muse

“Nothing.” You bite back a grin, heat bubbling up despite the danger. “It’s just, everyone always makes you sound… I don’t know. Taller. Broodier.”

He glares. “I’m not here to live up to your expectations.”

You can’t help it. You laugh, a nervous little sound muffled against your sleeve. “Okay, sorry, don’t get your tights in a twist boy wonder.”

His scowl only deepens, and then a crackle from his comm has him turning his head. A man’s voice, Batman, you realize with a shiver, low and commanding. Robin mutters something back, sharp and clipped, before his gaze settles on you again.

“Go home,” he says, more tired than angry this time. “This isn’t a game.”

“But my dad…” You hesitate. Your dad is still out there, talking fast, and you can’t tell if he’s winning or losing.

“Your dad’s fine,” Robin adds quickly, softer now. “Batman’s got him. But if you stay, you’ll make it worse.” 

You study him for a beat, and beneath the impatience, you catch it: the edge of worry. Not just about the mission. About you. Something inside you twists.

“Fine,” you mutter. “But only because you’re bossy.”

He doesn’t dignify that with an answer. He just takes your wrist and tugs you down a different alley, cape brushing your arm as he half-drags you back toward the safer streets. He doesn’t let go until the noise has faded and the streetlamps burn steady again.

When you reach the corner near your house, he finally stops. Folds his arms. “You’re gonna stay put this time?”

“Yes, mom,” you shoot back, rolling your eyes. For the first time, he cracks a smile. Just a twitch of his mouth, quick and bright, before he shakes his head like he can’t believe you.

“Unbelievable,” he mutters. “You’re lucky you’re not grounded for life.”

And then he’s gone, a flash of cape against the skyline.

You stand there on your street corner, heart pounding for reasons that have nothing to do with mobsters, and think, So Robin is shorter than expected. Bossier. Maybe even kind of annoying.

But also…he might just be the most interesting person you’ve ever met.

-

The second time you see him, it’s by accident. At least, that’s what you tell yourself. You weren’t looking for him. You swear you weren’t. You were only out walking because your apartment felt suffocating and Gotham, for all its broken glass and shadows, still felt like it might offer air. But when you cut down Burnside Avenue, past the flickering neon of the diner, he drops from the fire escape two feet in front of you. The cape swishes. The boots hit concrete.

“Seriously?” he mutters. “What are you doing out here again?”

You nearly jump out of your sneakers. “Oh my god! Do you always sneak up on people like that?”

“Yeah, it’s kind of my thing.” He’s glaring, but it doesn’t land right. His mouth is tight, sure, but his voice sounds more like a boy caught between annoyance and…something else. Worry, maybe. “You don’t learn, do you? Crime Alley ring any bells?”

You cross your arms. “I wasn’t in Crime Alley. I was, like, three blocks over.”

“That’s not the point.” He sighs, the sound way too old for his age. “Gotham’s not safe for late-night strolls.”

You almost tell him it’s not safe in daylight either, but then you catch it; the way his shoulders hunch, like the weight of protecting a whole city has been shoved into bones that haven’t even finished growing. And suddenly you don’t feel like arguing. Instead, you shrug, pretending casual. “You always hang around diners waiting for girls to wander by?”

His mask tilts toward you, eyes narrowing. Then, to your surprise, he huffs a laugh. It’s short, almost embarrassed. “You think I was waiting for you?”

“Well, were you?”

“No.” Too fast. “I mean…no.”

But later, when you climb the fire escape to your roof and find him sitting there, swinging his legs like he owns the place, you realize you don’t actually believe him.

-

The roof of your building isn’t glamorous. Tar paper bubbled from rain, rust stains streaking down the side of the water tank, the occasional pigeon that refuses to be intimidated by you. But when you push the heavy door open and step out, the air feels different. Gotham’s hum is still there, sirens, horns, the buzz of neon, but up here it doesn’t press as hard against your ribs.

And more often than not lately, he’s already there. Robin sits cross-legged on the ledge, or sprawled on his back with one arm thrown over his eyes, cape fanned around him like he doesn’t care how ridiculous it looks. Sometimes he drops down a few seconds after you arrive, startling you with the scrape of boots on metal. Either way, it starts to feel like a routine: your door creaking, his head lifting, both of you pretending not to be waiting for each other.

“Busy night?” you ask one evening, sliding down to sit a safe distance away.

“Busier than yours,” he deadpans. “You know, most people spend their nights doing homework. Watching TV. Not scaling fire escapes.”

“Homework doesn’t come with a view.” You tilt your head at the skyline. Gotham glitters in a way that almost tricks you into thinking it’s beautiful.

He snorts, but when you glance sideways, you catch the corner of his mouth twitching like he’s trying not to smile. That’s how it always goes. You jab at him, he pretends he’s above it, and somewhere in between, you both soften.

-

Over time, the conversations stretch longer. You tell him about your dad, how he’s never home, how he burns through notebooks and cups of stale coffee like they’re oxygen. How you’re not sure if you admire him or resent him, and how sometimes it feels like Gotham chews your family as much as it does everyone else.

Robin doesn’t laugh, doesn’t brush it off. He just sits there, chin in his gloved hand, listening like every word is weighty. When you finish, he nods once, sharp and certain, like he’s filing it away as important.

And then, in quieter moments, he lets pieces of himself slip through. Not many, always measured, always cautious, but enough. How Batman trains him until his bones ache. How his armor never feels like it fits, how the bruises bloom in places no one ever sees. How sometimes he doesn’t know if he’s saving Gotham or if Gotham is slowly eating him alive.

His voice is always lower when he says those things, almost lost to the hum of the city. Like he’s afraid of being overheard by shadows.

You never tell him, but that’s when the crush starts. Not the giggling, diary-scrawled kind your friends whisper about. This is quieter. He isn’t even cute, not really. His ears stick out, his voice still cracks if he laughs too hard, his nose looks like it’s been broken once already. But he carries himself like every problem in Gotham belongs to him, and when he looks at you, you feel like you matter in a way the city never lets you.

-

Some nights you talk about nothing at all. Pizza debates that spiral into full-blown arguments.

“New Trioni’s is better than Angelo’s. Don’t argue with me, I’m right.”

“You’re so wrong,” he shoots back, mock-offended. “Trioni’s slices flop over like wet paper. Angelo’s can hold its shape when you fold it.”

“Who folds their pizza?” you demand, eyes wide.

“Real Gothamites,” he says with all the gravitas of someone who’s fourteen and just learning what the word “gravitas” means.

The bickering lasts twenty minutes, ending with you scribbling “TRIONI’S > ANGELO’S” on the back of your notebook and holding it up in his face until he swats at you.

Other nights, you complain about teachers. Yours, who you swear has made it their personal mission to fail you, and his, who he can’t talk about too much but still slips through in hints. “It’s like… training disguised as lessons. Fail and you do push-ups until your arms give out.”

You tell him that’s got to be child abuse. He rolls his eyes. “It’s Gotham.”

-

It happens on a night when Gotham feels especially sharp. The air smells like rain on copper pipes, and somewhere far off a siren wails, long and low. You’d promised yourself you wouldn’t sneak out again, but promises don’t hold much weight in this city. You’d only been a few blocks from home when the shouting started. Two guys fighting over a busted radio, the kind of thing you should’ve ignored. You’d frozen, pulse climbing, when one of them noticed you watching.

It doesn’t take long. Heavy footsteps. A hand grabbing too close to your arm.  And then he’s there. Robin drops from the fire escape like a shadow snapping into place. A blur of red, green, and anger. His boot catches the guy’s chest, sends him sprawling. The other one bolts.

“You again,” he grits out as he drags you behind him, voice cracking just enough to remind you he’s not much older than you.

You mean to thank him, but the words catch when you see him stumble. Just a hitch, a fraction of a limp as he turns. His arm is tight against his side, hand flexing like he’s trying not to use it.

“Are you hurt?” you blurt.

“I’m fine.” He tries for firm, but it’s more defensive than convincing.

“You’re bleeding,” you insist, catching the dark smear seeping through his tunic.

“I said I’m fine.”

“You’re not.” Your voice sharpens, louder than you mean it to. “And you’re not going back out there until you let me look.”

He stares at you, eyes unreadable behind the mask, like he’s calculating the odds of you actually tackling him if he refuses. Finally, with a long, theatrical sigh, he mutters, “Fine. Five minutes.”

-

Your apartment is embarrassingly small. Peeling wallpaper. A couch with stuffing trying to claw its way out of the seams. The bathroom’s worse, barely enough room for the sink, the tub, and both of you crammed inside.

“Sit,” you order, tugging at his wrist until he perches awkwardly on the closed toilet lid, cape spilling over the floor like dark water.

“This is unnecessary,” he says, though his voice wobbles when you press a towel against his ribs.

“Unnecessary is bleeding out in a back alley,” you snap, trying to hold your hands steady. The towel comes away red. Too red. “God, do you even know how to take care of yourself?”

His eyes flick up at you then, sharp, defensive, but there’s something softer underneath. Something that makes your stomach twist.

“You sound like him,” he mutters.

“Batman?”

He doesn’t answer, but the silence is enough. You grab the first aid kit from under the sink, bandages, alcohol wipes, the kind of things your dad keeps for paper cuts and clumsy accidents, not vigilantes. Still, you make it work.

“Hold still,” you warn, tearing open an alcohol pad.

“I am still.”

“You’re fidgeting.”

“You’re bossy.”

“Better bossy than dead.”

That finally earns you the tiniest smile, quick and crooked, gone almost before you register it.

You’re close now, too close. Kneeling in front of him, hands braced against his side as you patch what you can. The smell of leather and sweat clings to his tunic, the faintest hint of smoke in his hair. His breathing evens under your touch, like he’s not used to anyone bothering to fix him up.

When you look up, his eyes are already on you. The mask gleams under the bathroom’s weak light, distorting him into something untouchable. And suddenly it feels wrong. Wrong to be this close to someone whose face you can’t really see.

“You ever get tired of it?” you ask quietly. “The mask?”

His shoulders tense. He looks away, down at the cracked tiles. For a second you think he won’t answer. Then his hands lift, hesitant and slow.

The domino comes off.

You freeze. It’s not some hardened soldier under there. Not a myth. Just a boy. Hair damp and stubborn where sweat’s plastered it to his forehead. Eyes too big, too tired, too human. A face you recognize from posters years ago—the acrobat from Haly’s Circus.

“…you’re Dick Grayson,” you breathe, the name spilling out before you can stop it.

His chin tips up, defensive. “You gonna tell anyone?”

“Of course not.” The words fall out fast, desperate to close the space between you. “I’d never.”

He studies you, eyes searching your face like he’s bracing for betrayal. Whatever he sees must be enough, because his shoulders ease, his breath lets out slow. “I shouldn’t have told you,” he mutters. “Batman would kill me if he knew.”

You nudge his knee with yours, a tiny grin tugging at your lips despite the tight knot in your chest. “Guess it’s a good thing Batman doesn’t know everything.”

For the first time, he laughs. Really laughs. It’s uneven, boyish, and it shoots straight through you, leaving you dizzy. And in that cramped little bathroom, with the hum of the city seeping through the cracked window and the smell of antiseptic sharp in the air, you realize this isn’t just Robin anymore. It isn’t just Dick Grayson either. It’s both.

And it feels like a secret only you get to keep.

-

The day you find out you’re leaving, it doesn’t feel real. Your dad doesn’t sit you down or soften it, he just mutters over cold coffee and half-packed files, “It’s not safe anymore. We’re going. End of discussion.”

That’s all you get. No details, no vote. By nightfall, cardboard boxes are stacked in the living room, your whole life folded and taped shut. Gotham shrinks to the size of a trunk and a suitcase. You don’t cry. Not right away. But when the apartment gets quiet, when your dad slams another box closed and the walls echo hollow, you slip out the window and climb.

The roof is empty at first. No cape on the ledge, no boy dangling his boots. Just the hum of the city below, as if it doesn’t care you’re about to vanish. You wrap your arms around yourself and stare out at the skyline, hoping, willing, he’ll show.

And then, like he always does, he drops into place beside you. “You weren’t gonna say goodbye?” he asks, voice soft under the gravel.

Your throat goes tight. “I didn’t know how.”

He doesn’t say anything. Just sits there, mask half-lit by the flicker of a neon sign, waiting.

So you talk. About how your dad’s stories finally drew the wrong kind of attention. About how Gotham feels like it’s about to spit your family out after chewing through you all so thoroughly there will be nothing left, and this time there’s no choice but to run. About how much you hate leaving; not the apartment, not even the city, but this. These nights. This secret. Him.

He listens like he always does, quiet and intent, the kind of quiet that means he’s holding every word.

Finally, you look at him and whisper, “I don’t want to forget this.”

Something flickers in his expression, too quick to name. He shifts, pulling the domino mask off and turning it in his hands until the edges press little crescents into his palms.

“Then don’t,” he says simply. “Don’t forget me.”

Your heart lodges in your throat. You want to tell him you won’t, that you couldn’t if you tried. You want to tell him that the crush you’ve been burying is bigger than you can hold, that you’re leaving with a piece of yourself you didn’t know you’d given away. But you’re fourteen, and the words are too big, too heavy.

So instead you nod, fiercely, until the tears blur the skyline. “I won’t.”

For a moment, you swear he leans like he might say something else. Might ask you to stay, might admit he doesn’t want to forget either. But then your dad’s voice calls up from the street, sharp and impatient, and the moment shatters.

You stand. He stays seated, mask still in his hands, like he can’t quite put it back on. You want to hug him, to make the promise tangible, but you’re not sure if that’s allowed, so you just hold his gaze for one more beat and whisper, “Goodbye, Dick.”

“Goodbye,” he echoes, voice raw around the edges.

You don’t look back as you climb down the fire escape, suitcase handle cutting into your palm. The car door slams, your dad starts the engine, and Gotham begins to slide past the windows like a dream smearing at the edges.

But when you finally let yourself glance back, there he is, perched on the rooftop, cape trailing behind him, mask dangling loose in his hands.

A boy too small for the weight he carries, silhouetted against a city that will never stop asking more. Watching you leave like it’s the last thing he’ll ever let himself do.

And then the car turns the corner, and he’s gone.

-

You’d always told yourself you weren’t keeping tabs, not really. But the truth is you couldn’t help it. Gotham’s headlines are hard to ignore. Batman never vanished; he’s a permanent fixture in the background of every crisis, every scandal, every blurred photograph of a cape against a floodlight.

Robin was there too, at least for a while. But not your Robin. This one was smaller, sharper, someone else’s kid in colors that weren’t his. The news never explained the swap. Gotham doesn’t explain anything.

As for Dick Grayson? You never let yourself look too hard. Some nights in Metropolis, you’d type his name into a search bar, just to hover over the letters. Circus boy, ward of Bruce Wayne, rumored dropout. Then you’d slam the laptop closed before the results could load. It felt like breaking some unspoken promise, like trespassing on a secret that had only ever been yours.

So you let him fade into the background of your memory. Or tried to. Life went on. You grew up. Metropolis U gave you a degree you’re still not sure you earned. You dated a little, kissed boys who didn’t make your chest ache the way rooftop laughter once did. You told yourself you were moving forward, not circling back. And yet, here you are. Returning to Gotham with a job at the paper, retracing your father’s path like a shadow.

Your dad isn’t with you this time. He’s staying behind, insisting he’s too old for Gotham’s grind. So it’s just you and your boxes, your byline, and the faint echo of footsteps on tar paper that you never really forgot.

You pause on the corner outside your new apartment, suitcase wheels caught on a crack in the sidewalk. Gotham breathes heavy around you; neon flicker, taxi horn, the muffled thump of bass from a club down the street.

You wonder, not for the first time, if you’ll see him. And just as quickly, you remind yourself: probably not. Gotham eats people. It chews them up, spits them out, and even the ones who survive don’t always stick around.

Still, when you climb the steps and let yourself into the dim little apartment, you can’t help glancing out the window at the rooflines beyond. Half of you expects to see a flash of cape, the silhouette of a boy you once knew.

But the skyline is empty.

-

By now, Gotham has settled into your bones again. It’s been months since you unpacked your last box, months since you stopped flinching at the way the city exhales smoke and sirens instead of air. The novelty wore off fast. Gotham is like that; she lets you think she’s offering something new, then reminds you it was always just grit and rot under the paint.

Your nights taste like coffee grounds and exhaustion, your mornings like stale bagels eaten while jogging across crosswalks. The newsroom smells of burnt ink and anxiety, and it clings to you even when you leave.

So when your editor sent you chasing whispers across the river, you didn’t think twice. Blüdhaven, he’d said, a smuggling ring near the docks. Gotham’s smaller, meaner cousin, the kind of place your dad used to warn you about but still sent you to buy fireworks from when you were twelve.

You’d told yourself you could handle it. Gotham-born, seasoned on backstreets and rooftops, no stranger to shadows. You’ve always been too curious for your own good.

Turns out curiosity doesn’t count for much when the alley closes in on you.

-

Blüdhaven smells worse than Gotham. Like saltwater left too long in a rusty bucket, sharp and sour all at once. The alley is narrow, brick pressing close on either side, graffiti bleeding into one another under the yellow smear of a streetlamp. You’d only meant to skirt the block, maybe snap a photo of the cargo crates stacked like crooked teeth along the waterline. Instead, you’ve got three men cutting you off, their boots heavy, their breath reeking of stale beer.

The wall is cold against your back.

“Where you think you’re going, sweetheart?” one asks, voice slick. He’s taller than you, bulkier too, the kind of man who’s never been told no in a way that stuck.

Your pulse kicks hard. Your mind tries to measure exits, two steps left, maybe a sprint to the chain-link, but they’re already tightening the circle. The sound of their shoes on wet concrete echoes too loud, too final.

Your hand clamps around your notebook, knuckles white. For one mad second you consider swinging it like a weapon. And then the air splits.

He comes from above. A shadow drops out of the night, suit a streak of ink, boots hitting the first man’s chest with a crack that rattles the brick. The impact sends him sprawling, air rushing out of his lungs in a howl. The second man barely has time to register movement before a blur of blue arcs through the dim. The escrima stick connects with his jaw, a clean, efficient crack that folds him sideways.

The third curses, steel flashing as he pulls a knife, but it’s useless. The stranger moves faster, duck, twist, wrist locked and wrenched. The blade clatters uselessly to the ground. A sharp elbow, a spin, and the man collapses onto the damp concrete, groaning. It takes less than a minute. You don’t breathe until it’s over. Then theres silence.

The three men groan in a heap, nursing their bruises, and you’re left standing in the mouth of the alley with your notebook pressed to your chest like a shield.

He straightens. Under the weak streetlight, he looks unreal. Black and blue armor clings to broad shoulders, the stylized bird spreading across his chest in sharp, gleaming lines. He spins one escrima stick in his hand like it weighs nothing, the move so casual it’s showy. The mask gleams, eyes whited out, hiding everything but the shape of his mouth, the curve of his jaw.

And then he turns to you.

“Still can’t stay out of trouble, huh?” The voice hits first. Familiar enough to send a jolt through you. It’s smoother now, deeper, no trace of the cracks it used to have, but you know it. You know it like you know your own pulse.

Your knees nearly give. “I-what?”

He steps closer, head cocked, smirk curling at his mouth like he’s been waiting years to use it. Except there’s nothing boyish about him anymore. His shoulders fill the armor like it was built for him, lines sleek and lethal. His movements hum with confidence, a looseness earned from years of knowing exactly what he can do and knowing everyone else is a step behind.

The mask hides half his face, but what it doesn’t hide is worse. The jawline is sharper, cut like someone sculpted it with glass. His mouth is curved in a smile that’s both infuriating and magnetic. His body radiates energy, command, like he could take on the whole block if you dared him.

Your brain scrambles. This isn’t the boy you knew. This isn’t the awkward kid who smudged ink into your margins and laughed too hard at your jokes. For a second you’re convinced you’ve conjured him out of memory. That your exhaustion and the shadows stitched together a hallucination just to taunt you.

And then, like he knows you need proof, he lifts his hands and peels the mask away.

The world tilts.

“…Dick?” It’s his eyes that betray him. Blue. Bright. The exact shade you’d memorized years ago under the moonlight on your roof. But steadier now. Sharper. Older.

“Hi.” His grin spreads slow, deliberate, every inch of it self-satisfied. “Miss me?”

You forget how to breathe. Because this…this is really not the boy you left. Not your awkward crush with too-big ears and a voice that squeaked mid-laugh. Not the kid who leaned stiffly when you first bumped his shoulder.

This is a man. He’s taller, towering over you in a way that makes the brick wall at your back feel unnecessary. Every inch of him looks carved, built, honed. His arms ripple with muscle that wasn’t there before, his chest fills the blue emblem like it was made to draw the eye. His hair is longer, darker, his mouth sharper, the grin edged with confidence you don’t know how to stand against.

He looks like someone who walked out of a fantasy you never would’ve dared to put on paper.

You blink once. Twice. Three times. Your brain refuses to reconcile the two images; the scowling boy with smudged gloves and this unfairly gorgeous man standing in front of you. “What… what happened to you?” The words fly out, strangled, mortifying. Heat floods your face before you can stop it.

His eyebrow arches. He tucks the mask into his belt, casual. “Puberty?”

It should be funny. And it is funny. The corner of your mouth twitches in betrayal, a laugh half-born and dying in your throat. But your chest is twisting, hard, because you can still see him underneath it all. Still see the boy who leaned too far forward on ledges, who let his laugh crack when he forgot to control it. The boy who told you secrets in the dark and asked you not to forget.

And now here he is, all swagger and charm and jawlines that should be illegal. Handsome in a way that would be arrogance if he couldn’t back it up with every move he just made. Your pulse is hammering, and the spiral is real. What do you do with a crush that was built on personality, on earnestness and laughter and responsibility, when it comes packaged now in a body like this? When it’s sharpened into something magnetic, commanding, impossible to look away from?

You stare at him, dazed, like you’re trying to catch up to reality. “You… you were not this good-looking when we were kids.”

His grin only widens, cocky and warm all at once. “So you were paying attention.”

You want the ground to open up and swallow you whole. Because Gotham didn’t just chew Dick Grayson up and spit him back out. It reforged him into something you are absolutely not ready for.

For a few stunned seconds after he speaks, you stand there and do nothing but hear your heart in your ears. The alley is wet and ringing; distant gulls, a siren far-off, the tinny drip-drip of a faulty gutter. One of the guys on the ground groans, rolls over, thinks better of it, and stays facedown. The streetlamp above you flickers like it’s chewing glass.

“Okay,” you manage finally, voice rasped thin. “Okay.”

“Yeah,” he says, softer now. He tips his head, searches your face like he’s tracing the years there. Then, practical as a tide, he tucks the mask back over his eyes. The Nightwing look clicks into place with a finality that makes your stomach dip. “Walk with me,” he adds. “This block’s loud for all the wrong reasons.”

He offers a hand. Warm leather. Callused palm. The glove creaks when you take it, and you try very hard not to catalog the new details; how much larger his hand feels than it used to, how steady it is, the easy strength under the restraint. He doesn’t tug so much as guide, falling into step beside you like your bodies remember the distance they’ve always kept.

You exit the alley into air that smells like engine oil and salt-stung wood. The docks breathe: winches clicking, a forklift grumbling, water slapping pilings in a thawed rhythm. Nightwing angles you toward the brighter avenue, keeping himself between you and the shadows without making a show of it. His presence folds around you the way his cape used to on rooftops; same instinct, different body.

“You’re really here,” you say, because it’s the only sentence that keeps starting in your brain.

“So are you,” he answers. “Thought I was hallucinating when I saw you in that alley. Journalism, huh?”

“It runs in the family,” you say, apologetic and defiant all at once.

He hums. “I noticed.”

“You noticed?”

“Hard to miss,” he says, like it’s obvious. “Bylines. Two pieces on the housing ordinance, a profile on the Jackson Street food pantry, a fire that shouldn’t have spread as fast as it did. Your ledes are cleaner. Fewer adverbs.”

You blink at him. “You… read them?”

He shrugs one shoulder. The motion makes the blue stripe arc over muscle in a way that should be illegal. “I keep an eye on Gotham. And people who used to live on rooftops with me.”

It takes a few steps to realize your face is doing the warm thing again. You look away, huff out a laugh like you can steam the heat into the Blüdhaven night. “Still a critic.”

“Still right,” he says, and there’s the grin; quick, bright, and edged with something fond. “You got sharper.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning,” he says, tilting his chin, “you’re not the kid who followed trouble because it glittered. You followed it in there because you had a plan. You clocked their shoes before their faces. You kept your notebook hand free. You put your back to a wall.”

You glance up at him. “You saw all that in, what, thirty seconds?”

“Ten,” he says, entirely too pleased with himself. “Give or take.”

The walk bleeds you out toward the waterfront road. Nightwing crosses you behind a stack of palettes with the same unthinking choreography he used to have on rooftops. One hand light against your elbow, a check for traffic, the quick tilt of his head as his comm crackles something at him you can’t hear. He answers it without breaking stride, then flicks the channel off and comes back to you like you’re the station he meant to tune to all along.

“Your dad?” he asks after a beat.

“Back in Metropolis,” you say. “He says he’s retired. I give it six months.”

His mouth pulls wry. “Retirement never sticks.”

“Does it for you?” The question flies out before you can leash it. You mean it to be casual; it lands heavier, threaded with too many years, too many unsent searches of his name at one a.m.

He doesn’t flinch. “Didn’t for me,” he says. “I needed… different air. A city I could learn without being measured against a cape that walks like thunder.”

“Blüdhaven,” you say. “Gotham left out in the rain.”

He huffs a laugh. “Something like that.” Then he glances at you from under the curve of the mask, gravity sliding back in. “It grows on you if you let it. Like mold. Or a stray.”

“Romantic,” you deadpan.

“Hey, I never promised romance,” he lies very badly, because even his walk is a little romantic now, loose-hipped and careful in the dark, shoulder brushing yours when the sidewalk narrows, the night clicking into place around him like it’s learned the shape of his stride.

You pass a shuttered bait shop with a neon marlin blinking. A stray cat watches you from a garbage can lid, eyes pearls in the lamplight. Your shoes squeak; his steps don’t make sound at all. Every few yards he scans the roofs with that lifted chin. You remember the gesture, how it used to be smaller on a smaller body, and you picture the mental map overlaid on what your eyes see: viable fire escapes, plausible ambushes, routes-out stitched in blue light.

“How long were you on that roof?” you ask. “Before you dropped in.”

He contemplates the question like it has a proper answer. “Long enough to count three sets of footsteps and a knife. Not long enough to forgive you later if you’d been stubborn enough to run.”

“I wasn’t going to run,” you start, then hedge, “for long.”

He barks a laugh. It slides into something softer before it’s done. “You’re… different,” he says, the word careful, as if he’s testing the edges to make sure it won’t cut.

“Older,” you offer.

“That, yeah.” The corner of his mouth tugs. “But it’s not just that. You walk like you own your space now, not like you’re renting it. You look people in the eye longer. You… speak headline and copy without thinking.” He flicks his gaze over you, deliberate enough that you feel seen rather than scanned. “You still don’t fold your pizza, I bet.”

“I will die on that hill,” you say gravely.

“You will die incorrect,” he returns, equally grave, and a piece of rooftop-laughter that you thought you’d boxed up somewhere years ago shakes itself awake and trots between you like it never left.

“Okay, Mr. Puberty,” you say, putting a hand to your chest as if to ward off the unfairness. “Since we’re making observations, what exactly are you eating to look like you could bench-press a yacht?”

“Protein bars and spite,” he says, deadpan. “Mostly spite.”

You trip on a cracked tile and he catches you without thinking, a warm bracket at your elbow and the lightest pressure of his other hand at your hip to steady you. It lasts half a blink, then he’s gone again, space restored, the afterimage of touch ringing in your nerves like a bell. The alley stench loosens for a second, and you catch the smell of him beneath leather and city: clean soap, ozone, summer heat trapped in fabric that moves like skin.

“Thanks,” you say belatedly, and hope he can’t see the flush doing somersaults up your throat.

“Occupational hazard,” he says lightly. “Saving journalists who don’t fold their pizza.”

“I saved the notebook,” you argue, brandishing it. “That counts as self-preservation.”

His eyes crinkle. “God, I missed that.”

You were not prepared for those words. They land like a warm hand on your sternum, like the exact right weight after too many years of empty space. You swallow once, twice. The docks open into a long, bleak avenue where the streetlights flock in nervous clusters. He steers you toward the brighter end.

“I kept tabs,” you admit, voice tucking itself small. “Not… really. Not like a creep. Just… Batman was always there, and then there was a Robin who wasn’t my Robin, and I didn’t…” You shake your head, chase off the tangle. “Sometimes I typed your name and closed the laptop before the results could load. It felt wrong, like prying at something that was mine because you gave it to me.”

He walks a few slow steps without answering. The night stretches, thin and elastic. When he finally speaks, it’s soft, the timbre reaching you beneath the noise. “I’m glad you didn’t,” he says. “Go looking, I mean. Part of me… needed to earn being found.”

You glance up. His expression is harder to read with the mask back on, but the mouth, older now, yes, and built for trouble, goes gentle in the corners. He kicks at a pebble; it skitters into the gutter. “The leaving was messy,” he says. “I had to be more than a shadow to a shadow.”

“And now you’re a bird,” you say. “Blue suits you.”

“Figures you’d appreciate the re-branding,” he says lightly, then, “yours does too, though.”

“What?”

“The re-brand. It suits you,” he says, and there’s a smile in his voice now that didn’t exist when he was fourteen. “You grew up into your name. Your bylines. Your whole… thing. It looks good on you.”

You stare at him, cheeks doing that heat thing again. “My… thing.”

“Your spine,” he clarifies, and the tease bumps to the side to let the truth through. “You always had one. It just… fits you better now.”

The ridiculous urge to cry chooses that exact moment to crest, so you let out a little choking laugh instead and look at a billboard for a discount mattress warehouse like it’s fascinating art. “You’ve gotten complimentary in your old age,” you mutter.

“It’s the protein bars,” he says, solemn, and you trip into laughter that tastes like your rooftop nights, cold air, the city in your lungs, the right person at your shoulder. A night bus sways past; he slow-blinks away the wind grit. You fall quiet for a block, footsteps scuffing in sync. Somewhere inland, someone’s playing a radio too loud. It spills a chorus that means nothing and everything past the brick and rebar.

“You’re staying?” he asks eventually. “Gotham, I mean. Not a six-month and run?”

“I’m staying,” you say, and feel the words set in your body like a foundation finally poured. “When I told my dad, he said it’s my turn to decide what Gotham is to me.”

He nods, thoughtful. “Blüdhaven’s an extension of the same storm. We share weather fronts.” His mouth twists, fond and rueful. “I’ll be around.”

“You always are,” you say before you can help it.

He glances sidelong, and the grin that takes his face then is uncomplicatedly pleased. It should be arrogant; somehow it just looks like sunlight found a gap in the boards. You wonder how many people get to see that one and decide maybe you don’t want to know.

A woman behind a plexiglass window sells cigarettes and bus passes. The night wind lifts the edges of the taped notices, makes them whisper. You stop under the awning, the two of you edged into the white noise of the fluorescents, and the city swivels into a gentler key.

“I can call you a car,” he says. “Or,” He hesitates, then crooks two fingers. From somewhere you don’t see, a motorcycle growls to life, a sleek, low thing that rolls obediently out of the gloom to settle at the curb like a well-trained animal. He pats the seat with absent affection. “I can take you back.”

You stare. “Did you name it? Like the Nightcycle or something equally as lame?”

“I absolutely did not,” he lies, horrendously, then swings a leg over and steadies the bike with a boot. Up close, he’s too much again; too many lines and angles that weren’t there the last time you catalogued him, too much easy strength, too much blue. “Helmet,” he says, offering one out. It’s heavier than you expect; when you take it, your fingers brush, leather over skin, static jumping.

You hesitate. “Are you going to drive like a responsible citizen?”

He gives you a look that is eighty percent angel, twenty percent criminal. “Define responsible.”

“Alive when we get there.”

“Deal.”

You settle onto the bike behind him with the kind of care that admits you are about to do a reckless thing on purpose. Your knees fit against his hips like there’s only one way to sit; your hands find the line of his jacket and pause, hovering. He reaches back without looking, takes your wrists, and draws your arms around his waist until your palms meet. The gesture is matter-of-fact and wildly intimate. You can feel him laughing, silent and low, at your ear.

“Still bossy,” you say, because your voice needs somewhere to put the tremor.

“I remember you like being told what to do,” he says, and then, so quick and soft you almost miss it, “Sometimes.”

It shouldn’t hit the way it does. It shouldn’t make heat pool low in your stomach, shouldn’t make your pulse trip against your throat, shouldn’t leave you wondering if the helmet’s padding is enough to hide the color climbing up your cheeks. But it does.

You laugh, helpless, a little breathless, because if you don’t laugh, you might actually whimper. The sound crackles in your throat and goes thin in the rush of the night air. You can feel the vibration of the engine through your thighs, the leather of his jacket under your hands, the solid line of his body in front of you, and now, layered over all of that, his words, humming through your nerves in a way that feels dangerously good.

He glances back once, eyes catching yours over his shoulder, mask bright in the streetlight. The look is quick, but it’s enough. He knows what he said. He knows how it landed. And then the bike glides into the street, smooth and certain, as if nothing in the world has shifted, even though everything inside you just did.

The city rushes at you, neon and shadow blurring into ribbons. You clutch harder without meaning to, breath hitching, and he adjusts his posture just enough to shield you from the first hard push of wind. The shift presses your chest closer to his back, your knees locking tighter against his hips.

Your chin bumps the back of his shoulder. There’s damp salt there, leather warmed by body heat, and the sound of him breathing, steady, rhythmic, the same cadence you used to fall asleep to on rooftops when he kept watch.

The bike thrums beneath you, vibration rolling up through your thighs, settling into your stomach, buzzing in places you don’t want to admit are suddenly very awake. Every curve of the road asks you to lean with him, to trust the drop of his weight and the strength in his shoulders, and every time you do, you feel him there under your hands; solid, certain, unshakable.

He doesn’t go fast. He goes sure. The kind of riding that says I know this grid with my eyes shut and my hands tied, and I am choosing to bring you home. But the steadiness only makes it worse; it gives you time to notice everything.

The way his body heat seeps into you through layers of leather. The flex of muscle when he shifts gears, the ripple of his stomach under your forearm as he leans into a turn. The casual way his hand adjusts the throttle, so close you imagine what it would feel like if he used that grip on you.

At a light, he puts a boot down, head turning just enough that you catch the angle of his jaw beneath the mask. He checks on you without a word. You don’t know if he can see the flush burning under your helmet, but you feel seen all the same, and it does nothing to calm the pounding in your chest.

When the light changes, he rolls forward, and you press into him again, tighter this time, because the vibration and the closeness are unraveling you inch by inch. Small things, all of them, his steadiness, his quiet, the way his body seems to know yours is there and adjusts like it belongs pressed against him.

They add up to something you don’t let yourself name yet, but you feel it everywhere.

The bike growls to a halt a block from your building. The engine cuts, and in the sudden hush the night feels sharp, like the air itself is watching. The silence rings in your ears after miles of vibration. He doesn’t move right away. He reaches back instead, gloved fingers brushing over yours where they’re still hooked around his waist. A silent reminder: you can let go now.

You don’t. Not immediately. Your fingers unclasp a second too late, reluctant to surrender the heat of him, the solid line of his body. He feels it, he has to, and yet he doesn’t call you out, just slides his hands free of the handlebars with a kind of deliberate patience.

He swings one leg over and plants his boots on the ground, bracing the bike steady with practiced ease. Then, before you can fumble an exit, he turns and holds a hand out. “Careful,” he says. His voice is rougher than you remember, steady but edged with something lower, something weightier. “It’s a little taller than you think.”

You could protest. Tell him you’ve managed steps taller than this since kindergarten. But the way he’s standing there, broad and sure, palm open, the easy invitation of it, undoes you in a way stairs never could.

You take it. His hand is warm through the leather, steady as you swing your leg back over the bike. You slide down too close, body brushing his chest for the briefest moment. The contact snaps across you like static. You feel the give of his armor under your shoulder, the heat rolling off him in a wave, the faint tang of leather and sweat that clings to him.

It should be over in an instant. Just a hand-off. But his grip lingers, a fraction longer than necessary, fingers tightening almost imperceptibly around yours. Enough that you notice. Enough that your breath catches, shallow and sharp, before you tug back.

You’re on your own two feet now, the pavement gritty beneath your shoes, but your body is still buzzing from the bike, from him. Your pulse is thudding in your ears, your palms hot where his gloves touched.

“Still trouble,” he says at last, because he can’t help himself.

“Still bossy,” you volley back, because you can’t either. But this time, it doesn’t feel like banter tossed across a rooftop. It feels like a line pulled taut between you, humming with something you’ve both pretended not to hear for years.

He studies you for another long, unapologetic moment. His voice, when it comes, slips a layer down. “You grew up, you know.”

You swallow. “So did you.”

“Yeah,” he says, and it sounds like he’s acknowledging an ocean and a bridge and a lot of half-built scaffolding. His mouth curves, not the cocky smirk he used in the alley, but something older, carved from relief and surprise and the joy of recognizing someone in a crowd. “Feels like we should…” He gestures, uselessly, as if the city might supply the word.

“Pizza,” you say, because the universe clearly wants callbacks. “So I can prove you’re wrong.”

“You won’t,” he says immediately, but his eyes go bright, pleased, like you just handed him the right answer to a test he wanted you to enjoy taking.

He reaches into a belt pouch, produces a small black rectangle you’d charitably call a phone if phones weren’t usually made by people not afraid of the apocalypse. He toggles it awake, thumbs something in. When he looks up, he’s all business again, but the softened corners remain. “Same roofline,” he says. “Different skyline. You call, I land.”

“Is that your way of giving me your number?” you ask, amused and a little breathless.

“It’s my way of saying I read your ledes and I don’t want to do that from far away anymore,” he says, and that’s it. That’s the line that carves through every defense like they were drawn in chalk.

“Okay,” you say, because a bigger word would crack your throat right now. “Nightwing?”

“Mmm?”

“Thanks for the rescue.”

He dips his head once, like you just pinned a medal on him he didn’t expect to care about. “Anytime, Trouble.”

He fits the mask better on his face, swings onto the bike, and then he’s gone, blurring back into the dark with a roar that falls away quick, swallowed by Blüdhaven’s wet lungs. You stand there in the sodium light, hair mussed by a wind you’ll be thinking about for hours, hands stupidly empty of leather and heat, and you try to file this under something. Reunion. Whiplash. Beginning again.

The city exhales. Somewhere a gull laughs like it knows something. You look down at your notebook; rain freckles have started to drink through the top page. On instinct, you flip to a clean sheet, jot three words at the top: Familiar. Stranger. Home.

-

You fall into a new rhythm without meaning to.  It starts with accidents, running into him on rooftops, in alleys, when your investigations overlap his patrols. But it stops feeling accidental when he begins showing up at your office at the end of your shift, leaning against the wall like he belongs there. When he texts pizza? before you’ve even decided if you’re hungry. When you start leaving your fire escape window cracked, because somehow you know he’ll be there.

It isn’t dating. Not really. But it also isn’t not.

He has made it clear, in every way except saying it out loud over the past few months, that he wants to be in your life. And you? You haven’t decided if you’re brave enough to admit that you want him in yours just as badly.

-

The first time he picks you up after work in his civilian clothes, it knocks you sideways. You’re shuffling out of the newsroom with ink on your fingers, hair pulled back in a half-hearted bun, when you see him leaning against a lamppost. No mask. No armor. Just Dick Grayson in jeans, forearms bare, sunglasses tucked into the collar of his shirt.

He waves like it’s the most normal thing in the world, like he hasn’t just shattered the delicate line you’d kept between “him at night” and “him in the day.”

“What are you doing here?” you demand, adjusting the strap of your bag.

“Picking you up.” He shrugs, casual, like the ground didn’t just shift. “What, you’d rather take the bus?”

“I’m perfectly capable of taking the bus.”

“Sure,” he says, grin tugging at his mouth. “But where’s the fun in that?”

It’s disorienting, walking beside him in broad daylight. You keep expecting people to notice, to point, to whisper Nightwing…but no one looks twice. They just see Dick Grayson, easy in his own skin, fitting himself into your day like he’s been there all along.

And when he slings a leg over the motorcycle and offers you the helmet with that cocky tilt of his head, you don’t argue. Not really.

-

The rhythm builds. Some nights it’s him dropping by your apartment, sprawled on your couch in a t-shirt while you rant about deadlines. Some nights it’s you stitching him up again, fingers brushing skin that’s too warm, too scarred, your pulse thundering at the contact.

“You’re staring,” he says once, voice sly, eyes glinting.

“I’m working,” you snap, fumbling with the gauze.

“You’re staring,” he repeats, softer this time.

You don’t deny it. You can’t. Because sometimes it hits you out of nowhere, the sheer physicality of him. The breadth of his shoulders when he leans against your counter. The casual way he tosses his escrima sticks onto your table, muscles flexing as if they’re part of the furniture. The way his laugh curls low in his chest now, rich enough to make your skin prickle.

You’d had a crush on him once, built on personality and laughter and the relief of being seen. But now that crush is packaged in arms and jawlines and a body that moves like it knows exactly how much power it has…and you don’t know what to do with that.

You catch yourself looking more often than you should. He catches you every time. And the worst part is, he doesn’t seem to mind.

-

Pizza becomes your running joke. Trioni’s booth, sticky varnish under your elbows, slices steaming on paper plates. He folds his, smirking at you the whole time, waiting for your inevitable groan of horror.

“You’re not going to win me over,” you say, waving your floppy slice at him.

“You’ll cave eventually,” he counters, leaning back in the booth, grin sharp and pleased. “I can be very persuasive when I need to be.”

“Not this time.”

He doesn’t break eye contact as he takes a slow bite of his folded slice, chewing like he’s proving a point. It’s ridiculous. It’s infuriating. It’s so goddamn attractive you want to scream.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you mutter.

“Like what?”

“Like you know something I don’t.”

He smirks. “Maybe I do.”

You throw a napkin at him. He laughs, catches it easily, and the sound rings through you like a struck bell.

-

He hadn’t planned to follow you. He hadn’t. His patrol had taken him toward the Narrows, toward the docks, a dozen other places that needed him more than one crowded strip of nightlife where you were laughing too loud in a dress that glittered like you’d stolen the stars.

But the second he spotted you, he stopped. You were walking in the middle of your pack of friends, arm hooked through one of theirs, head thrown back in a laugh that made your hair slip down your shoulders. Your dress caught every scrap of neon, sequins winking like Morse code, and for a second it was all he could see. Sparkling. Distracting. You, right there, alive and incandescent. He told himself to keep moving. To stick to patrol. 

He didn’t. He slipped into the shadows above instead, tracking you from rooftop to rooftop, his body humming with an uneasy mix of irritation and awe. You shouldn’t be out here this late, drunk and stumbling. Gotham eats people like that alive. And yet seeing you bright and unguarded, cheeks flushed, smile wide, it does something to him. Like he’s watching a life he doesn’t belong to but can’t look away from.

Then he hears it.

“Wait, wait, wait,” one of your friends slurs, catching your arm as you teeter on the curb. “You had a crush on Robin? Little Robin? Short shorts and all?” The words hit like a sucker punch. His boots still on the ledge, heart lurching up into his throat.

You groan, dramatic. “Don’t say it like that.”

Laughter erupts, loud and merciless. “I mean, Batman was literally right there,” another says. “Broody, mysterious, tall. And you went for the kid in green?”

“Listen,” you argue, slurring but determined, your hands slicing through the air as you stumble forward with them. “It wasn’t even because he was, like… hot.”

Dick goes still. Breath locked. Not hot. Not Batman. Not Superman. But… him. His fingers curl tight around the edge of the roof until the stone bites through the gloves. The city noise fades under the thunder of his pulse.

Your friends don’t let up. “You were in Metropolis for years! What about Superman? Have you seen him? Gorgeous. Dimples. Arms. Literal sunshine.”

“That’s not the point!” you insist, cutting them off with a shout, your heels clicking unevenly against the pavement. “Robin, he was… earnest, okay? Thoughtful. Responsible. He listened. He…” Your voice softens. Fragile and fierce at the same time. “He made me feel like I mattered.”

The words gut him. Because he remembers. He remembers every night on rooftops, every time you sat beside him with your knees pressed together, every secret you whispered into the dark because you trusted him to hold it. He remembers the way you looked at him like he was more than Batman’s shadow. Like he was enough. 

He’s gripping the ledge so hard he thinks it might crack under his hand.

Your friends are howling again, teasing, “God, you really do have a type. What’s next, Green Lantern?” But he’s not listening anymore. He’s locked on you, on the way your laughter shakes loose and dizzy into the night, on the memory of the boy he used to be, the boy who never believed anyone would pick him.

And here you are, years later, admitting you had. He doesn’t care that you’re drunk. Doesn’t care that you might not remember this tomorrow. Because he will. He’ll remember the conviction in your voice, the way you doubled down, the way you said he made you feel like you mattered.

Up on the ledge, hidden in shadow, Dick feels it burn through him. A match struck in the dark. And he knows he’s not letting you run from this. Next time his eyes linger, next time his hand presses at the small of your back, next time his voice drops lower than it should, you won’t get to brush it off as banter. You won’t get to hide behind excuses. Because you said it. You chose him. You always had. And he thinks you still might. And God help him, he’s not about to let you pretend otherwise.

-

The problem with Dick Grayson isn’t that he doesn’t know how to look at you. It’s that he does. He knows exactly how long to let his eyes linger before you catch him. He knows how to tilt his head so it looks like he’s teasing when it feels like something else. He knows when to let his gaze soften, how to press just enough warmth into it to make you think about things you shouldn’t, not when you’re supposed to be friends.

And this morning, as you’re face-planted into the couch cushions in a tiny, sparkly black dress, head throbbing, stomach rolling, the last thing you need is for Dick Grayson to be looking at you.

Unfortunately, he is.

“Rough night?” His voice is bright, smug, like sunshine filtered through something wicked.

You groan into the cushions. “Go away.”

“No can do.” You hear his boots cross the floor, the quiet shift of weight as he crouches beside the couch. “I figured you’d need a little… moral support. Or maybe electrolytes.”

“I need you to shut up,” you mutter.

He laughs low, warm, and irritatingly fond. “You look like roadkill.”

You lift your head just enough to glare at him. He’s crouched at your side, forearms resting on his knees, hair damp from a shower, dressed down in a t-shirt that clings a little too well. His eyes take you in shamelessly; your hair a mess, mascara smudged, sparkly dress creased from sleep.

“You’re not cute. Don’t look at me,” you mumble, shoving your face back into the couch.

“Too late.” He leans his chin into his palm. “It’s seared into my brain now. You, draped over a sofa like a tragic starlet.”

“Kill me.”

“Nah.” His grin sharpens. “Not when you give me material like this.” You don’t remember how he got in your apartment. You don’t remember much, actually, past stumbling in the door last night and half-collapsing onto the couch. But you do remember the way your friends had teased you on the walk home. Robin. Batman. Superman. And your stubborn, drunken insistence that it had always been Robin.

Heat flushes through you even now, a full-body cringe. God, what if you’d said too much? What if someone had recorded it? What if—

“You snore,” Dick says, breaking into your spiral.

Your head snaps up. “I do not.”

“Like a chainsaw.” He smirks, infuriatingly pleased. “It’s cute, though. Endearing.”

You throw a pillow at him. He catches it one-handed, effortless, then tosses it back onto your stomach, knocking the breath out of you. “Jerk,” you wheeze.

“Roadkill,” he volleys back like he is affirming his earlier statement. The banter is easy, familiar, but there’s an edge to it today. You feel it in the way his eyes keep tracking over you, softer than they should be. In the way he hasn’t moved from his crouch, too close, knees brushing the couch.

You shift, meaning to sit up, but your limbs betray you. Instead you flop sideways, head landing on the pillow, legs still dangling over the armrest, knees bent awkwardly on the floor. Your dress rides higher, glitter catching in the sunlight slanting through the blinds. His gaze flickers, quick and sharp, before snapping back to your face.

“You’re staring,” you accuse.

“You’re imagining,” he shoots back. But his voice is a shade too low, and it twists something in your stomach.

You try to change the subject. “So what, you just decided to drop by and harass me while I’m defenseless?”

“Defenseless, huh?” He leans in, close enough that you smell his soap and the faint tang of leather clinging to him. “Funny. Last night, you didn’t sound very defenseless.”

Your heart stutters. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

His smile turns slow, wicked. “Oh, nothing. Just that you’ve got… interesting taste.”

It hits you like a bucket of ice water. Oh. Oh, no. He heard. He had to have heard.

“Shut up,” you say quickly, too quickly, your cheeks blazing.

“Robin, huh?” he presses, voice feather-light but edged with something deeper. “Not Batman. Not Superman. Me.”

You bury your face in your hands. “I’m never drinking again.”

His laughter curls low in his chest. He nudges your knee with his hand, playful. “Relax. I’m flattered.”

“That makes one of us,” you groan, wishing the couch would swallow you.

But when you peek at him through your fingers, his eyes aren’t just amused. They’re intense, sharp, gleaming with the memory of your drunken confession. He’s not going to let you forget it.

The comedy of errors continues when you try to sit up. Your foot catches on the armrest, your heel slips, and you pitch forward, straight into his chest. He catches you easily, an arm banding around your waist, the other braced on the couch. Suddenly you’re nose-to-nose, his grin right there, his heartbeat loud against your palm where it’s landed on his chest.

“Careful,” he murmurs.

“I hate you,” you whisper, breathless.

“Liar,” he says softly, “You have a crush on me.” And it feels like a strike.

For a second, neither of you moves. The air between you hums, heavy, loaded. His eyes flick down to your mouth before darting back up. You feel it, every millimeter, like a live wire under your skin.

“Had,” you whisper. His eyes followed the shape of your lips as they formed around the word. 

“Have.” He says again, voice more firm this time. Your gaze traces his lips this time.

Your head tilts closer, like instinct, like your body is done pretending it doesn’t want him. His arm is still locked firm around your waist, holding you steady, keeping you pressed against the heat of his chest. Your palm flattens against him, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat, the give of muscle under cotton, the impossible warmth of him seeping straight through your skin.

He doesn’t pull away. Just looks at you, steady, unblinking, eyes so blue they feel like they could cut you open if you let them. His breath brushes your mouth, warm, uneven. You can taste coffee and something darker on it, and your lips part without permission, every nerve in your body straining toward the last millimeter of space.

The air thickens, heavy as syrup. His fingers at your waist flex, just once, enough to draw you an inch closer. His chest rises against yours, and you feel the faintest shiver where his nose grazes your cheek, his forehead brushing yours, testing the contact without closing it.

You don’t think. Your hand slides higher on his chest, tracing over the solid line of his collarbone, up the curve of his shoulder, fingers brushing the back of his neck. His hair is still damp from his shower, soft and warm under your touch. He exhales raggedly, his whole body tightening like he’s holding back a wave.

Because the problem with you isn’t that you don’t want Dick Grayson. It’s that you do.

“You’re not fooling me,” he says, voice low, rougher now that your lips are so close you can taste the warmth of his breath. “Not with that look on your face. Not with your hand all over me.”

Your fingers twitch against his chest, traitorous, pressing into solid muscle as though proving his point. Heat curls low in your stomach, sharp and insistent, and you hate that he can read it so easily.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” you manage, though your voice shakes.

His eyes darken, his thumb tracing slow circles into your hip where his hand grips you. “Say it again. Say you don’t still want me. Say it while you’re this close.”

You can’t. The words lodge in your throat, choking on the truth you’ve been dodging for weeks. His smirk softens, just barely, eyes narrowing in satisfaction as he leans in until your noses brush, your pulse stuttering wildly under his stare.

“Had,” you whisper again, desperate, as if repeating it might make it true.

“Finish the sentence if you mean it, sweetheart.” The words vibrate out of him, certain and unshakable. His gaze dips to your mouth again, slower this time, deliberate, and the sound you make is soft, caught halfway between a breath and a plea, and it has his jaw flexing tight like he’s fighting himself.

“Dick…” His name leaves your mouth broken, trembling, and he shudders like you’ve just lit a match against his skin.

His forehead tips to yours, contact so small but devastating, heat bleeding from him into you. “You can lie all you want, Trouble,” he murmurs, his breath ghosting across your lips, “but you don’t let someone this close unless you want it.”

Your head tilts, your lips part, your palm sliding up to his collarbone in a silent answer. For one perfect, electric second, the whole world narrows to the inch of air left between your mouths, heat, and his heartbeat under your hand.

Your lips brush his, so faint it’s almost not contact, just the ghost of it, but the shock of it rattles you down to your toes. His breath shudders out, shaky and hot, and when you lean in that last fraction, his mouth finally meets yours. It isn’t clean. It isn’t careful. His teeth catch your bottom lip, tugging just enough to make your stomach flip and a whimper catch in your throat. The sound seems to break something in him, because suddenly his arm around your waist tightens, dragging you fully into his lap.

You straddle him before you realize you’ve moved, dress riding high on your thighs, his heat pressed solid between your legs. His hands slide down, big and certain, cupping your ass through sequined fabric, pulling you flush against the thick line of him. The spark between you roars into fire.

He kisses you like he’s been waiting years for it, messy, hungry, devouring. Your palms splay across his chest, clutching at the muscle under his shirt, your fingers curling into the warm skin at the nape of his neck. His tongue slides against yours, slow at first, then harder, deeper, until you’re gasping into his mouth, moving against him without meaning to.

His hands squeeze, firm and sure, guiding you into him, hips arching up to meet yours. The friction makes your head spin, your pulse pounding everywhere at once. He tastes like wine and want, and the low sound he makes into your mouth vibrates all the way down your spine.

For a breathless stretch of moments, there’s no Gotham, no rain, no history. Just this. Just you and Dick, tangled up, finally giving in, kissing each other like you’ll never get enough.

Your lips part beneath his, and he takes the invitation greedily, kissing you deeper, tongue stroking against yours with a hunger that has your head spinning. It’s clumsy in places, teeth clicking, mouths chasing, but that only makes it worse, better. It feels alive, electric, like every ounce of restraint you’ve both held onto has finally gone up in flames.

You rock into him, desperate for more friction, and he groans low in his throat, the sound vibrating into your mouth. His hands tighten on your ass, dragging you down against him, grinding you into the thick, unmistakable weight straining against his sweats. The pressure makes your breath hitch, your body clenching around the ache building low in your belly.

You clutch at him harder, fingers fisting into his t-shirt until the fabric rides up, exposing hot skin. You smooth your palms over his stomach, the ridges of muscle flexing under your touch, and he shudders, biting your lip again as though to punish you for it. You moan into him, nails digging lightly into his sides, and he hisses through his teeth, kissing you harder, like he can pour every ounce of his want straight into your mouth.

The kiss tips sideways, and suddenly you’re gasping, laughing into him when his stubble grazes your jaw. He doesn’t let up. His lips trail fire down the line of your throat, teeth scraping lightly over the delicate skin there before sucking hard enough to make your toes curl. You arch into him, dress shifting higher, sequins scratching his hips where your thighs cage him in.

“Dick,” His name rips out of you, broken and desperate, and his mouth is back on yours before you can say more, swallowing the sound like it belongs to him.

Your hips roll against him, helpless, chasing the friction, and he meets you halfway, thrusting up into you in short, sharp motions that make you whimper into his mouth. His tongue tangles with yours again, messy and wet, and your vision sparks at the edges. His hands are everywhere, palming your ass, sliding up your spine, threading into your hair to tug your head back so he can kiss you deeper, rougher.

You’re dizzy with him, his taste, his weight, the sheer size of him under you. Every breath you drag in is filled with him, every nerve alight with the demand to get closer, closer, until there’s nothing left between you at all.

When you finally break for air, your foreheads slam together, both of you panting like you’ve run miles. His lips are swollen, glistening, his pupils blown wide, his chest heaving under your palms. He looks wild. Starved. Perfect. And then he’s pulling you back down, kissing you again, hungrier than before, open-mouthed, filthy, like he’s making up for every year he didn’t.

Your body can’t stop moving against him, chasing every drag of friction. The sequined dress has ridden high on your thighs, hem bunched at your waist as you straddle him. His hands are greedy now, sliding over bare skin, thumbs digging into the soft bare curve of your ass like he’s waited his whole life to touch you here. He drags you down harder, grinding you over him, and the blunt thickness straining his sweats makes you gasp into his mouth.

He’s huge. You knew he was, the outline impossible not to notice whenever he sprawled careless in those pants, but feeling it pressed solid against you, hot and heavy even through layers, makes your stomach twist and your core clench with want. You rock down on him harder, helpless, and the sound he makes is low, guttural, and almost pained. It shoots straight between your legs.

“Fuck,” he groans against your lips, kissing you harder, tongue driving deep like he’s trying to drown himself in you. His hips surge up in answer, rutting against you, the thick head of him catching just right against the soaked center of your panties. Your cry muffles into his mouth, nails scraping down his chest until you find skin, dragging up his shirt until it’s bunched under his arms.

His abs are hot and hard under your palms, slick with sweat, muscles flexing as he thrusts up into you. You break from his mouth to gasp down his throat, and he’s on you instantly, lips latching to your jaw, your neck, sucking and biting bruises into your skin like he wants to mark every inch he can reach.

“Say it,” he rasps against your throat, his teeth grazing your pulse. His hands knead your ass, grinding you down over him, the thick bulge in his sweats perfectly aligned with your clit. “Say you still want me.”

You can’t speak, not with the way he’s rolling his hips, relentless, the pressure building sharp and unbearable. You whimper his name instead, broken and needy, and he groans like the sound undoes him.

“Fuck—yeah, you do,” he breathes, pulling you down harder, guiding you to rock over him faster. The sequins of your dress scratch at his bare stomach, your panties soaked through, clinging to your folds as you grind over the obscene bulk of him. Each pass drags his thickness right against your clit, each grind shooting sparks down your spine until you’re gasping against his mouth, trembling in his lap. “She’s honest with me, even if your mouth won’t be,” he pants. 

He kisses you senseless again, filthy and wet, tongues clashing, teeth tugging, his hips never stopping. You roll against him desperately, chasing it, chasing him, your thighs trembling where they cage him in. His cock strains against the thin cotton, massive, the outline pressed hot and unyielding against your swollen pussy, and all you can think is how good it would feel inside you.

His hand slides up your spine, into your hair, yanking your head back just enough to bite at your throat again, his breath ragged. “Thatta girl. Keep grinding, Trouble. Wanna feel you cum all over me.”

The words hit harder than anything. You moan brokenly, hips stuttering against him, the rhythm sloppy but desperate, pleasure winding sharp and tight in your belly. His hands hold you steady, dragging you over him in rough, perfect circles until you’re shuddering, mouth open against his, every nerve screaming as you teeter on the edge.

And he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t let you run. He keeps you pressed to him, grinding against the thick, straining length of his cock until you’re shaking apart in his lap, soaking through your panties, every pulse of your orgasm spilling hot and messy against him.

He kisses you through it, swallowing your cries, biting your lip until you can barely breathe. When you finally slump forward, wrecked and trembling, his hands are still on you, still firm, still wanting. And he’s still hard, throbbing against you, sweatpants damp with your release, the sheer size of him twitching under you like a promise. 

His mouth breaks from yours only to press wet, biting kisses down your jaw, your throat, your collarbone, muttering against your skin like he can’t stop himself. “Feel how wet you are,” he growls, his voice rough and ruined. One hand slips lower, his long fingers sliding under the edge of your ruined panties. You whimper as his knuckles brush your slick folds, every inch of you drenched and swollen. His groan vibrates against your neck when he feels just how soaked you are.

“Fuck, Trouble…” His middle finger drags up through your wetness, slow, obscene, parting you until he finds your clit. You jolt hard against him, crying out, and he swallows the sound in another bruising kiss. His finger circles you once, twice, then dips lower, pressing inside with a stretch that makes your whole body seize. He’s so much bigger than your own hand, so much deeper, curling at the knuckle just right until your thighs clamp tight around him.

“Look at you,” he rasps, pumping in and out, his thumb pressing cruel circles to your clit. “Soaked for me. Always were, weren’t you?”

You can’t answer. You can only grind helplessly into his hand, your hips jerking against him, your mouth open and gasping against his. He slips a second finger in beside the first, the stretch sharp, delicious, filling you in a way that makes you sob into his mouth. His thumb works you mercilessly, dragging another wave of pleasure out of your trembling body.

Then he pulls his fingers out, sudden, leaving you clenching around nothing. You whine at the loss, but before you can protest, he shoves his slick fingers into his mouth, sucking them clean. His eyes lock on yours as he groans low in his throat, tasting you, devouring you.

“You’re so sweet, baby,” he murmurs, voice dark and reverent. “Could live on this.”

Your whole body shudders. You surge forward, kissing him hard, tasting yourself on his tongue, swallowing his groan as his hands drag at your hips again. But it’s not enough. The thick weight straining his sweats is pressed solid against your soaked panties, and you need more—you need him.

“Dick,” you gasp against his mouth, clawing at the waistband of his sweats. “Out. Now.”

His laugh is harsh, breathless, wrecked. “Now who’s bossy.” But he obeys, shoving his sweats down just enough for his cock to spring free, thick and heavy and already slick at the tip.

Your breath catches. Even soft he’d been obscene; hard, he’s devastating. Long, flushed dark, veins ridging the shaft, the broad head flushed and dripping precum. Your cunt clenches just looking at him, your thighs shaking with the need to feel it.

“Fuck,” he mutters, wrapping a hand around the base, stroking once, slow, groaning through gritted teeth. “Been dying to feel you on me.”

You grind down against him, soaking panties dragging over the thick length of him, smearing wetness across his cock. The slide makes you both groan, your clit catching against his head with every pass.

He curses again, gripping your hips so hard you know he’ll leave bruises, guiding you to rock on him. His cock drags along your soaked center, fat and hot, the head bumping your clit with every grind. You can feel the pressure of him catching against your entrance, the blunt head pushing at your soaked panties, teasing what you both want.

“You feel that?” he groans, eyes wild, forehead pressed to yours as his cock slides thick and heavy under you. “So wet you’re gonna ruin me. Gonna let me in, Trouble? Let me split you open on this cock?”

Your moan is answer enough. You grind harder, desperate, the head of him pushing your panties aside just enough to catch against your opening, stretching you slightly before slipping away again. He groans raggedly, pumping his cock once against your soaked fabric, precum smearing across the sequined dress bunched at your waist.

“Gonna make you feel so good,” he pants, kissing you hard, messy, teeth clashing. “Gonna bury this cock so deep you won’t be able to say my name without cumming.” His hands slide down, fingers curling under the edge of your panties, tugging at the damp fabric. “These coming off, or can I rip ‘em?”

“Rip,” you gasp, dizzy, desperate. And he does. The lace tears with a sharp sound, shredded by his long fingers like it’s nothing, the ruined fabric dragged aside as he growls into your mouth. The sudden cool air against your bare cunt makes you shiver, but then his cock is there, thick and hot and real, dragging through your soaked folds, smearing your slick up his length.

“Fuck,” His voice breaks, guttural. “You’re dripping. Been dreaming about this for so long sweetheart, about feeling you like this.” Your hips jerk forward, chasing it, and the broad head of him catches at your entrance. He holds you still with hands locked bruisingly tight on your ass, forcing you to feel it, just the heavy pressure of him nudging in, stretching you wide, parting you slow.

The stretch steals your breath. He’s so big your body fights to take him, and the sting makes you gasp into his mouth. But underneath is heat, thick, overwhelming heat, like your whole body’s been waiting for this exact moment.

“Christ,” he groans, forehead slamming to yours, sweat dripping down his temple. “So tight. Gonna ruin me.”

You claw at his shoulders, nails biting through cotton, panting. “More…please, Dick.”

He whines softly, and then he thrusts, hard. The thick length of him drives into you, slow enough to split you open, deep enough to make you cry out. Your walls seize around him, clenching helplessly, trying to adjust as inch after inch slides into your body. The stretch burns, pleasure laced sharp through pain, but he’s groaning against your mouth, kissing you through it, muttering ragged curses into your skin.

“Taking me…fuck, you’re taking all of me so well,” he grits out, his hips jerking up, forcing the last thick inch inside. His cock bottoms out deep, the blunt head pressed right against your cervix, so deep it makes your vision blur. You sob against his mouth, your body clutching him, trembling. The fullness is as unbearable as it is addictive; like he’s rewired you from the inside out.

“Look at you,” he pants, dragging back an inch only to slam forward again, grinding deep. “My pretty girl. So good for me.”

You moan brokenly, your hips rocking without thought, meeting him. The friction is devastating; bare, raw, his cock dragging against every swollen inch of you. Slick gushes down his shaft, wetting the base of him, smearing against his stomach where your dress is bunched. His rhythm builds fast, messy. Years of wanting crashing into each thrust, hips snapping up into you hard enough to jolt the couch under you. You cling to him, legs trembling around his waist, your cunt gripping him so tight he groans with every stroke.

“Oh baby,” he whines, mouth crushed to your jaw, teeth scraping. “You’re so fucking wet, gonna make me cum so deep inside you.”

You can only gasp, moan, sob against him, every thrust lighting you up. His hands cup your ass, dragging you down onto his cock harder, grinding you into him until your clit rubs against the base, sparks exploding in your belly. You’re close again; too close, the pressure building sharp and fast. You roll your hips against him, desperate, and he feels it, feels the way your walls flutter and clench around him.

“Gonna cum?” he rasps, voice breaking, his cock driving into you relentlessly. “Gonna soak me like a good girl? Let me have it, c’mon.” Your body shatters. Pleasure rips through you, hot and unbearable, your cunt clamping down on him as you scream his name into his mouth. Slick gushes around him, soaking him, dripping down your thighs, and he curses, rutting into you harder, chasing his own end.

His rhythm falls apart, hips slamming up into you in ragged, desperate thrusts, his cock throbbing inside you with every grind. His forehead presses to yours, sweat dripping, breath coming in short, broken gasps. “God, you feel so good,” he groans, the words spilling without thought, low and raw against your mouth. “So tight around me, so wet for me. Fuck, sweetheart, you’re perfect. Perfect.”

Each word is a strike, praise so filthy and reverent your whole body shivers around him. You moan into his mouth, clutching at his shoulders, rolling against him, your cunt clenching tighter every time he speaks. He thrusts deep, almost to the hilt, then stops, shaking with restraint, his cock swelling thick inside you. His voice cracks when he mutters, “I can’t…I’m gonna cum. Please. Please, let me…inside you, I want to.”

The sound of him begging makes your breath catch, your walls fluttering around him. You feel him shaking under you, his control frayed to nothing, but still he doesn’t let go, doesn’t cross the line until you give him the word. His mouth crashes to yours, messy and frantic, his tongue tangling with yours as he whispers against your lips, “Say yes. Tell me I can. Please, Trouble, I need it. Need to fill you up.”

The plea wrecks you. Heat coils sharp in your stomach, the pressure unbearable. You tighten around him, nails raking down his back, and gasp, “Yes, yes, Dick, cum inside me, please!” The sound he makes is broken, guttural, like you’ve torn the air from his lungs. His hips jerk up violently, his whole body locking under you as he buries himself deep, cock swelling as his release rips through him. 

“Fuck, oh, fuck, thank you,” he gasps, his voice sick with praise, chanting it against your mouth as he spills inside you. Thick heat floods your cunt in heavy pulses, and the sensation drags your orgasm out all over again; you clench down hard, milking him, crying into his kiss as he moans your name like prayer.

He holds you down on him, grinding up into you, desperate to push every drop deeper. “So good…so good for me, fuck, you’re perfect. Taking all of it, all of me.”

You collapse against his chest, trembling, both of you panting hard, still joined, his cock still twitching inside you as his release drips hot between your thighs. His forehead presses to yours, his voice wrecked, almost breaking. 

His forehead presses to yours, both of you still trembling, breaths dragging in uneven gasps. His voice is wrecked, almost breaking.

“Years,” he whispers, softer now but still aching, still desperate. “Wasted years not feeling you like this.”

Your chest tightens, words lost somewhere in your throat. So you kiss him instead, messy, deep, your lips swollen and clumsy. He kisses you back with equal fervor, but slower now, as if he wants to savor, to commit the taste of you to memory. His cock is still sheathed deep inside you, twitching faintly as he softens, but neither of you makes a move to part.

You shift against him, and his hands instantly tighten on your hips, keeping you down, keeping him buried inside. His laugh is low, roughened by exhaustion and bliss. “Don’t even think about it. Not letting you go yet.”

You groan against his chest. “You’re heavy.”

“Good,” he mutters, dropping his lips to the damp slope of your shoulder. “Means you’ll stay put.” He breathes you in, deep, reverent. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve wanted you?”

You pull back just enough to search his face. His eyes are glassy, unguarded in a way you’ve never seen. “How long?” you ask quietly, brushing his long dark hair out of his face.

He swallows, thumb brushing slow along your cheek, still cupping your face as if you’re fragile. “Since fourteen,” he admits, voice soft, bare. “Since the first night you sat on that roof and talked to me like I wasn’t just Robin. Like I was… a person.” His jaw flexes, like saying it out loud costs him something. “I never stopped, even when you left. Even when you came back and seemed distracted by my face.”

Your breath catches. The weight of it hits you hard, heavy and bright all at once, knocking your chest open. You don’t have to think. You know, suddenly, fiercely, that you’re falling in love with him. Not just the boy who once unmasked for you, not just the man currently buried inside you, but all of him.

“Dick…” you whisper, cupping his jaw, thumb brushing over the rough stubble there. “You’re ridiculous.”

His lips twitch, a crooked grin breaking the tension. “What, because I’ve been in love with you since I was a scrawny circus kid?”

“Because,” you correct softly, rolling your eyes even as your chest aches, “I liked you when you were gangly and angry at the world, and awkward with your kindness. That’s what got me.” Your thumb brushes the edge of his jaw. “Not… all this.”

His smile gentles, the teasing melting into something shy, almost boyish. “Doesn’t hurt, though, right? The face.”

You huff a laugh, shaking your head, but it comes out tender instead of sharp. “No. It doesn’t hurt.”

“Good because you,” he says, kissing your forehead, your nose, the corner of your mouth in quick, playful succession, “are stuck with me now. So remember that when I get on your nerves.”

You sigh, pretending exasperation, but you can’t stop smiling. “Guess I am.”

-

You stay like that for a while, tangled and warm, the storm outside softening into a steady patter. His thumb strokes along your cheekbone, lazy, reverent, like he can’t quite believe you’re real. Eventually, though, the ache in your thighs reminds you both of reality. You shift, wincing slightly, and he feels it immediately.

“Hey,” he murmurs, kissing your temple, “don’t move. I’ve got you.”

You make a soft noise of protest when he finally pulls out, the stretch easing but leaving you empty in a way that makes your chest squeeze. Heat spills between your thighs, sticky and messy, but he’s already tucking you back against the cushions, murmuring, “Stay,” before disappearing down the hall.

When he comes back, he’s barefoot, carrying a damp towel and a glass of water, his hair even messier from running a hand through it. “Lift,” he says gently, and when you blink at him, dazed, he smiles. “C’mon. Let me take care of you.”

You do, cheeks warming as he crouches between your knees, wiping you clean with careful, unhurried motions. His hands are steady, reverent, as though the act itself is holy. He kisses the inside of your thigh when he’s done, soft and fleeting, before standing to hand you the water.

You take a sip, your throat dry, then glance at him over the rim of the glass. “You always this bossy after sex?”

“Back to bossy again?” His brows lift in mock offense as he sinks back onto the couch beside you. “But, please. I’m efficient. There’s a big difference.”

You laugh, weak but real, tucking yourself into his side. “You were efficient at fourteen too. Efficiently broody. Efficiently avoiding eye contact.”

He groans, dropping his head back against the cushions. “God. Don’t remind me.” Then, softer, with a smile that curves like memory, he adds, “And somehow you still liked me.” His face warms with a smile as he says it, looking more boyish than you’ve seen him look, like the thought of you having felt something for him all these years makes him giddy.

“I didn’t like you because of the brooding,” you tease, tilting up to meet his gaze. “I liked you because you couldn’t hide how good you were. Not from me.”

His eyes soften, his hand smoothing gently over your hip. “You’ve always seen too much.”

“And you’ve always pretended it bothered you,” you shoot back, but your smile is quiet, your chest aching.

He presses his lips to your hair, lingering there. “Never bothered me,” he admits into the crown of your head. “It scared me. That’s different.”

His lips linger in your hair, warm and steady, until your eyes slip closed. The storm outside has softened to a drizzle, a steady hush against the glass, and the room feels like it’s holding its breath with you. You set the glass of water aside, curling instinctively into him. His arm comes around your shoulders without hesitation, hand smoothing slow circles over your arm. It’s grounding, the weight of him, the heat of his body still seeping into yours.

“You should sleep,” he murmurs against your temple.

“So should you,” you mumble back, your voice heavy with exhaustion.

“Not tired,” he lies, and you can feel the smile pressed into your hair.

“You’re full of it,” you whisper, but the fight is already gone from you. Your head sinks against his chest, ear over his heartbeat. It’s steady, strong, the sound you didn’t know you’d missed all these years until now.

He shifts, adjusting you both, and before you realize it, you’re stretched across the couch together, tangled under the throw blanket. His hand stays at your hip, fingers curled there like an anchor, as if he’s afraid you’ll slip away in the night.

You reach up, tracing lazy circles over his chest. “Dick?”

“Mmm?”

“I think,” you murmur, words already blurring at the edges of sleep, “I might be falling in love with you.”

He stills, then exhales slow, his lips brushing your hair. “Good,” he whispers. “Because I’ve been in love with you for half my life.”

Your throat tightens, but your body relaxes, the truth settling into you like warmth. You smile against him, soft and certain. Outside, Gotham exhales under the rain. Inside, you let yourself drift, safe in the arms of the boy you once knew, the man you’re choosing now.

-

The city looks different from up here. It always does, under his arm.

You’re sitting on the ledge of a Blüdhaven rooftop, legs dangling over the streetlights, the night air cool against your bare skin. Dick’s beside you, mask pushed up into his hair, the blue symbol catching the glow of the skyline. His hands are warm where they rest on your hips, steadying you like you might slip, even though you both know you never would with him here. Both his thighs bracket yours. 

“Déjà vu,” you murmur, glancing at him over your shoulder.

His grin tilts sideways, boyish and wicked all at once. “Except this time I get to kiss you instead of lecture you.”

“Mm,” you hum, leaning back into his chest. “Not sure which one you’re worse at.”

He gasps, mock wounded, then dips his head to mouth at your neck. “Harsh. And here I was thinking I’ve improved since the green tights days.”

“You have,” you say, fighting a smile. “Marginally.”

“Marginally?” He nips lightly at your skin, enough to make you squirm. “You wound me.”

“You’ll live,” you tease, twisting in his hold until you’re facing him. His hands slide automatically to your waist, thumbs stroking slow against the fabric of your jacket, and his eyes soften in a way that makes your stomach flip.

“You know what hasn’t changed?” he says quietly.

“What?”

“You.” His smile curves, tender under the tease. “You still sneak out when you shouldn’t. Still get yourself into trouble. Still make me chase after you.”

You snort. “Admit it. You like it.”

“Like it?” He laughs low, kissing you once, quick and sure. “I live for it.”

The kiss deepens, sweet and unhurried, the city buzzing around you, forgotten. When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, his voice soft enough for only you to hear. “Feels like we’ve been waiting years for this,” he murmurs.

“Maybe we have.” You smile, brushing your thumb along his jaw. “Worth it, though.”

He grins, eyes bright as the city lights. “Definitely worth it.”

"As sure as hell as if someone shows up, we're both going to die," you replied with a crooked smile, your nails gently scratching the back of his neck.

It wasn't the first time you had sneaked into the cave, but it was the first time you ere both so desperate. It had been a couple of weeks since you had last seen each other, and the adrenaline of doing it in the most forbidden of all possible places made everything burn even more.

Wally positioned you with ease, his lips finding yours with an urgency he made no attempt to hide. Your legs tangled around his waist as he sat you on the edge of the console, one of his hands moving down to your waist, the other caressing your bare thigh.

Your pants were already on the floor. His, pulled down just enough so you could feel how impatient he was.

"I missed this," he murmured between kisses, his voice husky, his fingers tracing a slow path over your exposed skin. "I missed you."

You looked at him from so close that you felt his heartbeat crash against yours. His forehead rested against yours, and his lips moved down to your neck as you let out a sigh that he caught with a satisfied smile.

"It took you weeks to show up," you complained through gritted teeth, without real anger. "Do you know how many times I was on the verge of running away to Central City?"

"It would have been the best news of the month," he replied, placing a kiss behind your ear that made you shudder. "But you know me… when Barry needs me, I have to run."

Your fingers buried themselves in his hair, pulling him back to you. The heat between you was suffocating, delicious, and the space between his lips and your skin grew ever more nonexistent. Your hips shifted, seeking more contact. He moaned softly against your neck. Your hands found the hem of his shirt, and you pulled it up with suppressed desperation, letting your lips travel down his hot, racing chest.

Wally gasped, his hands squeezing your thighs, his mouth seeking yours again with a perfect mix of tenderness and need.

"I swear I dreamed about this every night," he said between kisses.

"Then put on your clothes and keep dreaming," a deep voice replied.

Wally froze, his eyes boring into yours as a cold sweat trickled down his back. It took you half a second to turn in the direction of the voice… and wish you could disappear.

Bruce was there. Standing. A few steps away. Arms crossed. Frowning. And that look that could freeze hell. The hood was up, but the stiffness in his posture was enough to tell he'd run out of patience before he even stepped off the damn teleporter.

"D... Dad," you managed to say, barely a muffled whisper.

"Hey, Mr. Wayne!" Wally jumped in, twisting around as best he could, covering himself with his T-shirt as he tried to put his pants on backward for the second time in two minutes. "This isn't what it looks like. Although in retrospect, it is exactly what it looks like, but oh no, I put it on backward again!"

Bruce didn't blink. "Five. Seconds."

"Five seconds for what?!" Wally exclaimed, almost panicking.

"To get dressed, run from this cave, and seriously consider abstinence," Bruce replied, his tone not changing even a decibel.

Wally struggled with his pants zipper as if it were saving his life.

"Yes, sir! Understood, sir! Totally understandable, sir!"

"Stop calling him 'sir,'" you muttered, covering yourself with the first thing you found. .

Bruce didn't move. He didn't need to. His presence filled everything. The silence was deadly. As soon as Wally disappeared into the tunnel, your father spoke.

"The Batcave?" Bruce looked at you as if he was seriously considering hanging you upside down next to the suits. "You know there are cameras at every entrance, right?"

"Dad..."

"No, don't even start." He crossed his arms again.

"We're going to have a very long talk. And if Wally sets foot in this cave again, I'm going to kick him off the planet. Is that clear?"

You nodded. Not because you agreed, but because you were on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Bruce turned back to the console. He looked at it as if it were contaminated.

"Nothing happened on the console," you quickly clarified.

"I don't care." He was silent for a few seconds. "I hope, for West's sake, it was worth it."

"Yes," you replied without thinking, a silly grin creeping onto your lips. "It was totally worth it."

Bruce didn't respond. He just sighed long and deeply, turning to disappear into the darkness of the hallway.

Dick Grayson

 - rough and controlling and slowly melting into you; fucking you until there’s tears in your eyes and giving you the best orgasm of your life

You know what Dick needs as soon as he opens the door. The stitched cut on his arm and torn fabric of his suit tells you all you need to know—it’s going to be a long night. 

He watches you struggle to ride him, the handcuffs he’d placed on you clicking with every bounce. Your thigh muscles burn, you’re shiny with sweat and still Dick makes demands—faster, deeper, you can take more than that. 

When he feels like he’s in control again, he finally allows himself to take pity on you. He’ll remove the cuffs from your aching wrists, lay you down on the bed and eat your pussy real nice. 

Once he’s had enough, he’ll kiss his way back up to your lips and make love to you real nice. He doesn’t open up about what happened to him but he makes damn sure you know that he loves you. 

Jason Todd

- softer moments, holding your hips and watching you while you ride him, letting himself come undone and be vulnerable with you

Those adrenaline drunk nights with Jason are never the problem. You’re used to them, you can handle them. The problem is the nights where he’s quiet, where he’s vacant. 

He’s softer with you on these nights. His calloused hands treat you like you’re the most delicate thing in the world. He has you on top but he does most of the work—guiding you up and down his cock and groaning at what a good job you’re doing. 

He lets an ‘I love you’ slip in the moment and you swallow it with a kiss, mumbling your own reciprocation against him. 

These are the nights he forgets the condom, where he relies on the pill and sheer luck. These are the nights where he buries himself deep inside you and comes undone, filling you up. 

He’ll keep going until there’s fresh air in his lungs and the words finally find their way to his tongue. And all of that breath and all of those words are to be spent on you. 

Tim Drake 

- rougher sex, letting himself lose his carefully kept control, edging you until he can't resist anymore

Tim is always organized, calculating. So on nights where he loses control, he really loses it. 

He’s rougher, more dominating, using your body however you’ll let him. He’ll use your mouth, thrusting his cock down your throat until you feel raw. 

Drool leaks down your face, making your lips all plump and shiny. If he’s feeling extra feral, he’ll give you a slap across the face with his cock and smear spit and precum across your cheeks. 

He’ll fuck you after that, feral but with just enough restraint to pull out before you finish. He can only stand to edge you for so long before he’s coming back to himself, desperate for your walls to clench and gush around him.

He finishes with you and only then does he feel okay again. He strokes your head and kisses your collarbones before ordering in your favorite takeout. 

Wally West

 - fucking you into the mattress, his chest pressed tight against your back, holding you like he’s never letting go

Wally comes home shaking, pupils blown with adrenaline. His arms are around you before you can react, body pressed to yours. 

“Need to use you,” he whines. “Please let me use you.”

It’s not long before he has you pinned against the mattress, pressing your face into the pillow while he pounds into you. His breath is heavy with adrenaline and need, his hips snapping against your ass so fast it feels like he’s using super speed. 

You’ve lost track of how long he’s been fucking you, all you know is that you absolutely ache from how hard he’s fucking your pussy. He strokes the sweat away from your face but that’s about the only kindness he offers. 

In an hour from now, he’ll almost feel bad. He’ll kiss your feverish skin and bring you water and cuddle you close while he talks about what made him so feral tonight. 

But for now, he’s fucking you like he’s damned and his only salvation is you. 

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He kissed higher, lips maddeningly close now, hot breath making you twitch.

“And now?” he went on, smug and reverent all at once. “Now I’ve got you in my bed, legs around my shoulders, soaked because of me, and—” he kissed right next to your clit and grinned at the whimper that escaped you. “and you expect me to be chill about it? Please.”

“Wally,” you breathed, hips lifting just the slightest bit.

He hummed like he was savoring the sound. “Say it again.”

You blinked down at him. “Say what?”

“My name. All needy like that. God, it does something to me.”

You opened your mouth to say something else, something cutting, maybe, or just plain desperate, but then he licked you. One slow, flat drag of his tongue that had your back arching off the bed.

“There she is,” he murmured. “God, you taste so fucking good, babe— are you kidding me?”

Your hands flew to his hair, fingers tightening as his mouth closed over your clit. He groaned like he was the one being touched, like the act of eating you was as much a reward for him as it was for you.

“You’re so soft,” he kept going between kisses and strokes of his tongue, his voice warm and filthy. “Like melting in my mouth. And you keep twitching like this—” he circled your clit again, grinning when your thighs flexed against his shoulders. “which is insane, by the way, because I’ve barely even started.”

You were losing your mind. The way he spoke, the way he worshipped —literally worshipped— every inch of you, it was overwhelming. His mouth was hot, skilled, hungry. Every flick of his tongue made your nerves spark, made heat curl deep in your belly like it had nowhere else to go.

“Look at you,” he whispered, glancing up at you briefly, chin slick, eyes wild. “You’re already so close, huh? You’re so easy for me. Gonna fall apart just from my mouth?”

You bit your lip, nodding helplessly.

He moaned like that was the best thing you’d ever done. “Fuck, I love this. I love you. I love this pussy. Jesus, babe, I’d live down here if you let me.”

You choked on a laugh and a cry at once, hips jerking when he flattened his tongue again and sucked —really sucked— and then flicked, fast and focused.

“That’s it,” he breathed against you. “Let me hear you. Come on. Be loud. You’ve been teasing me all day with those little looks and smug smiles, and now I get to make you fall apart.”

You were gasping now, legs shaking around him, your grip in his hair tight and pleading.

“You gonna come for me, baby?” he asked, voice low and hot, lips brushing slick skin. “Right on my tongue? Gonna let me taste you while you come?”

“Yes—” you gasped, and that was all he needed.

His mouth locked on your clit, tongue relentless, just right, and it was over, your body tightening, hips bucking once before your orgasm ripped through you like lightning. You cried out, his name half-wrecked and half-worshipful on your lips as he held you steady, mouth working you through every wave.

He didn’t stop until you were shuddering, pulling at his hair, panting through the aftershocks.

When he finally pulled back, his mouth was red and shiny and smug, eyes blown wide.

“Holy shit,” he breathed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and kissing your thigh like it was sacred. “You just— you just ruined me.”

You blinked at him, trying to form a sentence.

He grinned. “No thoughts? All empty upstairs?”

You nodded weakly, chest still rising and falling.

Wally rested his chin on your thigh and looked up at you like he’d just found god. “I’m gonna do that again in, like, ten minutes.”

And the worst part?

You wanted him to.

You were still catching your breath —still trembling, honestly— when Wally pulled himself up onto the bed beside you, one hand trailing lazily along your thigh like he couldn’t stop touching you, even if he tried.

Your skin still buzzed where his mouth had been. Your brain felt like it had melted into the mattress.

He pressed a kiss to your cheek, then your jaw, then your shoulder. Then, very seriously:

“Okay, so. Quick review.”

You blinked, turned your head to look at him. “What?”

He stretched out beside you, propped up on one elbow, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

“That was a ten out of ten experience on my end,” he said, grin lazy. “Emotionally fulfilling. Spiritually awakening. Five-star review.”

You snorted. “You’re reviewing my orgasm?”

“I’m reviewing my performance, thank you very much.” He kissed the side of your neck and added with a murmur, “But yes. Also the orgasm. Because holy shit.”

“You’re an idiot,” you muttered, smiling despite yourself.

“And you’re gorgeous,” he countered. “And terrifying. And you taste like actual heaven. Which is unfair, by the way, because now I’m addicted and I can’t be trusted to focus in public ever again.”

“Wally—”

“I’m serious!” he said, flopping half on top of you, his body still warm and solid and buzzing with energy. “Next time we’re in the middle of a mission and you so much as exhale, I’m gonna get distracted and trip into a goddamn tree or something.”

You rolled your eyes and tried to nudge him off, but he just grinned wider and settled more firmly between your legs again, like his natural habitat was half-draped across you and saying filthy things.

“And now I’m thinking about how you sound when you come,” he added in a lower voice, nosing along your throat. “Like, the little noises? The gasps? The way you say my name like I’m yours?”

“You are mine,” you murmured, fingers threading through his hair again, already dizzy with how fast he could shift from ridiculous to sincere.

He froze, then pulled back just enough to stare at you with this stunned, reverent expression.

“Say that again.”

You blinked. “Wally—”

“Please,” he whispered. “Say it again. Tell me I’m yours.”

You pulled him down into a kiss, slow and deep, your fingers curling in his hair like you were grounding him—and yourself.

“You’re mine,” you said softly against his lips. “All mine.”

He moaned into your mouth like it physically hurt him to hear it. “Fuck— yes— God, babe, you’re gonna make me come just from talking.”

You rolled your hips into his, and sure enough, he gasped, hips jerking forward, the hard line of him grinding up against your still-sensitive heat through your underwear.

He was still fully dressed from the waist down, but that didn't seem to matter, he was moving against you like friction was all he needed. Fast, messy, desperate.

“Jesus,” he panted, forehead pressed to yours, sweat beading at his temple. “This— this is unreal. You underneath me like this, all fucked out and letting me get off like a goddamn teenager—”

“You are a teenager.”

“I’m a legendary teenager,” he groaned, biting gently at your jaw. “I’m dry-humping my gorgeous, terrifying girlfriend after giving her the best head of her life—”

“You’re really proud of that, huh?”

“I’m never gonna shut up about it,” he swore, breath catching as you rolled up into him again, slow and teasing. “You’re gonna be hearing about this in like four years. Anniversary dinner? Boom. ‘Remember the first time I made you come with my mouth and you saw god?’”

You laughed —genuinely laughed— even as he rutted against you more urgently now, both of you trembling with the heat and pressure building again.

“Wally,” you whispered, kissing his neck. “Are you gonna come just like this?”

His hips stuttered. “If you keep saying shit like that, yes.”

You nipped his ear. “Come on, baby. Do it. Make a mess for me.”

That broke him. He choked on a groan and pressed his hips hard into yours, grinding fast and messy, panting into your mouth as his body jerked once, twice, then froze.

He clung to you, forehead pressed against your collarbone, every muscle tight as the orgasm rocked through him, leaving his breath ragged and broken and your thighs slick with heat.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Then Wally made a sound like a short-circuited computer and collapsed half on top of you, boneless and wrecked.

“I’m gonna marry you,” he mumbled into your chest. “Just so I can legally do this to you forever.”

You grinned. “I think you might need a nap first.”

“Sleep is fake,” he muttered. “Orgasms are real. I’m living in this dimension now.”

You stroked his hair gently as he curled against you. And despite all the chaos, all the noise, all the ridiculous running commentary.

The day begins like it always does—with the light bleeding in through the dusty blinds, soft and warm against the wooden floorboards. You wake up slow. There’s no rush, not this early. Outside, the sun hasn’t even fully broken over the ruins yet, but the faint gold smear across the sky means it’s close.

The safehouse is cold in the mornings. You pull your old knit sweater on before your boots, feet brushing the cold floor as you shuffle to the kitchen. There’s a rhythm to it now: water from the barrel, fire from the coals you banked last night, the small stove coming back to life with a crackle and puff of smoke. If there’s any power that day, the fridge might hum back to life. If not, you’ve still got your root cellar, and enough dried things to last the week.

You move quietly, out of habit. The safehouse isn’t a bustling place, not unless someone’s bleeding.

You’ve had all types—smugglers, couriers, FEDRA deserters, even one terrified kid who didn’t say a word and only stayed the night. Most people don’t linger. That’s the unspoken rule: get patched up, get fed, keep your head down, and move on. You’re not a hero. Just a warm bed, a stitched wound, maybe a few cans of food tucked into a knapsack before they disappear again.

But they remember you. Tess, especially.

She’s the one who first showed up with her face split open and a bullet graze along her ribs. That was two winters ago, and now she drops in whenever the city gets too hot or the tunnels start to flood. You’re used to the sound of her boots on your porch, the sharp knock, the muttered “It’s me.”

Others are more fleeting—Marcy with her burn scars, Lyle with his limp, the girl with the broken radio who swore she could fix your generator (she couldn’t). You keep records in your head. Some people don’t give real names.

You move through the morning like a ghost, pouring boiling water over stale tea leaves, slicing into bread that’s harder than you’d like. There’s a satisfaction in the stillness, but also something else—loneliness, maybe. Or restlessness. Like the quiet’s stretching too long lately. Like something’s due to change.

You scrub the floor. You mend a ripped sleeve. You step out onto the porch and sit with your tea, watching the horizon.

And then, around midday, someone comes.

You hear the crunch of boots before you see them—three people, two you recognize. Smugglers. The third is new. Skinny, wild-eyed. He’s limping, gripping his side like he’s holding something in. You already know before they speak.

“Shot in the hip,” one of them says. “Clean through, but he’s losing blood.”

You don’t ask names. Just step aside.

They carry him in, and the air fills with noise again—muttered curses, clinking metal, the smell of sweat and blood. You boil water. Tear sheets into bandages. The others hover, pacing or leaning against your walls, until you send them outside.

It’s just you and the boy now.

He’s younger than you thought, and his eyes dart around like a cornered animal. “You gonna kill me?” he whispers.

You shake your head.

He winces as you work, flinching from the needle. “I got no caps,” he says.

“You’re bleeding out. Worry about caps later.”

He doesn’t speak after that. Just breathes heavy and clutches the edge of the cot. You work quietly, humming under your breath—a song from before, something your mother might’ve played on a Sunday morning. You hum it when you’re scared, or when someone else is.

When it’s done, you give him water, painkillers. “Rest,” you say, and he does.

By dusk, he’s sleeping.

The others left a ration packet as payment. You heat half of it and eat on the porch. The sun’s dropping low now, sky bleeding into orange and gray. The wind rattles the door once, then settles.

You think of Tess.

She hasn’t been by in weeks. Last time, she was tired in a way you couldn’t fix. Said she was pulling in a new runner, someone dangerous. Someone she wasn’t sure about yet.

“He’s good, though,” she said, cracking her knuckles. “Keeps quiet. Scares the hell outta half the guys we run with, but he doesn’t waste time.”

You asked his name. She just smirked. “You’ll meet him eventually.”

You hadn’t thought much of it. You get all kinds through here—angry ones, broken ones, ones that drink too much or talk too little. They pass through, you patch them up, and they leave. Simple.

But tonight, as you sit on the porch with your tea cooling in your hands and the wind whispering against your bones, you wonder about him. The runner. The quiet one.

You wonder if he’ll come.

It’s been a month since Tess stopped by, and Boston has settled back into its usual uneasy rhythm.

Gray skies. Wind through broken glass. Blood stains that won’t scrub out of old wood. The safehouse breathes quietly again, but her visit lingers like smoke in your clothes.

She hasn’t returned. No one has mentioned her. But she’s in your head. Or maybe it’s not her—it’s him. The man she didn’t name.

You start noticing shadows more. Listening harder. Wondering if each pair of boots might be his. You don’t even know what he looks like. But you picture him anyway. Dark hair. Stern mouth. A scowl molded by grief. The kind of man who kills without flinching, then washes his hands in your sink.

You should know better. But still.

The nights stretch longer in November. The cold settles into your bones even when the fire’s high. You patch up a runner with a bad shoulder. A kid who doesn’t speak, just nods and stares. You share your last can of peaches with an old woman who gives you an extra box of ammo out of pity.

You clean. You rearrange. You listen to the wind.

And then—one night, long after the lanterns are out, there’s a knock.

Three, spaced out. Not urgent. Not begging. But deliberate.

You pause in the hallway, heart kicking against your ribs. You haven’t had visitors this late in weeks.

The knock comes again.

You open the door with the pistol raised, just a little. And then you see him.

He’s taller than you expected. Broad shoulders. Blood on his shirt. His hand clutching his side. Not dying, but not good. His face was unreadable. Weathered and silent and sharp like a cut stone.

He looks at you like he already knows what you’ll do.

“Tess said this place was quiet.”

His voice is gravel soaked in whiskey and bad sleep.

You nod once. “She was right.”

You don’t ask his name. You don’t need to.

He steps in and takes up the whole room without trying. Doesn’t look around much. Doesn’t ask questions.

You get the feeling this man only speaks when he has to. He doesn’t sit—he leans against the counter like he’s waiting for someone to shoot at him.

You reach for the med kit. “You’re bleeding.”

He doesn’t flinch. “I know.”

He shrugs off his jacket, stiff, and pulls up his shirt just enough to show the gash along his side. It’s not deep, but it’s dirty. Long. Like a knife meant to scare, not kill.

He watches your hands while you clean him up, silent. You try not to shake under the weight of his stare.

The room is quiet except for the sound of your breath and the soft tear of gauze. He smells like sweat and metal. Like the road. Like something ruined and sacred all at once.

You want to ask him if Tess is okay. You want to ask if he’s Joel.

But you already knew the answers.

So instead, you say, “You’ll need to stay off it for a few days.”

He grunts. “Ain’t got a few days.”

You press harder on the bandage than you need to. “You want it to get infected?”

His mouth twitches—barely. Like the ghost of a smirk or something close to it.

“I’ll manage.”

He doesn’t say thank you. Doesn’t offer to trade. Just pulls his shirt back down and winces as it sticks to the wound.

“I can give you antibiotics,” you say, softer now.

He nods once. “Tess said you don’t ask questions.”

You meet his eyes.

They’re dark. Heavy. Tired in a way that no sleep could fix. He doesn’t look at you like a person. 

Not yet.

Just someone doing a job. Someone useful.

That should make it easier.

But something about him—his stillness, the way he’s holding everything back like a dam about to break—makes your stomach twist.

You hand him the pills in a folded napkin.

He pockets them without a word.

He leaves just before dawn. No goodbye.

You stand at the door after he’s gone, heart still racing.

The space he took up feels colder now. You clean the blood off the counter, but not all of it. You leave the faint smudge on the edge of the sink.

You sit with it like it’s a secret.

For the next week, you think about him constantly. It’s not even his face. It’s the way he didn’t look at you. Like you were air. Or a wall. Or a bedpost.

You imagine what his hands would feel like if he weren’t trying to hold himself together.

You touch the sink where the blood stain still is, and wonder if he ever thinks about you.

You know he doesn’t. You’re just a stop. A patch. A soft place in a hard world.

But you still watch the road. Every dusk. Every dawn.

Waiting.

You don’t talk about it to anyone, but the air feels different now.

Joel’s visit was like lightning splitting the sky once and then disappearing, leaving you in the crackle.

You didn’t realize how silent your life was until he filled it for five minutes and walked out.

Now everything is louder. The wind. The squeak of the back door. The creak of your bed frame when you turn at night, restless and annoyed with your own thoughts.

You find yourself moving slower. Listening harder.

You rearrange the shelves—again. The second-aid kit, the ammo drawer, the canned food pantry that never has enough. Everything feels cluttered, like it might bother him if he ever came back.

You don’t even know why that matters. He didn’t comment. Barely even looked around.

But still.

A man stops in, asking for water and a patch for his busted palm. You help him.

You do what you always do.

But he stares at your mouth when you talk and leans too close, and all you can think about is how he isn’t Joel.

How he barely looked at you. Barely breathed in your direction.

And how, for some reason, that felt worse. Felt real.

You send the man off with a mumbled goodbye and your pistol half-raised until he’s out of sight.

That night, you try to remember Joel’s voice. You thought it was rough. But there was something quiet in it, too. Something steady.

You play it back in your head, every word. Tess said this place was quiet.

You should’ve said more. Should’ve asked him to stay, even just for another hour. Should’ve found a reason to matter to him.

But you didn’t.

You just let him go.

A week later, you find yourself watching the treeline longer.

You hear every snap of a branch, every shuffle of boots in the dark, and your heart lifts at every sound.

And drops just as fast.

You dreamt about him, once. He didn’t say anything. Just stood in the kitchen, bleeding again. Same cut. Same shirt. But this time, he looked at you. Really looked.

You wake up drenched in sweat, embarrassed by yourself.

You make coffee even though you’ve run out of sugar. Sit by the window with your feet tucked under your knees. Eyes on the dirt road.

You used to sit there because it made you feel safe. Like you were guarding something.

Now, it feels like you’re just waiting.

Waiting for someone who maybe only needed you once.

Someone who doesn’t know what he left behind.

On the third Sunday since he showed up, you take out the blood-stained rag you used to clean his side. It’s still in the laundry bin, forgotten.

You press it flat. Fold it once, then again. Put it in the drawer next to your bed.

You don’t know why.

Maybe it’s stupid.

But it’s the only proof you have that he was ever here.

The roads outside the safehouse tracked into mud overnight, rain washing away any clear footprints—except his. Joel Miller drags his boots through the slush, heart loud in his ears. It’s been four weeks. Four weeks since he bled out across the threshold, four weeks since she stitched him up and sent him off without a backward glance.

He tells himself he’s here for the job. For Tess. “Just checking the perimeter,” he says, over and over. He’s a professional now. He’s got business beyond blood and bandages. But his steps—stubborn as a hound’s—lead him straight back to her door at dusk.

He pauses on the porch, breath misting in the cool evening air. Through the cracked window, he sees her silhouette—lean and sure—moving from counter to shelf, humming under her breath. He swears he can almost hear it.

“Can you read my mind? I’ve been watching you…”

He’s been watching her for days. Watching her load gun shells into a box, watching her wipe down the chipped sink, watching her finger the blood-smear rag. 

 When she opens the door, it’s no different than last time. She doesn’t ask why. Doesn’t bat an eyelash at the dried blood on his shirt. He steps inside and the warmth hits him like a punch. Not just the stove, not just the shelter. Her.

He clears his throat. “Evenin.” His voice is low, ragged.

“Joel,” she says, as if he should’ve warned her but didn’t. Then: “Was expecting Tess.”

He can’t meet her eyes. “I came instead.”

She shrugs and steps aside. “Come in.”

Inside, the lamplight pools gold and orange. He watches how her hair catches it—same as last time, but she stands taller now, more worn around the edges. He’d have said she looked safe then; now he only trusts himself to keep her that way.

He doesn’t sit. He leans against the same counter he bled on, hands braced on the wood. It’s scarred with tiny grooves. He’s carved his name there once, a half-remembered dare. Now he presses his fingers into the dents, letting the moment anchor him.

“Coffee?” she asks. Quiet question, offered like an olive branch.

He nods. She turns away. He watches the curve of her spine, the way her sweater dips at her waist. He swallows. 

She places the steaming mug in front of him. The rich smell pulls him back—a glimpse of who he was before the scars and the secrets. He lifts it in a thankful grunt.

“You’ve been here a lot, lately,” she says. Her tone’s flat, but the question is there. Taut.

He looks down at the mug. “Makin sure it’s still standing.” He wants her to push. He wants her to ask—why he really came back.

She studies him a moment, then turns to the window. He catches the flicker in her eyes. Worry? Curiosity? Something else.

“Right,” she says, as if she half-believes him.

He knows she doesn’t.

She moves to the shelf and brings down a jar of peaches—the same brand he stole once from a corner store, back when he thought he was invincible. She passes him a slice on a chipped plate. “For the road,” she says.

He bites. Sweet, sticky. Everything tastes too sharp in his mouth.

“I should ask,” she says then, very quietly.

He bristles. “Ask what?”

Her shoulders tighten. “Why do you keep coming back.”

He looks at her—really looks, for the first time since he arrived. She’s waiting. He hates that she makes him feel small or needy or exposed.

Instead he turns away. “Things to handle.”

She turns too. “You don’t have to do it alone.”

The words hit him like a shot. He’s spent years telling himself he’s alone, that care means weakness. But there’s something in her voice—steady, patient—that threads into his gut.

He clears his throat. “Why do you keep this place running?” He tries to sound casual, but his voice cracks. She arches her brow.

“You know why.”

He blinks. “I don’t.”

She steps closer, eyes even with him. “Because somebody has to.”

His pulse jumps. She’s always been courageous—patched up strangers and sent them on their way. But him? He lingers in her mind like a bruise she can’t press away.

He swallows hard. 

“Good men die too, oh, I’d rather be with you, you, you…” 

He grips the edge of the counter. “I’m sorry,” he says, in a voice rougher than he intended.

Her mouth softens. For a heartbeat, he sees her as someone who cares as much as he does—then the moment breaks and she steps back.

“It’s late,” she says, turning toward the stairs. “You can take the cot in the back.”

He nods, but the room throbs with unsaid words. He watches her climb the stairs, the line of her neck… and he almost follows. Almost says he can’t let her go up alone.

But he doesn’t. He stays.

Late that night, he slips outside and circles the perimeter—just like he told himself. He crouches in the long grass, peering through the trees. She’s safe. For now.

He waits. Breath steamy in the chill. His thoughts spiral: What if she’s gone when I wake? What if she hates me? What if she forgets me?

He knows he needs her, but he can’t admit it.

He kneels. Hands on his knees. The world feels too loud.

He whispers into the dark: “I could do whatever I want to you…”

He doesn’t know if he means it.

But he will come back. He already knows.

He leaves before dawn. Her door closes quietly behind him, and he steps into the gray morning, alone again—haunted by her silhouette in the window, by the taste of peach and coffee and half-finished apologies.

His heart hammers. He chalks it up to the cold—but he knows better. There’s a crack in his armor now, and it runs straight to her.

He walks the muddy road, promising himself: Not for long.

And as he fades into the mist, her last words echo in his mind: “You don’t have to do it alone.”

He doesn’t knock anymore.

He stays in the trees.

The safehouse looks the same—half-swallowed by overgrowth, rust curling along the tin roof, a soft plume of smoke trailing from the chimney. Her light’s on in the back room. That same amber hue, low and flickering. He sees her shadow move across the curtain. A brush of her hand. A cup lifted. A head tilt and he’s memorized.

It’s been three days since he left. He was going to stay away this time.

But something about the silence made him restless. Boston’s noise couldn’t drown it out. He couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t sit still. He caught himself staring at the bottle she gave him on his last visit—some ointment in a mason jar, tied with twine. He didn’t need it anymore, but he wouldn’t throw it out.

So he left again. Didn’t tell Tess. Didn’t leave a note.

Now he’s crouched behind a birch tree, hours deep into watching the same window. He counts her steps. Times how long she’s gone when she disappears into the back. Notes the new placement of her rifle—moved closer to the door. Good. Smart girl.

And still—he doesn’t feel peace.

He’s told himself over and over:

It ain’t ‘cause of her.

You’re just making sure she’s safe.

You owe her that much.

But his stomach knots when she opens the door to take out the trash. When she pulls her sleeves up. When some old trader comes by and she smiles that smile—the one Joel barely got for himself.

He digs his fingers into the bark. Stares harder.

“Something's been feeling weird lately

There's just something about you, baby (there's just something about you, baby)

Maybe I'll just be crazy (I'll be crazy)”

It’s a curse. Every time he sees her, something in him stirs that shouldn’t. Not this way. Not this loud.

She’s just a girl.

But he remembers the way she looked at him when he flinched in pain. The way she pressed her palm to his ribs. The way her breath caught. The way she said his name, not like a warning—but like a prayer.

Joel.

She’s in his dreams now.

On the fifth day, he hears them.

Three men. Stomping through the brush too loud to be animals. Laughing the kind of laugh that always meant trouble back in Austin. He ducks behind a fallen log and narrows his eyes.

They’ve got old rifles. One’s got a bloodied bat. Another carries rope. They don’t look like locals.

He’s already shifting forward, close enough to catch their muttered words.

“—heard she lives alone.”

“Quiet one. Doesn’t let anyone stay past dark.”

“She’s cute. Maybe we won't kill her.”

“Could keep her alive. Sell her, even. Good trade in the QZ for girls like that.”

The rope guy snickers.

Something in Joel goes ice cold.

And then red hot.

He doesn’t remember moving.

Doesn’t remember unsheathing the knife.

He’s just there—on them—before the last word even finishes.

The first guy doesn’t even see him. Knife to throat. Dead weight in seconds.

The second pulls the bat. Too slow. Joel crushes his knee and drives the blade up into his chest, fast and furious, grunting through gritted teeth. Blood splashes his shirt.

The third runs. Joel follows. His lungs burn. His side stings—scar tissue tugging where she sewed him shut—but he doesn’t stop.

He tackles the guy by the stream. The fight’s sloppy. Fists. Mud. A kick to Joel’s stomach that makes him roar.

He pulls his gun and fires once—close-range, just below the chin. The shot echoes like thunder.

Then there’s silence.

He’s panting. Covered in mud and blood. He wipes a shaking hand down his face and realizes it comes away wet.

Not sweat.

His blood.

One of them got a hit in—a lucky swipe of the knife across his lower abdomen. It’s deep. His hand clamps down, and he stumbles.

But he doesn’t fall.

He doesn’t go back to Boston.

He goes to her.

The porch creaks under his boots.

His vision’s going dark at the edges, his hearing warped. The wind howls. Or maybe that’s just in his ears. He slams his hand against the door once. Twice.

It swings open.

She’s standing there in a robe, barefoot, eyes wide.

The smell of herbs and pine and cinnamon hits him like a kiss.

And he drops to his knees.

“Joel?!”

She catches him as he falls.

Her voice comes through in waves—high and panicked, tugging at him from the edge of unconsciousness.

“What happened?”

“Oh my God—Joel, stay awake!”

“You’re bleeding out—stay with me!”

He mumbles her name. She’s real. She’s warm. Her hands are under his shoulders, dragging him in, across the wood floor.

He hears her voice crack. He thinks she’s crying. But maybe that’s just the wind again.

“Good men die too—but I’d rather be with you…”

He lets go.

Because he’s finally home.

The door crashes open like he couldn’t bear to knock.

You barely register the noise before you see him—Joel, stumbling in, blood dripping from the side of his face, a deep cut over his brow, and darker stains soaking the side of his jacket. Your stomach drops.

“Joel—Joel,” you gasp, rushing to him as the door slams behind him.

“I’m fine,” he grits out, even as he leans heavy into the wall. “Just—fuck—just need a minute.”

He’s not fine. Not even close.

You press your hands to his chest, guiding him down before he topples. He collapses onto the patched-up couch with a grunt, one hand instinctively reaching for your wrist like he needs to anchor himself.

“What happened?”

“Raiders,” he mutters. “They were talkin’… about you.”

Your chest tightens. “About me?”

“They knew you were helpin’ smugglers. Knew you were alone.” His jaw clenches. “I followed ‘em. Took care of it.”

The weight of that sinks in like cold water in your lungs. He didn’t just stumble into a fight. He went into one—because of you.

You kneel in front of him, fingers trembling as they search for more wounds. His shirt is soaked down one side. You lift the fabric carefully, wincing when he hisses.

“Hold still.”

He doesn’t argue. Just looks down at you like he’s memorizing something. Like it’s the last time he’ll see it.

“You could’ve died,” you whisper, unable to look him in the eye.

“I know.”

“You didn’t have to do that for me.”

Silence drapes over the room like a thick curtain. His voice breaks it, low and rough.

“Yeah, I did.”

Your hands stop moving.

He drags a breath in, jaw twitching. “I keep tellin’ myself to stay away. That it’s better if I just… come and go. Not get involved. Not care.” His eyes bore into yours. “But I do.”

Your throat goes tight.

“I care, sweetheart. More than I should. It ain’t safe. It ain’t smart. But fuck if I can stop.”

You stare at him, heart hammering. The room feels too small for the way he’s looking at you. Like you’re something precious. Like he’s scared of what you’ll do with what he’s just given you.

“I thought you didn’t,” you whisper. “I thought you were just… here because of Tess. Because it was convenient.”

Joel flinches like you slapped him.

“That what you think of me?”

“I didn’t know what to think.” Your voice cracks. “You never stayed. You never looked at me like—like this.”

“I stayed away because I’m already too far gone.” His hand lifts to cup your jaw, calloused thumb brushing your cheek. “You let me rest here. You patch me up, smile at me like I’m worth somethin’. I—I don’t know how to be around that without wantin’ it all the time.”

You press into his touch, eyes burning.

“I want you,” he says, voice wrecked. “Not just your bed or your supplies. I want you. And when I heard them talkin’ about takin’ this place from you, takin’ you—I saw red.”

Your lips part, but no sound comes out.

He leans forward, wincing as he moves, and presses his forehead to yours. “Say somethin’, baby. Please.”

You take a shuddering breath. “You could’ve told me all this… before you bled on my couch.”

Joel chuckles, hoarse and tired. “Had to make it dramatic.”

You kiss him.

It’s not delicate or soft. It’s messy, desperate. He groans into your mouth, one hand tangling in your shirt, the other anchoring around your waist. You crawl into his lap without thinking, straddling him carefully so you don’t press on his injured side.

“You’re hurt,” you murmur between kisses, pulling back just enough to breathe.

“I don’t give a shit,” he growls, chasing your lips again. “Just wanna feel you. Been starvin’ for it.”

You kiss him again.

It’s messy, breathless, and tastes like copper and desperation. Joel groans into your mouth, his hands rough on your waist, tugging you closer like he can’t stand another inch between you.

You straddle him without thinking, careful of the wound on his side but needing to be on him, against him, now. Your thighs bracket his hips, and the heat between your legs pulses with each shaky breath you take.

“Fuck,” he rasps against your mouth, “you feel so good, baby—been wantin’ this. You don’t even know.”

You gasp when he cups your ass, grinding you down against the hard line of him. There’s no teasing—he’s already thick and aching beneath you, straining against the denim. You rock your hips once, twice, and his head falls back with a low growl.

“Get these off,” you mutter, tugging at his jeans. “Joel—please.”

“Yeah,” he pants, lifting his hips to help you. “C’mon, sweetheart, take what you need.”

You fumble his belt open, push his jeans down just far enough, and his cock springs free, flushed and leaking at the tip. You moan softly at the sight, wrapping your hand around the base to stroke him once. He twitches in your grip, his stomach flexing hard.

“Jesus,” he groans. “You tryna kill me?”

“I want you,” you whisper, lining him up with where you’re already dripping. “I want this.”

Joel cups your face, his thumb brushing your lip. “You sure, baby? I don’t wanna hurt you.”

“You won’t,” you promise, and then sink down onto him in one slow, shaking motion.

Your mouth drops open in a silent gasp as he stretches you, inch by inch. He’s thick, the kind of full that makes your eyes roll back, makes your body tremble from the inside out.

“Goddamn,” Joel grits, hands gripping your hips so tight it might bruise. “You feel like fuckin’ heaven.”

You start to move—slow at first, adjusting, then faster, grinding down to take him deeper. His hands slide up your sides, guiding your pace, his eyes fixed on where you’re joined like he can’t believe it’s real.

“Fuck—you’re takin’ me so good, baby. So tight. So warm.”

You lean forward, bracing your hands on his chest, and roll your hips faster, chasing the friction, the pressure building low in your belly. The slick sounds of your bodies moving together fill the room, and Joel’s breath goes ragged.

His thumb slips between your legs, circling your clit in tight, perfect circles. You cry out, hips bucking, and he shushes you gently, kissing your jaw, your throat, your shoulder.

“There she is,” he murmurs. “There’s my good girl.”

You clench around him hard.

“Yeah, you like that?” he breathes. “My sweet girl, fallin’ apart on my cock.”

You nod, frantic, mouth open but useless. Your climax hits hard—sweeping through you in waves, stealing your breath, and Joel holds you through it, groaning when you spasm around him.

“Fuck, baby—just like that. You’re squeezin’ me so tight.”

He’s close. You can feel it—the way his thrusts grow more erratic, the low growl in his throat, the way his hands tremble on your waist.

“Inside,” you whisper, not even thinking. “I want it, Joel. Please—inside me.”

Joel curses, loud and broken, and then he’s spilling deep inside you with a strangled groan, his hips grinding up as he throbs and pulses and presses your body tight against his.

You both go still, panting, shaking.

His arms wrap around you, holding you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

You rest your head on his shoulder, your skin damp with sweat, your heart still racing. He strokes your back with one hand, the other sliding down to squeeze your thigh gently.

“You okay?” he murmurs, voice rough, lips against your hairline.

“Yeah.” You press a soft kiss to his neck. “Are you okay?”

He laughs, breathless. “Took down three raiders and then got ridden within an inch of my life. Feelin’ real fuckin’ lucky, actually.”

You smile against his skin, lifting your head to meet his eyes. They’re softer now. Warmer.

“I meant what I said,” Joel whispers. “I’m yours.”

You kiss him again, slow this time. Like you’re promising something back.

And this time, neither of you pulls away.

“I thought I lost you,” you whisper.

“You didn’t.” His voice is rough but certain. “I’m right here.”

You curl into his chest, fingers tracing lazy circles over his shoulder as his hand strokes your spine.

“You’re not sleepin’ on the couch anymore,” you murmur.

Joel huffs. “Was gettin’ real sick of it anyway.”

You smile, the kind that hurts a little. He tilts your face up and kisses you again—slow and sure and full of everything he didn’t say before.

“I ain’t goin’ anywhere, sweetheart,” he promises. “You got me now.”

And you believe him.

You’re still tangled together, skin to skin, when the air finally settles.

Joel’s chest rises and falls beneath you, a deep, steady rhythm that lulls your racing heart into something softer. You shift gently, brushing your lips across the curve of his shoulder, and he hums in response, one hand stroking lazy circles on your back.

The tension’s gone now. Or maybe it’s just changed—melted into something heavy and warm. Something real.

“C’mere,” he says, voice hoarse but gentle.

He guides you to lie beside him, tucking you against his chest. His arms wrap around you like he’s still afraid someone might try to take you away.

You run your fingers lightly over his ribs, careful near the bandage. “Hurts?”

“Nothin’ compared to earlier.” He huffs a soft laugh. “Pretty sure I forgot the pain the second you climbed on top of me.”

“Mm. I was very motivated.”

“Yeah, you were,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple. “You good, sweetheart? I didn’t go too rough?”

You shake your head, tracing a fingertip over the fresh stubble on his jaw. “You were perfect.”

Joel’s eyes close like he’s trying to soak in the moment, memorize every detail. You stay like that for a while, quiet. Breathing each other in. Until you shift, rest your chin on his chest, and give him a crooked little smile.

“I owe you a black eye and two kisses.”

He blinks. “Do what now?”

You grin. “You scared the hell outta me, Miller. Showed up bleeding, collapsed on my porch like some western outlaw, and then you told me you were mine.”

His hand comes up to cup your cheek. “I am.”

“I know. That’s why you’re only getting one black eye.”

Joel laughs—deep and rough and real—and the sound wraps around your heart like a blanket.

“Alright,” he says. “Guess I deserve that.”

You lean in, kiss the edge of his mouth, slow and sure.

“Tell me when you wanna come and get ’em,” you whisper against his lips. “The other kiss too. It’s waitin’ on you.”

He flips you gently onto your back, careful with his weight, hovering just above you now. That soft look in his eyes is back—like he’s never seen anything as precious as your face.

“I want it now,” he murmurs.

So you kiss him again, deep and slow. And this time, it feels like healing. Like a promise.

When you finally break apart, you tuck yourself into his side again, and Joel pulls the blanket up over your bare skin. His thumb strokes your shoulder, and his other arm stays tight around your waist, protective even in rest.

You fall asleep like that—warm, safe, claimed.

And Joel doesn’t let go.

tags: @zevrra @xodilfluvr @littlemillersbaby @midwest-goth-lesbian @lokis-right-femur @whimsicalangel111 @grayandthyme @littledes1re @monicasblues @amyispxnk @penguinz0s-no1simp @justsarahbella @eri-maull @uncassettodiricordi @fairylights-throughthemist @catch1ngmoths @mystickittytaco @cocobear18 @millersdoll @serruten @dearstcupid @saturnyo @boscogirlsworld @valentineispunk @spookyfunhottub @sage-babydoll @aj0elap0l0gist @plsilovedilfs @grayandthyme @ivuravix @lostinthestreamofconsciousness @alyhull @alidiggory92 @cokewithcameron @killmesweet