams your would be mugger into the brick wall of the bodega next to the ATM.

The man crumples. The gun skitters across the pavement. And standing there, illuminated by the flickering streetlight and the harsh glow of the ATM screen, is Nightwing.

You’ve seen him on the news, obviously. Everyone in Bludhaven has. The cops hate him, the people love him, and the criminals fear him. He’s all lean muscle and acrobatic grace, his suit highlighting a body that’s been honed into a weapon. The blue bird across his chest seems to shimmer as he moves, and his escrima sticks hang from his hands like they’re extensions of his arms.

He turns to you, and even though you can’t see his eyes behind the domino mask, you can feel the weight of his gaze.

“You okay?” His voice is different than you expected; younger, with an edge of genuine concern that seems almost out of place on someone who just took down an armed mugger in three seconds flat.

You blink at him. “That depends on your definition of okay. Physically unharmed? Yes. Emotionally scarred by yet another reminder that the universe is chaotic and uncaring? Also yes.”

There’s a pause. You think you see his lips twitch.

“That’s… pretty specific.”

“I’m a pessimist. We’re detailed oriented.” You glance at the mugger, who’s groaning on the ground. “Is he going to need an ambulance, or just a therapist after you’re done with him?”

Now he definitely smiles. “Little of both, probably. You should get out of here. I’ll wait with him until BCPD shows up.”

“Right. Because the Bludhaven PD is so reliable and not at all corrupt.” But you’re already grabbing your card from the ATM, which, miraculously, still dispensed your pathetic forty dollars. “Thanks for the rescue, I guess. Even though I probably would have just given him the money and filed a police report that would go nowhere.”

“You guess?” He sounds amused now.

You shrug, stuffing the cash in your pocket. “I mean, appreciate the help and all, but let’s be real, I’ll probably be mugged again within six months. This is Bludhaven. Lightning strikes twice here. It’s practically a meteorological certainty.”

“That’s not how lightning works.”

“And yet.” You gesture vaguely at the unconscious mugger, the sketchy street, the flickering streetlight that’s been broken for three weeks. “Here we are.”

You walk away before he can respond, but you can feel his eyes on your back until you turn the corner. You’re not sure if he thinks you’re funny or just deeply disturbed.

Probably both.

Of course, both is good.

⋆.˚.𓅪࿐

You’re hanging from a fire escape.

It’s been two weeks since the ATM incident, and you’d actually started to think that maybe, just maybe, your luck was turning around. You got a fifty cent raise at work. Your landlord didn’t increase your rent. You found a dollar on the sidewalk.

But the universe doesn’t like it when you get comfortable.

You’re not even doing anything weird; you just came out here to water your singular, struggling tomato plant (which refuses to actually produce tomatoes) when the rusted bolts finally gave way. The fire escape tilted, you grabbed for the railing, and now you’re dangling four stories above an alley that definitely contains at least three used needles and a suspicious puddle.

“Help!” You scream, but it’s 11 pm and your neighbors include: one elderly man who’s definitely deaf, two college students who are always high, and a woman who once told you she “doesn’t believe in interference.”

This is exactly how you’d thought you’d die but you’d appreciate it if you weren’t right.

Your fingers are slipping. The metal is cutting into your palms. Below you, the suspicious puddle seems to shimmer with menace.

You’re wearing your nice jeans. The ones without holes. It seems important that someone know this.

“I’M WEARING MY NICE JEANS!” You yell into the void.

“Hold on!” A voice calls back, and you’re so startled you nearly let go.

Then he’s there, like some kind of acrobatic miracle, flipping up from the alley below and landing on the tilted fire escape with perfect balance. Nightwing grabs your wrists and hauls you up with absolutely no effort, pulling you against his chest as the fire escape groans ominously beneath you both.

“We need to move,” he says, and then he’s grappling to the roof, one arm wrapped firmly around your waist.

Your stomach does a complicated flip that has nothing to do with the sudden altitude change.

He sets you down on the roof, hands lingering on your arms to make sure you’re steady. “You okay?”

You’re breathing hard, adrenaline coursing through your system. “You know, you keep asking me that, and the answer keeps being ‘technically yes, but actually no.’”

He tilts his head, and there’s something about the gesture that’s almost bird-like. Fitting, given the whole theme. “Wait. ATM girl?”

“Oh, perfect. I have a nickname now.” You brush off your nice jeans, checking for damage. One knee is torn. Of course it is. “Yes. ATM girl. Also known as ‘that pessimist,’ ‘fire escape failure,’ and ‘person who can’t keep a tomato plant alive.’ Hi. Hello. Thank you for saving me again.”

“You remember me.” He sounds pleased.

“You’re dressed like an exotic bird and you saved me from a mugger. You’re pretty memorable.” You peer over the edge of the roof at your apartment window. The fire escape is completely detached now, hanging by a single bolt. “Great. There goes my security deposit.”

“You’re taking this pretty well.”

“What’s the alternative? Crying? I cried in 2019 and decided it wasn’t worth the effort.” You turn back to him, and in the moonlight, you can see more details; the curve of his jaw, the way his hair sticks up slightly, the almost absurd width of his shoulders. “So, do you just patrol this neighborhood specifically, or am I cosmically marked for disaster and you’re following the trail of chaos?”

He laughs, and it’s a good sound, warm and genuine. “Little of both, maybe. What were you doing on the fire escape?”

“Watering my tomato plant. Which has never produced a single tomato and probably never will, but I’m nothing if not committed to lost causes.” You sigh. “I should call my landlord. He’s going to love this.”

“It’s not your fault the fire escape collapsed.”

“And yet, I guarantee this somehow becomes my problem.” You pull out your phone, then pause. “Thanks. Again. For the rescue. You’re really good at those.”

“It’s kind of my thing.”

“Well, it’s a good thing.” You swallow, suddenly aware of how close you’re standing, how the moonlight catches on the blue of his suit, how he’s looking at you like you’re something interesting instead of just another disaster in motion. “You should probably go stop actual crime instead of babysitting the woman who clearly has a death wish via incompetence.”

“I don’t think you’re incompetent.”

“My fire escape would disagree. Also my tomato plant. Also my general life trajectory.”

He’s smiling again. You’re getting used to that smile, the way it makes something warm unfold in your chest despite your best efforts to remain emotionally neutral about everything.

“Get inside safely,” he says. “And maybe water your plant from the window from now on.”

“Bold of you to assume I’ll keep trying. That plant and I both know it’s a doomed enterprise.”

But you’re smiling too, just a little, as he grapples away into the night, all grace and controlled power.

Your landlord does, in fact, make the fire escape your problem.

Of course he does.

⋆.˚.𓅪࿐

You’re stuck in an elevator.

“I should have taken the stairs,” you say to the ceiling, because talking to the ceiling feels more productive than screaming into the void. “I always take the stairs. But no, today I thought, ‘You know what? Live a little. Take the elevator. What’s the worst that could happen?’”

“To be fair,” Nightwing says from his corner of the surprisingly spacious elevator, “this is more of an inconvenience than a disaster.”

You turn to look at him. He’s leaning against the wall, arms crossed, looking frustratingly calm for someone who’s been trapped in an elevator for twenty minutes. You, on the other hand, are definitely spiraling.

“We’re stuck in an elevator. In a building that’s scheduled for demolition next week. Because apparently, the city of Bludhaven doesn’t believe in proper notices or functional elevators in condemned buildings.”

“You didn’t see the notices?”

“I saw a flyer for a lost cat named Chairman Meow. I assumed that was more pressing than construction permits.” You slide down the wall until you’re sitting on the floor. “What are you even doing here?”

“Got a tip about some guys using the building as a storage facility for stolen goods.” He nods toward a duffel bag in the corner that you hadn’t noticed. “Found them. They ran when the elevator got stuck.”

“Of course they did. They probably took the stairs like sensible criminals.”

He moves to sit across from you, and even in crisis, he moves like water, all fluid grace. It’s unfair, really, how coordinated some people are. You trip over flat surfaces.

“You know,” he says, and you can hear the amusement in his voice, “most people would be more worried about being stuck.”

“Oh, I’m worried. I’m just also unsurprised. This is exactly the kind of thing that happens to me.” You let your head fall back against the wall. “Last month, I got jury duty for a case that was immediately dismissed. I didn’t even get to feel civically important. The month before that, I found a twenty dollar bill on the street and immediately stepped in gum.”

“The universe has it out for you.”

“The universe has it out for everyone. I’m just aware of it.” You glance at him. “Aren’t you supposed to have some kind of gadget that can fix this? Bat-elevator-escape-tool?”

“I’m Nightwing, not Batman. My utility belt has like, six things.”

“Wow, budget constraints even in vigilantism. That’s so Bludhaven.”

He laughs, and you’re starting to really like that sound. It feels like finding something valuable in a thrift store, unexpected and somehow precious because of it.

“You’re funny,” he says.

“I’m fatalistic. People often confuse the two.”

“No, you’re definitely funny.” He leans forward slightly. “And you’re handling this really well for someone who was hanging from a fire escape two weeks ago.”

“Oh, you think this is me handling it well? This is me disassociating. There’s a difference.” But you’re smiling despite yourself. “How long do you think we’ll be stuck?”

“I already hit the emergency call button. Fire department should be here in ten, fifteen minutes.”

“So enough time for you to tell me why you do this.” You gesture vaguely at his suit, his mask, the duffel bag of stolen goods. “The whole vigilante thing. Is it a rich person hobby? A elaborate form of therapy? A very committed cosplay situation?”

“What makes you think I’m rich?”

“That suit looks expensive. Also, you have incredible teeth. Dental work like that doesn’t come cheap.”

He grins, and yeah, those are really good teeth. “I can’t tell you my origin story while we’re stuck in an elevator. That’s terrible narrative pacing.”

“Fine. Tell me something else then.” You’re not sure why you’re pushing, except that sitting in silence feels worse than potential rejection. “Tell me why you remember me. ATM girl. Fire escape failure. Elevator disaster.”

“Because you’re different.” He says it simply, like it’s obvious. “Most people I rescue are either terrified or grateful or both. You were critiquing the economics of street crime while there was a gun pointed at you.”

“That was just my anxiety talking. I babble when I’m nervous.”

“And when you’re not nervous?”

“I’m always nervous. We live in Bludhaven.”

“Fair point.” He’s quiet for a moment, and you can feel him looking at you, really looking. “You act like you expect the worst, but you still watered your tomato plant. You still took the elevator instead of the stairs. That’s not pessimism. That’s hope wearing a disguise.”

The words hit something soft inside you, something you thought you’d armored over years ago with sarcasm and emotional distance.

“That’s a very poetic assessment of my character flaws,” you manage.

“I don’t think they’re flaws.”

Before you can figure out how to respond to that, before you can unpack the warm, fluttery feeling in your chest that feels dangerously close to something you can’t take back, there’s a grinding sound and the elevator lurches.

“Fire department?” You ask hopefully.

“Fire department,” he confirms, standing and offering you his hand.

You take it, and his grip is strong and steady, and you let yourself hold on for maybe a second longer than necessary.

The doors pry open to reveal two firefighters who look unsurprised to see Nightwing and very surprised to see you.

“Ma’am,” one of them says, “what were you doing in a condemned building?”

“Looking for Chairman Meow,” you say without missing a beat. “He’s still missing, by the way, if anyone’s seen an orange tabby with delusions of political grandeur.”

Nightwing makes a sound that might be a laugh or a cough.

As the firefighters escort you out (with several safety lectures), you glance back once. Nightwing is watching you go, duffel bag in hand, and even though you can’t see his eyes, you feel the weight of his attention like a physical thing.

You wave.

He waves back.

You tell yourself the flip in your stomach is just residual adrenaline.

You’re definitely lying to yourself.

⋆.˚.𓅪࿐

The fourth time you meet Nightwing, you’re not actually in danger.

You’re on your building’s roof (the landlord finally fixed the fire escape, but you’ve developed trust issues), lying on a blanket and looking at the stars. Or trying to. Light pollution in Bludhaven means you can see maybe seven stars on a good night, and most of them are probably planes.

“You know,” a voice says from behind you, “most people would consider this suspicious behavior.”

You don’t even flinch. Of course he would show up. Of course.

“Most people don’t live in my apartment,” you say, not sitting up. “My upstairs neighbor is having extremely loud makeup sex, my downstairs neighbor is learning the drums, and the person across the hall is watching what I think is the entire Fast and Furious franchise at maximum volume. I’m seeking refuge.”

Nightwing moves into your peripheral vision, then sits down on your blanket without asking. The casual intimacy of it makes your breath catch.

“All at once?” He asks.

“The universe coordinated it specifically to drive me to the roof. Where I will probably be struck by lightning or hit by a meteor.”

“Still not how lightning works.”

“And yet, you keep showing up during my disasters. What’s your excuse this time?”

He’s quiet for a moment, and when you finally turn your head to look at him, he’s staring up at the sky with an expression you can’t quite read.

“No excuse,” he admits. “I was patrolling nearby and saw you up here. Wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“Checking on ATM girl? I’m touched. Truly.” But your voice is softer than usual, missing its typical sardonic edge. “I’m fine. Well, as fine as I ever am. No muggers, no collapsing structures, no stuck elevators. Just me and the seven visible stars.”

“Eight,” he says, pointing. “That one’s really faint, but it’s there.”

You look where he’s indicating and squint. “If you say so. I’ll take your word for it, since you seem to have superhuman vision along with superhuman acrobatics.”

“Just good training.”

“Right. Training. That you definitely do as part of your regular person job that’s definitely not related to being a billionaire or anything.”

“I never said I was a billionaire.”

“You also never said you weren’t.”

He laughs, and shifts slightly closer. You can feel the warmth of him now, even through his suit. “You’re very suspicious.”

“I’m very realistic. People don’t become vigilantes because they had a super normal childhood and well adjusted emotional regulation.” You pause. “No offense.”

“None taken. You’re not wrong.” He’s quiet for a beat. “You want to know something?”

“Is it your secret identity? Because I should warn you, I’m terrible at keeping secrets. I once accidentally told my coworker that another coworker was pregnant before she announced it, and I didn’t talk for three months out of shame.”

“Not my secret identity.” He sounds amused. “I was going to say that I actually look forward to running into you.”

Your heart does a complicated somersault. “You look forward to me nearly dying? That’s kind of dark.”

“I look forward to talking to you.” He turns to face you properly, and even in the darkness, you can see the curve of his smile. “You’re real. No filter, no performance. Just genuinely, refreshingly honest about how absurd everything is.”

“That’s just depression with better marketing.”

“It’s not, though.” He’s closer now, close enough that you can see the flecks of color in his mask, the slight stubble on his jaw. “You keep showing up. You keep trying. You’re watering that terrible tomato plant and taking elevators and lying on roofs looking for stars. That’s not giving up. That’s the opposite of giving up.”

You swallow hard. “You’re doing the poetic assessment thing again.”

“Is it working?”

“I’m not sure. My emotional processing system has been out of order since 2016.”

But you’re not pulling away. Neither is he.

“Can I tell you something?” You hear yourself say. “And you can’t make fun of me.”

“I would never.”

“You absolutely would, but I’m going to tell you anyway.” You take a breath. “I think I’m starting to actually look forward to the disasters. Because at least then I get to see you.”

The silence that follows feels enormous, stretching between you like something physical. You’re about to take it back, laugh it off, blame it on the drums and the makeup sex and the Fast and Furious franchise-

“Good,” he says quietly. “Because I’ve been taking extra patrols through this neighborhood for two weeks hoping to run into you.”

Oh.

Oh.

“That’s very inefficient crime fighting,” you whisper.

“I’m okay with that.”

He’s so close now. You can see the way his chest rises and falls, the slight curve of his lips, the angle of his jaw. Your hand moves without permission, reaching up to trace the edge of his mask.

“Can I-”

“Not yet,” he says, but he catches your hand and holds it against his cheek. “Soon. I promise. But not yet.”

“Okay.” And it is, somehow. Okay. “This is insane. You know that, right? I don’t even know your name.”

“You know me, though.” His thumb traces circles on your wrist. “You know the important parts.”

“I know you have good teeth and a concerning habit of showing up during my worst moments.”

“Your most interesting moments.”

“Same thing, in my life.”

He laughs, and then he’s leaning in, and you’re leaning in, and-

An alarm goes off somewhere in the distance. Police sirens. Something that sounds like gunshots.

He pulls back with a sigh that sounds genuinely regretful. “I have to go.”

“Of course you do. Crime never sleeps, and neither does my terrible luck with timing.”

But he’s standing, getting ready to grapple away, and you’re standing too, and before he goes he turns back and cups your face with one gloved hand.

“Same time next week?” He asks. “Same roof?”

“You’re scheduling our coincidental meetings now? That seems very organized for a spontaneous vigilante.”

“Call it hope wearing a disguise.”

He’s gone before you can respond, flipping off the roof with that impossible grace, and you’re left standing there with your hand pressed to your cheek where he touched you, smiling like an idiot at the seven- no, eight- stars.

This is dangerous, you think.

This is terrifying.

This is exactly the kind of thing that will definitely end in disaster.

You can’t wait.

⋆.˚.𓅪࿐

You're getting mugged again.

"I told you," you say to Nightwing as he drops from the fire escape above, landing between you and the two men who'd cornered you outside the 24-hour bodega. "I told you lightning strikes twice in Bludhaven. It's been exactly three months."

One of the muggers makes a run for it immediately. The other one pulls out a knife, which seems optimistic given that Nightwing was in the news for taking down an entire robbery crew last week with what you're pretty sure was just a pair of escrima sticks and audacity.

"You were counting?" Nightwing asks, disarming the guy with a move so fast you barely see it. The knife clatters into a storm drain. The mugger wisely chooses to follow his friend's lead and runs.

"I have a very specific relationship with probability and disaster." You hold up the energy drink you'd been buying. "I was just getting caffeine for my night shift. Is that too much to ask? One energy drink without a felony?"

He turns to you, and even though it's been three months of scheduled roof meetings (and several unscheduled disaster interventions), your stomach still does that stupid flip when he looks at you.

"You okay?" He asks, like always.

"Physically fine. Emotionally processing the fact that you either have a tracker on me or the universe is actively coordinating our meet-cutes through crime." You pause. "Wait. You don't have a tracker on me, right?"

"No tracker. I was two blocks away when I heard yelling."

"My yelling specifically, or just general Bludhaven yelling? Because there's a lot of ambient yelling in this city."

He steps closer, does that thing where he checks you over for injuries even though you've told him you're fine. His hands hover near your shoulders, not quite touching. "Your yelling has a specific quality."

"Is it the desperation? The resignation? The underlying notes of 'I knew this would happen'?"

"It's distinctive." His lips twitch. "You want me to walk you home?"

"Nightwing, it's three blocks. Surely there's actual crime happening somewhere that needs your attention more than my tragic walk of shame back to my apartment."

"Humor me."

So you do, because you're weak and he's looking at you like that, and honestly, your Tuesday (of course it's a fucking Tuesday) is already so absurd that adding a vigilante escort service barely registers.

You walk in silence for half a block before he speaks. "How's the tomato plant?"

"Dying. Finally gave up last week. I'm weirdly proud of it for lasting eight months though. That's longer than most of my relationships."

"You're in a relationship with your tomato plant?"

"Was. It's complicated. We wanted different things. It wanted proper drainage and sunlight. I wanted it to not be a metaphor for my inability to nurture living things."

He's laughing now, that warm sound you've become maybe slightly addicted to over the past few months. Your roof meetings have become the highlight of your week, even though you're both pretending they're casual. Even though you're both pretending that the almost-kiss from that first night didn't fundamentally alter something in the space between you.

"I got a new plant," you admit. "A cactus. The guy at the store said it was indestructible."

"How long has it been?"

"Four days."

"And?"

"It's looking suspicious. I think it's plotting something."

You've reached your building. The one with the formerly broken fire escape, the drum learning neighbor, and the upstairs couple who have apparently decided that their relationship drama is a communal experience.

You should go inside. He should go stop crime. This is where the night should end.

"So," you say instead, because you're bad at good decisions. "Thursday. Roof. Same time?"

"Wouldn't miss it." But he's not leaving. He's standing there, closer than necessary, and the streetlight is flickering (because of course it is), and something in his posture has shifted.

"What?" You ask.

"Nothing. Just..." He reaches up, almost touches your face, then drops his hand. "Be careful. Please."

"Careful? You do remember who you're talking to, right? I'm the fire escape girl. The elevator disaster. The woman who gets mugged on a schedule."

"Exactly." And there's something in his voice now, something that makes your breath catch. "So be careful. Because I..." He stops, shakes his head. "Thursday. Don't be late."

He's gone before you can ask what he was going to say, grappling up into the darkness, and you're left standing there wondering if it's possible to have your heart broken by someone whose real name you don't even know.

(It is. You're pretty sure it is.)

⋆.˚.𓅪࿐

Thursday arrives with all the enthusiasm of a dental appointment.

You're on the roof at 10 pm sharp, because apparently you're the kind of person who's punctual for secret meetings with a masked vigilante now. The blanket is spread out. You've brought snacks this time- chips, because you're not fancy, and two cans of the fancy lemonade from the bodega that doesn't get robbed as frequently.

He's late.

By 10:15, you're starting to worry, which is a new and uncomfortable feeling. Usually you're worried about yourself and your own impending disasters. Worrying about someone else requires emotional bandwidth you're not sure you have.

By 10:30, you're pacing.

By 10:45, you're googling "Bludhaven crime news" on your phone, which is probably exactly what you shouldn't be doing but your anxiety brain has never been good at following directions.

At 11:07, he lands on the roof, and you're on your feet immediately.

"You're late," you say, and it comes out more scared than annoyed. "You're never late."

"I know. I'm sorry. There was a thin- " He stops, and even in the darkness you can see something's wrong. He's favoring his left side. There's a tear in his suit near his ribs.

"You're hurt." It's not a question.

"It's nothing. Just- "

"Sit down." You're already moving toward him, hands hovering uselessly because you have no idea what to do with an injured vigilante but you need to do something. "Sit down right now or I swear I'll- I don't know what I'll do, but it'll be annoying."

He sits, probably more from surprise than actual obedience. You kneel beside him, trying to assess the damage through the suit.

"It's really not that bad," he says, but his voice is tight with pain. "I've had worse."

"That's not as comforting as you think it is." Your hands are shaking. When did your hands start shaking? "What do I do? Do you have a first aid kit? Do you need a hospital? Should I call Batman?"

"Please don't call Batman."

"I don't even know how to call Batman. That was an empty threat." You're rambling now, the words spilling out in a rush. "I don't know how to do this. I don't know how to help you. I barely know how to help myself. I once put a band-aid on upside down- "

"Hey." His hand catches yours, stops the flailing. "Breathe."

You breathe. It doesn't help.

"I have supplies in my belt," he says calmly. "Just need to... patch it up. It's honestly not serious."

"You have a hole in your suit. There's blood. That seems serious."

"I've had worse nights." But he's pulling out a first aid kit that's somehow compact enough to fit in his utility belt, wincing as he moves.

You take it from him before he can argue. "Let me. Please. I need- " Your voice cracks. "I need to help. I need to do something."

He looks at you for a long moment, and then nods.

His suit has some kind of panel near the injury that peels back, revealing a gash along his ribs that makes your stomach turn. It's not as deep as you feared, but it's definitely more than "nothing."

"Knife?" You ask, focusing on the injury instead of the implications, instead of the fact that this man you've been slowly falling for risks his life every single night.

"Broken glass, actually. Went through a window."

"Consensually or...?"

"The window was very against it."

You laugh, because the alternative is crying, and you carefully clean the wound with the supplies from his kit. He doesn't flinch, which is somehow more concerning than if he had.

"You do this a lot," you say quietly. It's not a question.

"More than I'd like."

"And you just... patch yourself up and go back out the next night."

"Usually."

You're applying butterfly bandages now, careful and methodical, trying not to think about how this could have been worse. How it could always be worse.

"Why?" The word comes out smaller than you intended. "Why do you do this?"

He's quiet while you finish bandaging, and you think maybe he won't answer. Then: "Someone has to."

"That's not an answer. That's a deflection."

"You're getting good at reading me."

"You're getting easier to read." You sit back, surveying your work. It's not pretty, but it'll hold. "Or maybe I'm just paying more attention than I should be."

"Is that what you think? That you're paying too much attention?"

You look up at him, and even with the mask, even in the darkness, you can feel the intensity of his gaze.

"I don't know what I think anymore," you admit. "Three months ago, I was just a person who got mugged sometimes and had a dying tomato plant. Now I'm the person who waits on roofs and worries when you're late and apparently knows how to do field dressing for vigilante injuries. I don't know how that happened."

"I do." His hand comes up, cups your face like he did that first night. "You kept showing up."

"You literally scheduled the meetings."

"You could have said no."

"Could I have?" Your voice is barely a whisper now. "Because I don't think I could have. I don't think I can. And that's terrifying."

"Why terrifying?"

"Because you're- " You gesture at him, at the suit, at the fresh bandage on his ribs. "This. All of this. You jump off buildings and fight criminals and apparently go through windows. You're not safe. This isn't safe. And I'm- I'm a person who expects the worst because the worst usually happens, but somehow you've become the exception and I don't know what to do with that."

His thumb brushes your cheekbone. "What if I told you I'm terrified too?"

"You? You're Nightwing. You're not afraid of anything."

"I'm afraid of you not being here next Thursday." The words are quiet, honest, devastating. "I'm afraid of you deciding this is too complicated. Too dangerous. Too- "

You kiss him.

It's not graceful. You basically just lean forward and press your mouth to his, cutting off his words, and for a second he's too surprised to respond. Then his hand slides into your hair and he's kissing you back, and oh, this is-

This is nice.

You break apart after a moment that feels both infinite and far too short. You're breathing hard, and he is too, and you're still close enough to count his heartbeats.

"That was..." he starts.

"Impulsive? Stupid? A terrible idea given the circumstances?"

"I was going to say worth waiting for."

You laugh, and it comes out shaky. "You're bleeding through your bandage and I just kissed you. This is the most Bludhaven romance ever."

"Is that what this is? A romance?"

"I don't know. Is it?"

He leans his forehead against yours, careful of the mask. "I want it to be."

"Even though I'm a disaster?"

"Because you're a disaster. My favorite disaster." He pulls back just enough to look at you. "I need to tell you something. Soon. About... everything. Who I am. But not tonight. Not when I'm- "

"Bleeding and probably concussed?"

"I'm not concussed."

"You went through a window. You're at least mildly concussed."

"Fair point." He's smiling though, even through the pain. " I'll tell you everything. Soon. I promise."

"Everything?"

"Everything you want to know."

You should be scared. This is the part where your pessimistic brain should kick in, should start listing all the ways this will inevitably end badly. But looking at him now, at the way he's looking at you like you're something precious instead of just another disaster in motion...

"Okay," you say. "Okay. I'll see you next Thursday. But if you're late again, I'm implementing a three strike policy."

"What happens after three strikes?"

"I'll have to actually learn your name through investigative journalism. It'll be very embarrassing for both of us."

He laughs, then winces. "You should go. Get some sleep. I'll watch you get inside safely."

"You'll watch me walk down one flight of stairs?"

"Humor me."

So you do, gathering your blanket and your unopened snacks, and when you reach the roof door you look back. He's still sitting there, hand pressed to his ribs, watching you with that impossible attention.

"Be careful," you call back. "Please."

"You first."

"That's statistically unlikely, but I'll try."

You're smiling as you head down the stairs, heart racing, lips still tingling, completely terrified and completely sure all at once.

This is definitely going to end in disaster.

But maybe- just maybe- it'll be the good kind.

⋆.˚.𓅪࿐

Nightwing hands you an envelope.

You're on your usual rooftop, and he drops down from seemingly nowhere, landing in that cat like crouch that should be illegal in terms of sheer attractiveness. You've been seeing each other- if you can call these rooftop rendezvous "seeing each other"- for almost four months now, and your heart still does that stupid flutter thing every time he appears.

"I have something for you," he says, and there's a nervous energy to him that's new.

"If it's another apology for having to leave mid-kiss last week because of a police scanner, I'm going to start charging you per interruption."

"It's not that." He sits next to you and pulls out a cream colored envelope, expensive looking, with your name written on it in actual calligraphy. "I want you to come to something."

You take the envelope like it might explode. "Is this a ransom note? A summons? A very formal breakup letter?"

"Just open it."

You do, and your brain immediately short-circuits.

You are cordially invited to the Wayne Foundation Annual Charity Gala...

"This is- " You look up at him, then back at the invitation. "This is a joke, right? This is fake. You printed this at like, a FedEx or something."

"It's real."

"Nightwing. This is a Wayne gala. As in Bruce Wayne. As in billionaire Bruce Wayne. As in- " You wave the invitation. "There's no way this is real. These things are invite only for like, celebrities and politicians and people who own multiple yachts."

"I know."

"So this is definitely fake."

He takes off one of his gloves and reaches for your hand, lacing his fingers through yours. "It's real. I want you there. I want..." He pauses, and you can see him gathering courage. "I want you to meet me. The real me. Not just the mask."

Your heart is doing dangerous things. "You're going to be there? At a Wayne gala?"

"Yeah."

"As yourself. Your real self."

"Yeah."

"And you're either Bruce Wayne's secret son, or you're about to tell me you're Batman, or- " You stop. "Oh my god, are you Batman? Is that why you said you only have six things in your utility belt? Is it a budget thing or a 'I'm actually just a vigilante with a day job' thing?"

He's laughing now, soft and genuine. "I'm not Batman. But yes, I'll be there. And I want you there too. If you want to come."

"This is insane."

"Probably."

"This is going to be a disaster."

"Maybe."

"I don't have anything to wear to a Wayne gala. I can't exactly show up in my 'I Survived Bludhaven' tshirt and jeggings."

"You'll figure something out." He squeezes your hand. "Please? I know it's scary, and I know this is all backwards and weird, but- "

"Okay."

He stops. "Okay?"

"Okay. I'll come." You look at the invitation again, at the embossed Wayne logo, at the date that's only three days away. "I'm going to regret this. This is going to end terribly. But okay."

He kisses you then, deep and relieved and tasting like promises that you're terrified to believe in.

"Saturday night," he says against your lips. "Wayne Manor. Seven pm."

"I'll be the one having a panic attack in the corner."

"I'll find you."

After he leaves, you sit on the roof for another hour, holding the invitation and trying to convince yourself it's real.

It's probably fake, you think.

This is definitely a prank.

There's no way this ends well.

Saturday arrives with all the inevitability of a dental appointment.

You've spent the last three days having a sustained, low level panic attack. You went to every thrift store in Bludhaven and finally found a dress that doesn't look like it was donated after someone's divorce in 1987. It's black, because you're not ambitious enough for color, and it fits reasonably well if you don't breathe too deeply. It cost $27, which is $20 more than you've ever spent on a single item of clothing.

You've paired it with shoes you already owned (black flats with a scuff on the toe that you colored in with Sharpie) and a small purse you borrowed from your coworker who asked exactly zero questions, bless her.

You look in the mirror and see exactly what you are: a person in a discount dress pretending to be someone who belongs at a Wayne gala.

"This is fine," you tell your reflection. "This is totally fine. The invitation is probably fake anyway, and you'll get turned away at the door, and you can go home and eat ice cream and never think about this again."

The invitation sits on your counter, looking aggressively real.

You grab it, grab your purse, and head out before you can talk yourself out of it.

Wayne Manor is exactly as intimidating as you imagined, which is to say: very.

The uber driver drops you off at the end of a long driveway that probably costs more than your entire apartment building. There are actual literal limousines pulling up to the entrance. You can see people in gowns that cost more than your yearly salary stepping out with the kind of casual grace that comes from never having worried about rent.

"This is fine," you mutter, walking up the driveway because there's no way you're asking to be driven up like you belong here. "This is totally fine. The bouncer will definitely kick you out and then you can go home."

But when you reach the entrance, holding out your invitation like a shield, the man in the tuxedo just smiles and says, "Welcome, miss. Enjoy your evening."

And then you're inside.

Wayne Manor is obscene. There's no other word for it. The foyer alone is bigger than your apartment, with marble floors and a chandelier that probably costs more than a small country's GDP. Beautiful people in beautiful clothes are everywhere, holding champagne glasses and laughing with the kind of ease that comes from never having checked their bank account before buying groceries.

You are immediately, viscerally aware of every single flaw in your discount dress.

The woman next to you is wearing something that shimmers like starlight and probably has a designer name you can't pronounce. Her jewelry is real. Her hair is professionally styled. She smells like expensive perfume.

You smell like the lavender body spray you got on sale at Target.

"This was a mistake," you whisper to yourself. "This was absolutely a mistake."

You're about to turn around and leave, invitation be damned, Nightwing be damned, your own curiosity be damned, when a waiter appears with a tray of champagne.

"Would you care for a drink, miss?"

You take one because it's free and you're definitely going to need alcohol to get through whatever fresh humiliation this evening has planned.

The champagne is good. Annoyingly good. Even the alcohol here is fancier than you.

You drift through the crowd like a ghost, trying not to make eye contact with anyone, trying not to draw attention to your discount dress and your Sharpie-ed shoes. You find a corner near an elaborate flower arrangement (are those orchids? those are definitely orchids. you killed one once) and try to blend into the wallpaper.

This is fine. You'll stay for twenty minutes, drink your fancy champagne, and then leave. Nightwing was probably joking anyway. Or maybe he forgot. Or maybe-

"Excuse me," a voice says, and you turn to find a woman in a red dress that probably costs more than your car would if you had a car. "Are you here alone?"

"Um." You clutch your champagne. "Yes?"

"Oh, how lovely! I'm Caroline Whitmore. My husband is on the board of the Wayne Foundation." She gestures vaguely at a man across the room who's wearing a tux that fits him like a second skin. "Is this your first Wayne gala?"

"Is it that obvious?"

She laughs, but it's not unkind. "A little. You have that 'deer in headlights' look. Don't worry, everyone feels that way their first time. The Waynes can be a bit... overwhelming."

"That's one word for it," you mutter into your champagne.

"The trick is to just enjoy the free food and avoid Bruce Wayne's new girlfriend. She's dreadful." Caroline leans in conspiratorially. "Between you and me, I think he just dates models because he doesn't know how to have a real conversation."

You're saved from having to respond by a commotion near the entrance. The crowd shifts, and you can feel the energy in the room change, the way everyone's attention suddenly focuses on one point.

"Oh, there they are," Caroline says. "The Wayne family. They always make an entrance."

You shouldn't look. You should stay in your corner with your champagne and your discount dress and your existential dread.

But of course you look.

Bruce Wayne enters first looking exactly like the billionaire playboy philanthropist he's famous for being. Tall, handsome in a way that's almost aggressive, wearing a tux that probably costs more than your entire life.

Behind him is a younger man who looks uncomfortable in his suit, dark haired and scowling. Then another man, broader, with a white streak in his hair and an expression that suggests he'd rather be literally anywhere else. Another younger man who’s looking down at his phone and looks like he hasn’t slept since the day he was born.

And then-

And then-

Your champagne glass slips from your hand.

It hits the marble floor with a crash that echoes through the sudden silence, and everyone- every single person in the room- turns to look at you.

But you're not looking at them.

You're looking at the man who just walked in behind Bruce Wayne. Dark hair that sticks up in a way that's immediately, devastatingly familiar. A smile that you've seen in moonlight and shadows, now displayed under the crystal chandelier. A suit that's perfectly tailored to a body you've traced with your hands on rooftop meetings.

He's looking right at you.

And you know.

You know.

"Oh my god," you whisper. "Dick Grayson."

Because of course Nightwing is Dick Grayson. Of course he's Bruce Wayne's ward, the former circus performer turned billionaire's son, the golden boy of Gotham society.

Of course you've been making out with someone who's probably worth more than the entire city of Bludhaven.

Caroline is saying something about the broken glass, and a waiter is rushing over, but you can't hear any of it because Dick Grayson-Nightwing- is walking toward you.

The crowd parts for him like he's Moses and they're the Red Sea.

He stops in front of you, and up close, without the mask, you can see his eyes. Blue. Bright blue. The same eyes that have looked at you with concern and humor and heat.

"Hi," he says, and his voice is the same, exactly the same. "You made it."

"I- " Your brain is offline. Completely offline. "You're Dick Grayson."

"Yeah."

"The Dick Grayson. The- the son of Bruce Wayne. The- "

"Technically adopted son, but yeah."

"I've been kissing Dick Grayson on my roof."

He grins. "You have been."

"I told you that you were probably rich and you lied."

"I said I never said I was a billionaire," he points out. "Technically true. Bruce is the billionaire. I just have access to his credit cards."

"That's-you-" You look around at the crowd that's definitely, absolutely watching this entire interaction. At the broken champagne glass at your feet. At your discount dress next to his designer tux. "I'm going to pass out."

"Please don't." He takes your hand, the same way he has on the roof, his thumb finding that spot on your wrist that always makes you shiver. "Come on. Let's get you some air."

"I broke a glass. There's-I should clean that up. I should- "

"The staff will handle it." He's already guiding you through the crowd, past the staring faces and the whispered comments. Past Bruce Wayne, who raises an eyebrow but says nothing. Past the scowling boy and the man with the white streak and the teen that’s no longer looking at his phone but looking at you in curiosity.

He leads you out to a balcony that overlooks the grounds, and the cool night air hits your face like a slap.

"Okay," he says, turning to face you. "You can yell now."

"I can't yell. I'm at a Wayne gala. There are probably rules about yelling."

"There are definitely rules about yelling, but I'm giving you permission to break them."

You stare at him. At Dick Grayson. At Nightwing. At the man you've been falling for without knowing he's literally famous, literally rich, literally everything you're not.

"I'm wearing a twenty seven dollar dress," you say finally.

He blinks. "Okay?"

"I'm wearing a twenty seven dollar dress from a thrift store, and my shoes have Sharpie on them, and I colored in the scuff mark this morning because I don't own fancy shoes. Everyone in there is wearing clothes that cost more than my rent, and I'm- I'm- "

"Beautiful," he says simply. "You're beautiful."

"I'm a disaster."

"You're my favorite disaster."

And despite everything- despite the humiliation and the broken glass and the fact that you're definitely the poorest person at this gala- you laugh.

"This is insane," you say. "This is actually insane. I've been dating- are we dating? I don't even know if we're dating- I've been something with Dick Grayson and I didn't even know it."

"We're dating," he confirms. "Definitely dating. I'm not in the habit of having regularly scheduled rooftop makeout sessions with people I'm not dating."

"Your life is so weird."

"Says the woman who critiques muggers while they're actively mugging her."

You're about to respond, about to say something about how at least your weird is normal weird, not billionaire vigilante weird, when there's a commotion from inside.

Not the normal gala commotion. Something else.

Something wrong.

Dick's entire posture changes, his body going taut in a way you recognize from when he's in the suit.

"Stay here," he says.

"Yeah, that's not ominous at all."

But he's already moving back toward the ballroom, and you follow because of course you do, because the universe has never let you make smart decisions.

The scene inside is chaos.

The lights are flickering. People are screaming. And standing in the center of the ballroom, surrounded by henchmen in matching green suits, is a man with a purple suit, a cane, and a smile that makes your skin crawl.

The Riddler.

Because of course. Of course this gala is being crashed by a Batman rogue. Of course this is happening.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" The Riddler's voice carries across the ballroom with theatrical flair. "I do hope I'm not interrupting anything important. Though I suppose that depends on your definition of 'important,' doesn't it? After all, what's more important: champagne and canapés, or the answer to a riddle that could save your lives?"

You're frozen in the doorway. Dick is next to you, and you can see him calculating, planning, probably figuring out how to get to wherever he keeps his Nightwing suit stashed.

"Here's the riddle," the Riddler continues, twirling his cane. "What has hands but cannot clap, a face but cannot smile, and tells you when it's time to die?"

The crowd is silent, terrified.

And you-

You can't help yourself.

"A clock," you say.

It's not loud. It's barely more than a mutter.

But in the terrified silence, it carries.

The Riddler's head snaps toward you. "What was that?"

"I said it's a clock." Your voice is stronger now, because apparently when faced with mortal peril, your anxiety manifests as mouthy confidence. "The answer is a clock. It has hands, it has a face, and depending on your philosophical relationship with mortality, it tells you when you're going to die. Although technically, that's more metaphorical than- "

The Riddler stops in front of you, studying you with unsettling intensity. "You're not afraid."

"Oh, I'm terrified. I'm just also really annoyed because I was about to have a whole crisis about dating someone out of my league, and now you're here with your- " You gesture vaguely at his outfit. "Your whole situation, and I have to deal with that instead."

There's a beat of absolute silence.

Then Dick makes a sound that might be a laugh or a sob.

"You're dating someone?" The Riddler looks delighted. "How wonderful! And who might this lucky person be?"

"That's really none of your business, but thanks for the interest in my personal life. Very invested for a supervillain." You pause, and your brain- your traitorous, anxiety ridden brain- decides this is the perfect time to keep talking. "Actually, you know what? Can I ask you something?"

Dick's hand tightens on your arm. "Please don't- "

"Why are you even doing this?" You gesture at the terrified crowd, the henchmen, the whole hostage situation. "The crime thing. You're clearly intelligent. Like, really intelligent. Your riddles are actually good, which is more than I can say for most people's riddles. Why aren't you running an escape room empire or something?"

The Riddler stops. Blinks. "Excuse me?"

"Escape rooms!" You're on a roll now, your anxiety manifesting as what can only be described as aggressive career counseling. "Think about it! You could corner the entire market! You're already creating elaborate puzzles and death traps; just make them non lethal and charge people seventy five dollars a head to try to solve them. People LOVE that stuff. You'd be rich in like, six months. Plus, you'd get to feel superior to everyone who can't solve your puzzles, which seems like a big thing for you- no offense- and it would be completely legal!"

The entire ballroom is silent. Even the henchmen look confused.

The Riddler is staring at you like you've just spoken in an alien language.

"You- " He stops. Starts again. "You think I should open an escape room?"

"Not an escape room. Multiple escape rooms. A franchise. 'Nygma's Enigmas' or something. Trademark it. Get investors. Go on Shark Tank. You could be a millionaire legitimately, and you'd get to watch people fail at your puzzles all day, every day, and they'd literally be PAYING you for the privilege. It's the perfect business model for someone with your specific skillset and psychological needs!"

"I- " The Riddler looks genuinely taken aback. "I have never- "

"And think about the branding opportunities! Merchandise! Puzzle books! A YouTube channel where you explain how people failed! You could be internet famous! Do you know how much money internet famous people make? A LOT. More than you're probably getting from- " You gesture at the current hostage situation. "Whatever this is supposed to accomplish."

"She has a point," one of the henchmen mutters.

The Riddler spins to glare at him. "Whose side are you on?"

"I'm just saying, boss, the last three jobs haven't really paid that well- "

"SILENCE!"

"Plus, the Bat keeps catching us," another henchman adds. "An escape room business would have way better job security- "

"Are my henchmen seriously discussing CAREER CHANGES in the middle of a HEIST?"

"It's not a bad idea," a third henchman says thoughtfully. "My cousin runs an escape room in Metropolis. He cleared six figures last year."

"Yeah, and he doesn't get punched by Batman," the first henchman points out.

"EXACTLY," you say, pointing at them. "See? Your employees understand basic risk benefit analysis! You could offer them actual benefits! Health insurance! A 401k! Paid time off!"

Dick has given up trying to stop you. You can feel him shaking next to you, and you're pretty sure it's silent laughter.

Bruce Wayne is pinching the bridge of his nose in the background.

The Riddler looks like he's having an existential crisis. "But- but the CHALLENGE! The battle of wits with Batman! The thrill of outwitting the law!"

"You can still have that! Just make one of your escape rooms Batman themed! Make it really hard! Charge extra! He might even show up to try it, and then you get to watch him struggle with your puzzles in a legal, controlled environment! It's a win-win!"

"Batman themed," the Riddler repeats slowly.

"With like, gargoyles and batarangs and stuff. Make it super dramatic. People will eat that up. Gotham loves Batman. Merchandising nightmare, but that's what lawyers are for."

There's a long, long pause.

"That's..." The Riddler trails off. "That's actually not a terrible idea."

"RIGHT?!"

"I could create the most challenging escape rooms in the world. People would come from everywhere to test themselves against my intellect- "

"And PAY you for it!"

"And I could rate them. Publicly. On their failures- "

"Make a leaderboard! With shame tiers!"

"A SHAME LEADERBOARD." The Riddler looks genuinely excited now. "That's brilliant! That's- " He stops. Looks around at the terrified gala attendees. At his henchmen, who are all nodding enthusiastically. At you, in your twenty seven dollar dress, having just accidentally talked a supervillain into considering legitimate employment.

"This is..." He shakes his head. "This is the strangest hostage situation I've ever been in."

"Is it still a hostage situation if we're having a productive career counseling session?" You ask.

"I don't know! I've never had this happen before!"

"Well, there's a first time for everything. So, are you going to let everyone go, or..."

That's when the lights go out.

There's the familiar sounds of a Batfamily in action the thwip of grappling hooks, the thunk of escrima sticks, the crack of martial arts, and what sounds like a tiny angry Robin yelling something about "incompetent fools."

When the lights come back on, the Riddler and his henchmen are zip tied on the floor. Batman is glowering. Nightwing is clearly trying not to laugh behind his mask. Robin looks deeply offended by the entire situation.

"Did she just- " Robin starts.

"Give the Riddler career advice? Yes," Batman says flatly.

"Is that... allowed?"

"I don't think there's a protocol for this, Robin."

The Riddler, zip tied and defeated, looks up at you from the floor. "You know, in another life, I think we could have been friends."

"In another life, you could be a legitimate businessman," you counter. "It's not too late! Think about the escape rooms! Think about the shame leaderboard! If Martha Stewart can make bank after prison, so can you!”

"I AM thinking about it!" He actually sounds enthusiastic. "The possibilities are- "

"Okay, that's enough," Batman interrupts, gesturing for the GCPD. "Take him in."

As they're hauling the Riddler away, he calls back: "If I do this- if I actually do this- I'm naming you as a consultant!"

"I don't want credit for this!" You yell back.

"Too late! You're getting a percentage!"

"A percentage of WHAT?!"

"MY ESCAPE ROOM EMPIRE!"

And then he's gone, still yelling about business plans and shame leaderboards, and you're left standing in a ballroom full of Gotham's elite, having just accidentally become a business partner with a supervillain.

Dick appears at your elbow, back in his regular tux, no mask. He's grinning so wide it looks painful.

"Did you just- "

"I don't want to talk about it."

"You just convinced the Riddler to consider a legitimate career- "

"I was dissociating. My mouth just does things when I'm nervous!"

"That was the most amazing thing I've ever witnessed."

Bruce Wayne materializes on your other side. He looks at you for a long moment.

"If he actually does open an escape room franchise," Bruce says seriously, "and it keeps him out of crime, I'm writing you a recommendation letter for whatever you want."

"I don't- I can't- " You look between them. "This is insane. This whole night is insane. I came here in a thrift store dress and now I'm a business consultant for a supervillain?!"

"Twenty seven dollar dress," Dick corrects, still grinning.

"NOT THE POINT."

Caroline Whitmore appears with champagne. "Same time next year?" She asks cheerfully.

You take the champagne and down it in one go.

"Sure," you say faintly. "Why not. What else could possibly happen?"

The universe, as always, is listening.

⋆.˚.𓅪࿐

You wake up disoriented, head full of static, and for a moment you’re convinced the entire Wayne gala was a stress induced fever dream. The ceiling above you is definitely not the water stained plaster of your apartment: this one is smooth, painted a gentle gray, and if you squint you can see tiny glow in the dark stars scattered in one corner.

There’s a slow, delicious ache in your thighs that’s definitely not from stress.

You shift, and the sheet slithers over bare skin, warm and expensive, and the motion pulls your attention to the weight at your waist; an arm, long and golden and dusted with soft brown hair, wraps you close.

Oh.

You twist, carefully and there he is: Dick Grayson, hair rumpled, one hand tucked beneath his cheek, mouth parted with the kind of sleep heavy softness that makes you want to press your face to his shoulder and never move again.

Last night comes back in flashes: his mouth on yours as the adrenaline bled out in the back seat of the car, his hands clumsy and urgent as he unlocked the door to his apartment, laughter tangled with kisses, a trail of your thrifted dress and his designer tux winding through the hall.

You’d made love with the kind of desperate relief that comes from barely surviving- again- a night that should have been a disaster but somehow wasn’t.

Dick shifts, blinking blearily, and his gaze finds you, blue and bright and so gentle you could cry.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice gravel soft with sleep. “You’re still here.”

“Wasn’t sure I would be.” You mean to say it with a laugh, but it comes out quiet, almost vulnerable.

His thumb brushes over your bare hip, slow and affectionate. “You always have a choice. You know that, right?”

You nod, trying not to melt into him. “You snore, by the way.”

He grins, no shame at all. “And you talk in your sleep. You told me the exact tax rate on laundromat quarters.”

You flush, and Dick leans in, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, your throat, the corner of your jaw. “It’s adorable.”

You let yourself settle against him, the two of you tucked into the soft tangle of his sheets, sun leaking in around the blackout curtains.

Dick rolls you gently onto your back, hovering over you, hair falling into his eyes. “You know what I want?” he says, voice gone low and teasing, eyes warm as sunrise.

“What’s that?”

He ducks down, lips brushing yours in a kiss that’s slow, sweet, the kind you never thought you’d get from someone like him. “I want to make you breakfast. And then I want to see if you’ll let me keep you here all weekend.”

Your heart does a ridiculous, traitorous thing in your chest. “You’d get sick of me by noon.”

He nips at your jaw, grinning. “Not possible. I’m insatiable.” He punctuates it with another kiss, this one lingering, his hand sliding over your waist, palm broad and steady.

You can feel him, hard and wanting against your thigh. The temptation to tease is irresistible. “Didn’t you say you needed to rest after last night, Mr. Grayson?”

He groans, but his mouth is already sliding down your neck, teeth scraping lightly. “I lied. Or maybe you just recharge me.”

Your hands slide into his hair as he kisses down your body, worshipful, reverent. His lips find your breast, tongue circling, and his hand drifts lower, cupping your thigh, thumb stroking lazily at your skin. The ache between your legs turns electric, all soft warmth and want.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he murmurs against your skin, breath hot.

“Don’t you dare.”

He laughs quiet, and so, so happy and then his mouth is on you, slow and patient, mapping every inch. When he finally presses inside, the stretch is familiar and perfect, and you wrap your arms around his shoulders and hold him close, moving together in the drowsy gold of morning.

He presses his forehead to yours, both of you grinning like idiots.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whisper.

He kisses you, slow and sure, as if sealing a promise: “Good. Because you’re my favorite disaster.”

The sun climbs higher, and you think, for once, that maybe- just maybe- everything is exactly as it should be.