#dawg req

The champagne flute felt foreign in your hand as you stood at the edge of the ballroom, taking in the glittering spectacle of Gotham's elite. You'd forgotten how the city's wealthy moved like sharks in expensive clothing, circling each other with practiced smiles and calculated conversations. The Wayne Foundation Gala was exactly as you'd imagined, elegant , overwhelming, and filled with people who wouldn't remember your name five minutes after meeting you.

You hadn't planned on coming back to Gotham. Not really. But when your company opened a new branch here and offered you the position of senior consultant, something in your chest had pulled tight with an emotion you couldn't quite name. Nostalgia, maybe. Or curiosity about whether the city of your childhood was as dark as your memories suggested, or if time had simply painted it that way.

Three weeks back in that godforsaken city, and you were already remembering why your parents had left.

"You look like you're planning an escape route."

The voice came from behind you — deep, measured, with the faintest hint of amusement threading through it. Something about the cadence made your spine straighten, made something in your memory flicker like a candle in the dark.

You turned, and the champagne flute nearly slipped from your fingers.

Bruce Wayne stood less than three feet away, and he was looking at you with an intensity that made the air feel thinner. He wore a tuxedo like it was a second skin, perfectly tailored, perfectly pressed, but it was his eyes that caught you. Those blue eyes that you remembered, even after all these years, they were older now, harder, with shadows underneath that spoke of too many sleepless nights, but unmistakably his.

"Bruce?" Your voice came out softer than you intended, pure surprise that you still weren't sure if it was joyful, confused, or somewhere in between.

Something flickered across his face that was similar to yours, full of surprise, recognition, and something else that vanished too quickly to name. His posture shifted almost imperceptibly, and for just a moment, you could have sworn you saw the careful mask he wore for slip.

"I thought that was you," he said, and there was something in the way he said it that made your heart skip. Not casual. Not the playboy billionaire making small talk that you had heard constantly in interviews that you involuntarily watched on your social feeds. Something genuine underneath. "You came back."

It wasn't a question, but it felt like one. Like he was asking why, or how, or maybe just confirming that you were real and standing in front of him.

"I did," you managed, trying to ignore the way your pulse had picked up. Of course he was going to be here, but unfortunately you hadn't connected that a Wayne gala would have Bruce fucking Wayne at his own damn gala. "A few weeks ago. It was a work transfer."

He nodded slowly, his gaze never leaving your face. You'd forgotten how he looked at people. He always took a moment to really look, like he was taking note of every detail, every microexpression. It had been unnerving when you were children, that focus. Now it made you feel seen in a way that was both comforting and terrifying.

"It's been a long time," Bruce said, and there was weight in those words. Years of weight.

"Fifteen years," you replied, pulling your cheek between your teeth, your glossed lips pulling into a small smile. "Give or take." You added on, quickly trying to cover the fact that you had been keeping track... loosely.

"Fifteen years, seven months." The correction was quiet, almost reflexive, and his jaw tightened slightly as if he hadn't meant to say it out loud. As if he hadn't meant to reveal that he'd also counted.

Your breath caught. "You remember when we left?"

"I remember a lot of things." His voice was carefully neutral, but his eyes weren't. They were doing that thing again, that intense, searching thing that made you feel like he was reading a story written on your skin. "You wrote me letters. For the first year."

The memory surfaced, bittersweet and sharp. You'd been twelve, heartbroken over leaving your best friend behind right when he'd needed someone most. You'd written him letters every week, filling pages with stories about your new city, your new school, asking him how he was doing, telling him you missed exploring the Manor grounds with him.

"You never wrote back," you said softly, not accusatory, just factual. You'd understood, even then. Bruce's parents had just died. He'd been drowning in grief, shipped off to boarding school, buried under the weight of tragedy. Of course he hadn't written back. But part of you, after years of no response, made you feel like maybe you'd been forgotten.

You had never been in his social circle, you weren't rich like he had been but that never bothered either of you. Until you began to doubt yourself, after four years of nothing from him, you figured maybe being some average kid from Gotham, of all places, had made you fall into the background of his life. Maybe he found someone else to wander the grounds with and someone else to sneak out with to go down to the docks.

Then his name hit the headlines, but this time it was "Bruce Wayne", not "Son of Thomas and Martha Wayne, Bruce..." and you had to begin to accept the fact that his life continued on, and yours had to too.

"I kept them." The admission was quiet, and he looked away for the first time since approaching you, his gaze fixed on something across the room. "Every single one. They're in my study."

Oh.

Oh.

You didn't know what to say to that. Didn't know how to process the image of Bruce Wayne — billionaire, playboy, Gotham's most eligible bachelor — keeping a stack of letters from his childhood friend for over fifteen years.

"Bruce..." You wanted to say more but your words caught in your throat, and thankfully he took over.

"Would you like to get some air?" He turned back to you, and there was something almost vulnerable in the question, hidden beneath layers of careful composure. "It's quieter on the terrace. We could... catch up. Properly."

You nodded, not trusting your voice, and he placed a hand on the small of your back, and even though it was a barely-there touch, it was enough to send warmth spreading through you.

People parted for him automatically, and you caught the whispers, the speculative looks. Bruce Wayne leaving his own gala with a woman no one recognized. It would be in the gossip columns by morning. But he didn't seem to care, his attention fixed on navigating you both through the ballroom and out onto the sprawling terrace that overlooked Gotham's glittering skyline.

The night air was cool against your skin, a relief after the stuffiness of the ballroom. The terrace was empty, the other guests preferring the warmth and networking opportunities inside. Bruce led you to the stone railing, and for a moment, you both just stood there, looking out at the city.

"Do you remember," you started, surprised by your own boldness, "when we used to play in the gardens at the Manor? You were convinced there was a secret passage hidden somewhere in the hedge maze."

The corner of his mouth lifted into something that was not quite a smile, but close. Closer than you'd seen since he approached you. "There was a secret passage. I found it two years after you left."

Your eyes widened and your jaw dropped slightly. You felt more relaxed than you had in the ballroom, which was evident by the fact that you let go of the champagne that was really just something for you to hold, and your shoulders were slouched a bit. "You're kidding."

"I'm not." He turned to face you, leaning one hip against the railing, and that almost-smile deepened. "It led to the old wine cellar. Alfred was not pleased when I emerged covered in cobwebs during a dinner party."

You laughed, the sound bubbling up unexpectedly, and something in Bruce's expression softened. He was watching you again with that intensity, but there was warmth in it now, something that made you feel like the years between you were collapsing.

"I missed that," he said quietly.

Your lips were still graced with a smile, and your eyes still crinkled in the corners. "What?"

"Your laugh." He said it simply, like it was a fact, but there was something underneath the words that made your chest tight. "You always laughed like you meant it. Like joy was easy."

"It was easier then," you said, matching his quiet tone. "We were kids, then we unfortunately became adults.. and everything got so complicated."

His expression shuttered slightly, and you knew you'd touched on it, the thing that stood between the children you'd been and the adults you'd become. The night that had changed everything.

"I'm sorry," you uttered oh so softly. "About your parents. I know I wrote it in the letters, but I never got to say it to you in person. I'm so sorry, Bruce. I wanted to be there for you, but we were already gone, and I tried to tell them I needed to stay, but I didn't have any say over my parents..."

"Don't." His voice was rough, and he reached out, his hand covering yours on the railing. His palm was warm, slightly calloused in a way that surprised you. "You were there. Those letters..." He paused, seeming to struggle with the words. "They mattered. You mattered."

Your hand turned under his, fingers curling slightly, and he let you. Let your fingers brush against his palm, let the touch linger in a way that felt significant.

"You matter," he corrected, present tense, and his eyes met yours with an intensity that stole your breath. "You came back."

"I didn't come back...." You stopped, because that wasn't entirely true, was it? When you'd accepted the position, when you'd packed up your life and moved back to Gotham, hadn't there been a small part of you that wondered? That hoped? What about the part of you that agreed to go to a Wayne Gala when you didn't even need to be there? "I didn't know if you'd even remember me."

His hand tightened on yours, just slightly. "I told you. I remember everything." He was closer now, though you hadn't seen him move. Close enough that you could see the flecks of gray in his blue eyes, the faint scar on his cheekbone that hadn't been there when you were children.

"You taught me how to skip stones at the pond behind the Manor. You broke your arm falling out of the oak tree near the east garden, and I carried you back to the house even though you were almost as big as me. You hated peas but loved carrots, and you always tried to trade them on your plate when we had dinner together. Your favorite color was yellow because you said it was the color of happiness."

Each memory felt like a gift, carefully preserved and offered back to you. You'd forgotten some of them — the peas and carrots, the specific tree, but he hadn't. He'd kept them all, filed away in that brilliant mind of his.

"It's still yellow," you whispered, barely audible and laced with so much that was unspoken.

Something in his expression cracked.. just for a moment, just enough for you to see the want underneath. The loneliness. The careful hope of a man who'd built walls so high he'd forgotten what it felt like to let someone in.

"Have dinner with me," Bruce said, and it wasn't the smooth request of a playboy billionaire. It was raw, almost uncertain. "Tomorrow. Or whenever you're free. I want—" He paused, seeming to recalibrate. "I'd like to hear about the last fifteen years. All of it. Not the summary version you'd give at a gala."

"I'd like that too," you said, and meant it more than you'd meant anything in a long time. "I want to know who you became, Bruce. Because no offense, but I don't think you are at all a playboy."

"I still-.. I'm still not sure you'll like what you find." There was a warning in his words, a darkness that flickered across his face.

You squeezed his hand, still intertwined with yours. "You're still the boy who spent three hours helping me look for my lost bracelet in the gardens. And the boy who shared his birthday cake with me even though I wasn't supposed to be at the party. And the boy who cried with me at the animal shelter because we couldn't adopt all the dogs." His eyes widened slightly at that last one, and you smiled. "I remember things too, Bruce. And I know that person is still in there, under whatever armor you've built up."

He was quiet for a long moment, his thumb brushing absently across your knuckles in a gesture that seemed unconscious. Intimate. "You always saw too much."

"Or maybe you just let me see it."

"Maybe." He lifted your hand slowly, giving you time to pull away, and pressed his lips to your knuckles in a gesture that was old-fashioned and achingly gentle. "Tomorrow, then. I'll pick you up at seven."

"I haven't given you my address."

The corner of his mouth quirked. "I'm a billionaire with unlimited resources. I think I can find it."

You laughed again, and again, his expression softened at the sound. "That's not creepy at all."

"I prefer thorough." But there was a lightness in his tone that you suspected few people got to hear. He lowered your hand but didn't let go, his fingers still loosely tangled with yours. "I'm glad you came back," he said quietly. "One good thing Gotham's done is brought you here, tonight."

"So am I," you replied, and realized you meant it. Gotham was still dark, still dangerous, still the city your parents had fled. But standing here with Bruce, his hand warm in yours and the ghost of your childhood friendship hovering in the air between you, it felt a little less heavy. A little more like it could be home again.

"I should let you get back to your gala," you sighed reluctantly. "You're the host. People will notice you're gone."

"Let them notice." But he stepped back slightly, releasing your hand with what seemed like reluctance. The loss of his touch felt more significant than it should. "I'll walk you to your car."

"Bruce, you don't have to..."

"I want to." Simple. Direct. Honest in a way that the playboy persona never was.

So you let him walk you through the Manor— because of course the gala was at Wayne Manor, where else would it be? — and down the front steps to where you'd parked your modest sedan among the Bentleys and Maseratis. He opened your car door for you, one hand resting on the frame as you slid into the driver's seat.

"Seven o'clock," he reminded you, and there was something almost boyish in the way he said it. Like he was afraid you'd forget. Like this mattered to him in a way that went beyond simple dinner plans.

"I'll be ready," you promised, a smile that held the same childlike joy you held 15 years ago came to your lips as you saluted him playfully with two fingers.

He nodded, seeming satisfied given the small smile that was on his own lips, and stepped back to let you close the door. But as you started the engine, he leaned down, tapping on the window. You rolled it down, raising an eyebrow in question.

"Welcome home," Bruce muttered softly, and the way he looked at you made you think he wasn't just talking about Gotham.

You drove away with his words echoing in your mind and the phantom warmth of his hand still tingling against yours, and for the first time since returning to Gotham, you felt like maybe — just maybe — you'd made the right choice in coming back.

Behind you, Bruce Wayne stood in the driveway of his family home, watching your taillights disappear into the Gotham night, and allowed himself the smallest of smiles. You'd come back. After fifteen years, you'd come back.

And he wasn't going to let you slip away again.

← BACK. ᝰ.ᐟ edawgz 2025.

Jason hadn’t wanted to come. That much was clear from the way he lingered in the doorway of your shared apartment, arms crossed, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the invitation like it had personally insulted him. You didn’t push because you knew better than to coax him into anything involving Wayne Manor. Instead, you’d simply said, “I’ll go if you do,” and left it at that.

The next morning, he was already dressed when you woke up, tugging on a jacket with a grim expression that said he’d made peace with the decision, but not with the place.

The manor hadn’t changed. Polished floors, high ceilings, and that quiet, echoing kind of wealth that made everything feel too big. Alfred greeted you both with his usual warmth, but Jason’s response was clipped in a nod, a muttered “Hey,” and then silence. You stayed close, brushing your hand against his arm now and then, grounding him without crowding.

But, you did give Alfred a bit warmer of a greeting, "Good evening, Alfred." It was a simple phrase that left your lips, but the smile that accompanied it made Alfred's lips pull into a polite smile as well.

Jason didn’t speak much as you moved through the halls, just scanned the room like he was preparing for a fight.

Dinner was already underway when you arrived. Dick was mid-story, gesturing with a fork and laughing at his own punchline. Tim offered a polite smile to try and get him to stop talking, Damian couldn't be bothered to give more than a groan.

Bruce stood at the head of the table, his expression unreadable, eyes flicking to Jason with something restrained and heavy. Jason didn’t sit until you did. You eased yourself into a seat with a smile on your lips, giving his brothers a wave and Bruce a gentle hello which he returned with a quieter one.

Jason sat besides you, but he kept his shoulders squared, his expression dry, and when Bruce asked how he’d been, Jason replied with a tight, “Fine,” and didn’t elaborate.

The tension was subtle but constant. Jason didn’t look directly at Bruce, and Bruce didn’t push. They spoke in fragments—surface-level, functional. You could feel the weight of everything unsaid pressing into the space between them. Jason cracked a joke at Tim’s expense, made Damian roll his eyes, and leaned into you when you whispered something that made him smile. But every time Bruce glanced his way, Jason’s posture stiffened, like he was bracing for impact.

After dinner, the family began to disperse. Dick and Tim disappeared toward the den, Damian vanished without a word, and Alfred retreated to the kitchen.

Quietly, you sheepishly asked Jason, "I totally forget how to get to the bathroom..." Indirectly asking for directions, Jason took this as an excuse to get a breather.

"Yeah, c'mon, I don't want to sit at the table with him anyway." He grumbled, his hand finding the small of your back when you both rose from your seats and wandered down the hall.

As you approached the bathroom besides the kitchen, you stopped outside of the door and put your hands on his shoulders.

"Do you need to leave?" You asked softly, this caught him off guard. The way you suddenly stopped instead of continuing into the bathroom, but more importantly, the way you directly asked him instead of hinting at it.

His jaw was still tight, his hand on your hip in a way that screamed "Yes. If we stay longer you'll have my fingerprints printed into your hip because I'm using you like a stress ball right now." But the look in his eyes was one that was beyond stubborn.

Your hands slid up his neck and rested against his jaw, "It's okay to say you need to go, Jay. I'm impressed you even decided to come, and I'm proud of you." Your voice was so gentle and composed that it nearly melted all of the tension in his shoulders.

His eyes softened in the most minute way, his hands easing their grip on your hips with a sigh. "I'm fine, I just needed a breather." He shook his head, pressing a kiss to your forehead before nodding in the direction of the bathroom door.

"Didn't you need me to be your guide to the bathroom?"

"Oh, no I could just tell you needed a second away from everyone. I also wandered this place the last time we were here and you went off with Dick." You smiled, a mischievous little glint in your eyes causing him to quirk a brow and let out a breathy chuckle.

"Of course you did." His arms pulled you into his chest, your head nestling under his chin as you hummed in amusement.

From the end of the hall, Bruce watched the two of you for a moment. He watched the way the tension eased from Jason's shoulders, the way your eyes were on him with a look that couldn't be faked, and most importantly, the way Jason smiles with a genuineness behind it that Bruce had never seen before.

Jason caught sight of him as the man lingered in the doorway before nodding towards the study. Your boyfriend let out a long, and heavy sigh, his eyes met yours when he backed away a little bit.

"I'll be right back." Was all he said before following after the man he tried to call father.

The study was dimly lit, an quiet except for the soft crackle of the fireplace. Bruce stood near the desk, sorting through a stack of papers with deliberate calm. Jason stepped inside, arms crossed, leaning against the doorframe like he wasn’t planning to stay.

Bruce didn’t look up right away. “You didn’t have to come,” he said, voice low and even.

Jason’s reply was immediate, defensive. “Didn’t want to.”

There was a pause. Bruce set the papers down, turned slightly. “But you did.”

Jason shrugged, eyes fixed on the floor. “She wanted to see everyone.”

Bruce nodded, slow. “She’s good for you.”

Jason’s jaw tightened, he had the audacity to act like he had even tried to get to know you? Admittedly, Jason had tried his best to keep Bruce from getting to know you, but that was besides the point. “You don’t even know her, you probably wouldn't be able to tell me her favorite color.”

“I’ve seen the way you look at her,” Bruce interjected, his tone a bit more careful now, but still even. "That’s enough.”

Jason shifted uncomfortably. “What do you want, Bruce?”

“I don’t want anything,” Bruce replied, and for once, it sounded true. “I just wanted to say… I’m glad you came.”

Jason scoffed, but it lacked the bite he was trying to convey. “Yeah, well... don’t get used to it.”

Bruce didn’t respond right away. He moved to the armchair near the fire, sat down slowly, like he was trying not to startle the moment. “You seem happy.”

Jason blinked, caught off guard by the words he had never heard from this man in all his years of life. “What?”

“With her,” Bruce added, looking at the flames in the fireplace before his eyes flicked to his son. “You seem… steady.”

Jason didn’t answer. He stepped further into the room, hands shoved in his pockets, eyes flicking to the shelves, the desk, anywhere but Bruce.

“I saw you in the hall,” Bruce added, and Jason froze. “You were smiling.. laughing.”

Jason’s voice was sharp and on the defensive. He didn't know what to do. He had left your apartment expecting to have to hold his own in argument.. not have to deal with... this. “You spying on me now?”

“No,” Bruce said, and there was something tired in his tone. “Just watching. Like I used to.”

Jason swallowed hard at that, and for once didn't have a snarky comeback. He just let the silence stretch and settle around the two of them.

“She’s the only reason I’m here,” he said finally, and the words came out rough. “Don’t mistake that for anything else.”

Bruce nodded, accepting it. “I’m not.”

Jason lingered near the desk, fingers brushing the edge of a photo frame — one of the old ones, before everything fell apart. He didn’t pick it up. Just stared at it for a moment, then turned away.

“I’m not ready,” he said, voice low. “To forgive. Or forget.”

“I wouldn’t ask you to,” Bruce replied.

Jason looked at him then, really looked. And for a moment, the tension eased. Not gone or healed, but it was softened around the harsh edges.

“I’m trying,” Jason mumbled, and it was the closest thing to a confession he’d ever offer.

Bruce nodded. “That’s all I ever wanted.”

Jason didn’t stay long after that. He found you in the garden, wandering around looking at the blooming flowers and well kept foliage. Once you heard your name, you nearly spun around with a bright smile, and of course you immediately followed his beckoning hand. You sat beside him, letting him pull you close with an arm around your shoulders. Then, something you never expected to hear, Jason let out a breath that released the tension from his shoulders and the lines set in his brows.

Inside, Bruce stood at the study window, watching the two of you. He saw the way Jason leaned into you, the way your hand rested on his chest, the way his mouth softened when you spoke. It was quiet. Unspoken. But it was there.

Love.

Not the kind Jason would ever say aloud. Not the kind Bruce would ever ask about. But it was real and tangible. And for the first time in a long time, Bruce let himself believe that maybe Jason was healing. He was happy.

ᝰ.ᐟ edawgz 2025. based on this req.

You weren’t sure when the fever had started — somewhere between the dull ache behind your eyes that morning and the full-body shiver that hit you mid afternoon. At first, you’d brushed it off, chalking it up to Gotham’s damp chill or the stress of the week. You’d been running on fumes, not eating proper meals, and your only sleep being random naps throughout the day.. so it was bound to catch up eventually. But by the time the sun dipped behind the skyline, your limbs felt heavy, your thoughts sluggish, and your skin too hot beneath your clothes.

You hadn’t meant to fall asleep in the library. You’d curled up on the couch with a blanket and a book, hoping to ride it out quietly, maybe nap for an hour before Damian got back from patrol. But the fire was warm, the room quiet, and your body betrayed you fast. The book slipped from your fingers somewhere around chapter three, and the blanket tangled around your legs, and you didn’t stir again.

Damian found you just after ten.

He’d been looking for you for the better part of an hour, irritation simmering beneath his usual calm. You hadn’t answered your phone, hadn’t responded to his messages, and Alfred had only offered a vague, “She mentioned needing rest, Master Damian,” which did nothing to ease the tight coil in his chest. He knew you and knew how you minimized things, how you brushed things off until it became a problem. At this point, your silence was too long and too loud.

The moment he stepped into the library, the irritation vanished.

You were curled up on the couch, half-buried in the blanket, one arm draped over your eyes like the light hurt. Your skin held that fragile glow that came with being sick, lips dry, and your breathing was shallow — too shallow. Damian crossed the room in seconds, kneeling beside you — having already shed his gloves — the back of his hand brushed your forehead. That's when he felt the heat radiating off of your forehead, and his stomach dropped instantly.

“Beloved,” he murmured, voice low but urgent. “Wake up.”

You stirred faintly, a soft groan escaping your throat as you tried to lift your head and swatted at his hand. “M’fine,” you mumbled, but the words were slurred, your voice hoarse and thin.

“You are not,” he said matter-of-factly, already reaching for the blanket. “You’re burning up.”

You tried to sit up, but the motion made your head spin. Damian caught you before you could fall forward, one arm sliding behind your back to steady you. You blinked at him, dazed, and he could see the fever in your eyes—glassy, unfocused, too bright.

“Don’t argue,” he said, more gently this time. “Let me help you.”

You didn’t have the strength to fight him. He lifted you with ease, cradling you against his chest as he carried you out of the library and up the stairs. You felt the shift in temperature as he moved through the manor, the cool air brushing your overheated skin. You buried your face in his shoulder, too tired to be embarrassed, and he held you closer, jaw tight with worry.

By the time he reached his room, you were half-asleep again.

He laid you down carefully, pulling the blankets back before tucking you in. Then he disappeared for a moment — a moment that was far too long in your opinion — long enough to grab a thermometer, a glass of water, a cold compress, and a packet of cold medicine from the bathroom cabinet. When he returned, you were shivering, curled into yourself like you could pack away the heat.

“Here,” he said, pressing the thermometer to your lips and brushing damp hair from your forehead. “Just stay still.”

You obeyed, eyes fluttering shut as the device beeped quietly. When he checked it, he swore under his breath.

“102.9,” he muttered, setting it aside and scoffed though it was more of a deflection of his worry than a true scoff. “You should’ve told me.”

You cracked one eye open, your voice barely audible. “Didn’t wanna bother you.”

He gave you a look that was sharp and incredulous, but softened by concern. “You are never a bother. You need to always tell me when something is wrong.”

You tried to smile, but it came out crooked and tired. “You’re sweet when you’re worried.”

He rolled his eyes, but his hand was gentle as he pressed the cold compress to your forehead. “I’m always sweet. You’re just too stubborn to notice.”

A weak laugh escaped you, followed by a wince as nausea rolled through your stomach. Damian noticed instantly, helping you sit up just enough to sip some water. His hand was steady at your back, his voice low and soothing as he coaxed you through it.

“Small sips,” he ordered. “Slowly. You’re dehydrated and running on an empty stomach.”

You did as he said, grateful for the coolness on your tongue. When you finished, he eased you back down, adjusting the pillows behind your head with quiet precision.

“Stay awake a little longer,” he said, brushing your cheek with the back of his hand. “Just until the medicine kicks in.”

You blinked at him, confused. “You gave me medicine?”

He held up the empty blister pack. “While you were half-awake. You mumbled something about riding a dragon.”

You groaned, burying your face in the pillow. “Kill me.”

“Not a chance,” he said, and there was something fierce in his voice now. “You’re mine. I don’t let what’s mine burn out.”

You stared at him, throat tight, and he didn’t look away. His eyes were steady, unwavering, and full of something you couldn’t name—something that made your chest ache.

“I don’t like seeing you like this,” he said quietly, fingers tracing idle patterns on your arm. “You’re always so strong. This is unsettling.”

You reached for his hand, your grip weak but steady. “I’ll be okay.”

“I know,” he said, squeezing gently. “But I’m staying here. Just in case.”

You didn’t argue. You couldn’t. Not when he looked at you like that—like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

He stayed by your side all night, changing the compress when it warmed, coaxing you to drink water, brushing sweat-damp hairs from your face with a tenderness that made your heart twist. He didn’t leave the room once, not even when you drifted in and out of sleep, you felt the weight of his gaze, the quiet rhythm of his breathing beside you.

At one point, you woke to find him reading beside you, one hand still resting on your arm. He’d pulled a chair close to the bed, legs stretched out, posture relaxed but alert. You watched him for a moment, chest full of something soft and aching.

“Dami,” you whispered, voice barely audible.

He looked up instantly, setting the book on the arm of his chair and straightening his posture. “You need something?”

You shook your head, eyes heavy. “Just wanted to see you.”

His expression softened, and he leaned forward, brushing your hair back again to press a kiss to your forehead. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Eventually, the fever broke. You felt it in the way your body stopped shaking, in the way your thoughts began to clear. Your skin was still clammy, your muscles sore, but the worst had passed. You woke near dawn, the sky outside pale and quiet, and Damian was asleep in the chair, your hand still cradled in his.

ᝰ.ᐟ edawgz 2025. based on this req!

Jason hadn’t looked convinced when you suggested it. Yet, here he was, standing just outside the mall entrance with his helmet tucked under his arm like he was ready to bolt if things went south. On top of that, his shoulders already tense in a way you recognized.. he bracing for embarrassment more than danger.

“You’re serious,” he said, eyes flicking toward the brightly lit storefront with the red sign and the open doorway full of laughter and music. You simply nodded, already smiling because you knew this was the exact point where he would pretend not to care and follow you anyway.

“Completely,” you nodded oh-so seriously. “You promised.”

He sighed like he was doing you a favor, which was his default move when he cared more than he wanted to admit, and followed you inside with the air of someone walking into enemy territory. As two little kids ran past you, his hand found the small of your back, like that part was an automatic reflex.

The place smelled like clean fabric and vanilla, and the sound was a little overwhelming at first, but you watched Jason adjust quickly. His eyes scanning out of habit before settling on you again, like you were the thing anchoring him in a space that didn’t make sense to him.

“This is,” he started, then stopped, glancing around at the rows of unstuffed toys lined up against the wall, all identical and empty in a way that felt oddly upsetting. “This is definitely not my usual scene.”

“You don’t say,” you drawled teasingly, a huge smile pulling at your lips as you were already reaching for one of the bears and holding it up between you. “This one looks like you.”

He snorted, which felt like a win, and took it from you, inspecting it with a seriousness that made you bite back a smile.

“I don’t look this friendly,” he said, his eyes not focused on you however, he was sizing up the bears behind you. With an amused quirk coming to his eyebrow, he leaned past you and held up a deflated bear that was fluffier than the rest.

"This one looks like you." He shrugged, though the small smirk tugging at his lips made you realize that he was beginning to enjoy this.

“Give it time, and you might look just as jolly as him,” you teased, gently taking the bear from his hands, giving it a brief 'inspection,' before nodding in satisfaction.

You watched as his eyes darted toward the door, and so, without wasting any more time, you were nudging him toward the stuffing station before he could overthink it, and he let himself be guided over. Though, he did roll his eyes in your direction as the employee explained the process like he wasn't a fully capable man.

Still, you noticed the way his hands were careful when he held the bear, steady and precise, like he treated even this silly little thing with a kind of respect he didn’t offer most people.

When it was your turn, he watched you just as closely, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed, the corner of his mouth tilted up like he was trying not to enjoy this too much.

“You’re taking this very seriously,” he muttered playfully, as you adjusted the stuffing, pressing it here and there until it felt right.

“I want it to be perfect,” you said sternly and playfully all at once. You hadn't looked up at him, since you had a more important task at hand, but you felt his gaze linger a little longer at that. Like he had found a hidden meaning in those words.

The heart ceremony made him visibly uncomfortable at first, his brows knitting together as the employee handed him the tiny fabric heart, but when you nudged him gently and held yours out too, something in his expression softened.

You followed the instructions, pressing the heart to your own chest, making a wish you didn’t say out loud because it felt too private, too close to something real, and when you placed it inside the bear oh so delicately. Jason mirrored the motion more quietly, his jaw set like he was focusing on not making a joke.

Afterward, he cleared his throat. “You’re not allowed to tell anyone about this.”

You smiled. “I already told Alfred.”

He groaned, but there was no real heat in it, just the kind of reaction that meant he’d expected nothing less.

The customization station was where things shifted, where the joking eased into something warmer and more personal without either of you naming it.

Jason picked out clothes with a surprising amount of care, holding tiny jackets up against his bear and muttering under his breath about color coordination, while you watched from across the table, feeling that familiar pull in your chest that came from seeing him unguarded.

“What about this,” you asked, holding up a small leather vest, and he glanced at it, then at you, then smiled in a way that felt quieter than usual.

“Yeah,” he nodded, taking it from you with a new level of delicacy. “That works.”

Eventually, just as you two were about to leave, your big, pouty eyes made him sigh, check the time, and then turn on his heels.

"Fine. Fine, we can make one for each other." He grumbled under his breath like he didn't just have a blast.

Jason took his time choosing yours, his movements slower now, thoughtful, and when you asked what he was doing, he just shook his head.

“You’ll see,” he swatted you away when you tried to peek over his shoulders.

You did the same for him, trying to capture something that felt like him without turning it into a little joke, and when you finished, you handed it over with a small flutter of nerves you hadn’t expected.

Jason looked at it for a long moment, his expression unreadable, and then he swallowed, his grip tightening just slightly.

“You made it look like me,” he muttered, quietly.

“You said you didn’t look friendly,” you replied. “I disagree.”

He huffed a laugh, but his eyes didn’t leave the bear, and when he finally looked back at you, there was something open there, something raw that he didn’t bother to hide.

“You did good,” he said, and your heart fluttered a bit, just like it did when you first started dating.

His bear for you was so precisely made. The stuffing was perfect, it was dressed in clothes that didn't resemble yours, but instead were ones you had pointed out earlier.

That's when your eyes got misty, and your nose tingled. Right there, outside of the build a bear, you threw your arms around him. Your head pressed into the crook of his neck.

"It's perfect, Jay." You mumbled against his skin. He had no clue that something so silly and simple, in the most charming way, could get you so emotional. But he wasn't complaining. It was one of the things he loved about you.

← MLIST. ᝰ.ᐟ edawgz 2025.

You should have known better than to trust a YouTube tutorial titled "EASY CHOCOLATE CAKE - ANYONE Can Make This!"

The video had been twelve minutes long. The perky baker had smiled at the camera, her kitchen spotless and organized, her ingredients pre-measured in little glass bowls. She'd made it look simple, foolproof, even. You and Tim had watched it twice, taking notes like you were planning a stakeout rather than baking a cake.

"We've got this," Tim had said, his confidence absolutely baseless given that his only skills in the kitchen was reheating takeout.

Now, standing in his apartment kitchen with flour somehow already on the ceiling — the ceiling — you were beginning to suspect that you did not, in fact, have this.

"Okay," Tim said, squinting at his phone screen where the video was paused. His hair was sticking up at odd angles, which meant he'd been running his hands through it. That was a bad sign this early in the process. "We need two and a quarter cups of flour. That's... two cups, plus a quarter cup."

"Tim. You're a literal genius, I know that, but I think I can handle that math."

"I'm just saying, precision is important in baking. It's basically chemistry." He looked up at you, his blue eyes serious in that way that would be endearing if it weren't about cake. "Did you know that the ratio of ingredients can affect the protein structure and-..."

"If you start explaining the science of gluten formation, I'm leaving."

His mouth twitched into a smile. "You wouldn't leave. You love me."

Your heart did a little flip, the way it always did when he said things like that so casually, like it was just a fact of the universe. Which to be fair, it was.

"I'm holding back that final judgment until we see if you can successfully crack an egg," you teased , measuring out the flour. The bag was awkwardly shaped, and you may have been a bit aggressive with your pouring. A white cloud poofed up from the measuring cup, dusting your face and the front of your shirt... and the tips of your eyelashes... and the counter. "Okay. That's fine. That's normal."

Tim was already wrestling with the eggs, holding one up to eye level like it might contain a hidden trap. "How hard do I tap it?"

"Just... a normal amount of hard? Have you actually never cracked an egg?"

He tapped it against the bowl with all the confidence of someone defusing a bomb. Nothing happened. He tapped again. Still nothing. "No! Alfred never let me in the kitchen!" His voice was a bit high pitched in defense.

"Tim, you're not going to break it by delicately tapping it like-.."

He smacked it against the rim, and the egg exploded. Not cracked. Exploded. Shell fragments and yolk went everywhere. It went into the bowl, onto the counter, down the cabinet, and somehow into the drawer of spatulas.

You both stared at the carnage.

"That was one egg," you said slowly. "We need three."

"I can do this." His jaw set in that stubborn way that meant he was absolutely not going to ask for help. "I've handled Riddler deathtraps. I can handle eggs."

The second egg went better, if you didn't count the piece of shell that definitely fell into the bowl. The third egg was almost perfect, except Tim forgot to move his phone out of the splash zone, and now the screen was covered in egg white.

"Still got this," he muttered, wiping his phone on his jeans.

You decided not to mention the eggshell. You'd fish it out later. Probably.

The mixer was next. Tim plugged it in while you added the sugar to the butter, which was supposed to be room temperature but was actually still pretty cold because someone (Tim) had forgotten to take it out of the fridge in advance.

"The video said to cream it until it's light and fluffy," you said, turning on the mixer.

Immediately, you realized your mistake. The butter was too cold, too hard, and the mixer was on too high. Chunks of butter launched out of the bowl like tiny, dairy projectiles. One hit Tim square in the chest and another landed in your hair.

"Turn it off!" Tim lunged for the mixer at the same time you did, and your hands collided on the handle. The mixer jerked sideways, spraying sugar across the counter in a wide arc.

You finally found the off switch. Silence fell, broken only by your heavy breathing and the faint patter of sugar still settling on every available surface.

Tim looked at you. You looked at Tim. His tshirt had a butter stain. Your hair was full of sugar. The kitchen looked like a snow globe had exploded.

"We're doing great," you nodded with a hopeful smile.

He started laughing, that genuine, slightly unhinged laugh that you rarely got to hear. "We haven't even added the flour yet."

"Oh god. The flour." Any amount of hope drained from your face, that was the scariest ingredient.

The flour, as it turned out, was the beginning of the end. You added it to the wet ingredients, and Tim turned on the mixer on high, immediately, because apparently he'd learned nothing from the butter incident.

The flour mushroom cloud was instantaneous and, frankly, impressive. It flew up from the bowl in a white plume that coated both of you, the counter, the cabinets, and, inexplicably, the window behind you. You inhaled pure flour and started coughing while swatting at the air around your face desperately, all the while Tim reached to turn off the mixer, but the damage was done.

"I look like a ghost," Tim said, his voice muffled. His dark hair was powdered white, and there were flour handprints on his shirt where he'd tried to brush himself off.

"You look like you lost a fight with a bag of cocaine," you wheezed, still coughing.

"That's not.. okay, that's accurate."

Somehow, despite everything, you managed to get the batter into the pan. It looked... questionable. Lumpy. Possibly containing eggshell. But it was in the pan, and that felt like a victory.

Tim preheated the oven while you tried to wipe down the counters, which only seemed to spread the flour-butter-sugar mixture into a thin paste across every surface.

"Three hundred and fifty degrees," Tim said, setting the temperature. "Thirty to thirty-five minutes. We're in the home stretch."

"Should we clean up while it bakes?"

You both looked around the kitchen. It looked like a tornado had hit a bakery. There was batter on the light fixture. You still didn't know how.

"Let's make the frosting," Tim suggested quickly, not quite sure he wanted to tackle the disaster you made.

"Tim. No."

"Come on. How hard can it be? It's just butter, powdered sugar, and cocoa powder."

"You said that about the cake."

"This time will be different."

It was not different.

The powdered sugar bag had a tear in it that you didn't notice until Tim picked it up and it dumped approximately half a cup down his shirt. The cocoa powder was fine, except that Tim sneezed while measuring it, creating a brown cloud that mixed with the white flour dust still hanging in the air, giving the kitchen a strange, apocalyptic fog.

But the real problem was the butter, again.

"It needs to be softened," you read from the recipe. "Room temperature."

"We'll microwave it," Tim decided.

"I don't think—"

Too late. He'd already put the entire stick, wrapper and all, into the microwave and set it for a minute.

"Tim! The wrapper!"

He looked at the microwave. Looked at you. Looked back at the microwave, where the butter wrapper was starting to spark.

"That's bad," he said much too calmly for your liking.

"You think?"

He yanked open the microwave door. The sparking stopped, but now you had a different problem... the butter had scorch marks on it.

"We can just... let it cool down?" Tim suggested weakly.

You were about to respond when you smelled it. Something burning and it wasn't the butter wrapper—something else.

"Tim. The cake."

"It's only been fifteen minutes. It needs thirty—"

"Tim. I smell burning."

You both rushed to the oven. Smoke was seeping out around the door, thin and gray. Tim grabbed the oven mitt and pulled the door open.

More smoke billowed out, and the smell intensified—acrid and wrong. The cake batter had somehow overflowed the pan and was dripping onto the bottom of the oven, where it was burning and smoking.

"How did it overflow?" you asked, baffled. "We didn't even fill the pan that much!"

"I don't know! Maybe the baking powder.... did we add baking powder?" He trailed off with wide eyes and whipped over to loo at you.

"I thought you added it!" You defended and threw your arms up in exasperation.

"I thought you added it!" He exclaimed, waving his hand in front of his face as he poked and prodded to try and get the pan out of the oven.

The smoke alarm chose that moment to start shrieking. Tim lunged for it, trying to wave away the smoke with a dish towel, which only seemed to spread it around more effectively. You grabbed the smoking cake pan out of the oven — the batter was still liquid in the middle, somehow both raw and burnt simultaneously — and dropped it in the sink.

That's when you noticed the dish towel Tim was waving had gotten too close to the stove burner.

The burner you'd accidentally turned on when you'd leaned against the stove earlier.

"Tim! The towel!"

He looked down at the flaming dish towel in his hand with an expression of pure disbelief. For a moment — just a moment — he stood there, holding the burning towel like he was trying to process how his life had led to this exact moment.

Then his Red Robin training kicked in, and he moved faster than you'd ever seen to drop it into the sink. Immediately, he turned on the water, and the towel hissed and steamed while the smoke alarm continued to wail.

The kitchen was full of smoke and flour dust and the smell of burnt cake batter. You both stood there, breathing hard, staring at the disaster zone that had once been a kitchen.

"So," you mumbled finally. "That went well."

Tim turned to look at you, and you got a good look at him: covered in flour and powdered sugar, a smear of cocoa powder across his cheek, his hair a disaster, his shirt stained with butter and egg. He looked absolutely ridiculous.

He must have been thinking the same thing about you, because his mouth started twitching. Then he was laughing again, that same unhinged laugh from earlier, and you were laughing too, both of you gasping and wheezing in the flour filled kitchen while the alarm screamed overhead.

"We almost burned down my apartment," Tim managed between laughs. "Making a cake."

"An easy cake," you corrected. "Anyone can make it, apparently. Except us."

He reached over and brushed some flour out of your hair, his touch gentle despite the chaos around you. His hand lingered, and suddenly you were very aware of how close you were standing, how his eyes were still bright with laughter, how even covered in baking disaster, he was looking at you like you were the best thing in his kitchen.

"You know what?" he said softly, his thumb brushing your cheek. "I don't even like cake that much."

"Tim Drake. We just committed culinary arson for a cake you don't even like?"

"I like spending time with you." He said it simply, matter-of-factly, like it wasn't making your heart race faster than any of the fires had. "Even if it means almost burning down my kitchen."

"That's the most romantic thing anyone's ever said to me, and it's deeply concerning."

He grinned and leaned in, pressing a floury kiss to your forehead. "Want to order pizza and pretend this never happened?"

"Yes. Absolutely yes."

"And maybe never speak of this to anyone?" His voice raised a pitch in hope, his eyes wide with a pathetic, puppy dog look to them.

You stand there, an eyebrow raised, and then your finger poked into his chest. "Tim, if you think I'm not telling everyone about the time you set a dish towel on fire while baking, you're delusional."

He groaned, but he was smiling, and his hand found yours, sticky with batter and covered in flour. The smoke alarm finally stopped shrieking, the kitchen was a disaster, and there was no cake... but Tim was looking at you like that, and his hand was warm in yours, and honestly? You'd burn down a thousand kitchens for this.

"Next time," you said, "we're buying a cake."

"Next time," Tim agreed. "Definitely."

You both knew there would be a next time. There would be a hundred next times, a thousand next times, because that's what you did when you loved someone. You made disasters together and laughed about them after.

Even if those disasters involved literal fires. Especially then.

← BACK. ᝰ.ᐟ edawgz 2025.

The first light of morning slipped quietly through the blinds, painting the room in soft shades of gold that felt like they had been made just for this moment. You were still curled against Dick, half-buried in the warmth of the sheets and the steady weight of him behind you, and the city beyond the window could wait. His arm draped loosely over your waist, steady and protective, and the faint rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek was enough to make the world feel distant, irrelevant, unnecessary.

He shifted slightly, just enough to brush his lips along the top of your shoulder.

“Morning,” he murmured, voice low and rough from sleep, the kind of sound that made your stomach twist pleasantly.

“Morning,” you replied with your eyes still closed, letting your hand rest over his forearm, tracing the subtle lines of muscle under the blankets. He smelled faintly of shampoo, coffee, and the lingering traces of his cologne, and frankly, it was a combination that made you want to stay like this forever, to let the hours stretch out until there was no world beyond the sheets and the quiet bedroom.

“You’re warm,” you whispered after a moment, still half asleep and shut-eyed. “Feels… nice.”

He chuckled in response, the sound pressed against your ear as your heart fluttered at the low sound coming from him and the gentle movement of his chest. Everything about him was perfect, and every moment with him reminded you of that.

For a while, neither of you spoke, letting the silence stretch comfortably, punctuated only by the subtle sounds of the city beyond the window and the quiet rhythm of his breathing. You pressed closer, letting your face rest in his chest, listening to the slow beat of his heart, the easy rise and fall of his shoulders. It was grounding in a way that nothing else could match, the kind of peace that made you forget the world entirely.

Eventually, his fingers brushed over your back, gently running up your between your shoulder blades and up to the nape of your neck. “We should probably get up soon,” he sighed after a long pause, sounding almost reluctant which made you exhale in amusement. “But… I don’t really want to.”

“Neither do I,” you whispered, tilting your head to nuzzle his neck as your lips peppered him with lazy kisses. “Just a little longer.”

He chuckled softly, a sound that vibrated against your skin and made you smile despite yourself. “Alright,” he said, voice rough but warm. “We can stay like this.”

The room was quiet in the kind of way that made every small movement feel magnified — the brush of a hand, the shift of weight beneath the sheets, the soft sighs and murmurs that escaped you both as you relaxed fully into the comfort of each other. You traced the line of his jaw with your fingertips, letting your hand rest on his chest as your chin rested against him, your eyes lazily open and studying his gentle features. “I like this,” you murmured. “Just… mornings with you.”

“I like it too,” he replied, tilting his head so he could press a gentle kiss to your temple. “No one else around, no plans, nothing to think about except you.” His hand moved to curl gently around your waist, holding you in a steady, unspoken promise.

Eventually, the quiet nudged you both toward movement, gentle and slow. You sat up reluctantly, stretching with a soft groan while Dick remained behind, draping an arm around your shoulders as he watched with sleepy amusement. “You move wayy too fast,” he chuckled, vice still thick with sleep.

“I’m hungry,” you admitted, leaning against him while he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. “And I want a drink.”

He laughed softly and swung his legs off the side of the bed, finally a feeling a bit more awake. “Alright, chef,” he said, voice teasing now, “let’s see what you can do in the kitchen before I have to take over.”

You followed him slowly, letting your fingers brush his arm as he led the way. He moved naturally through the small kitchen, pulling mugs from the cupboard and setting the coffee to brew, the kind of ease that came from familiarity, from shared mornings, from the small routines that made life feel perfect.

You perched on the counter, still a little sleepy, letting your hand find his as he reached for the sugar. “I like this,” you murmured again, voice soft. “Just… you and me, mornings like this.”

Dick’s hand squeezed yours gently, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “Yeah,” he said simply. “I like it too. Best part of my day.” He winked at you, leaning down to give you a gentle kiss as he stepped past you to start cooking you two breakfast.

By the time your drink and his coffee was ready, you were both leaning against each other at the small table, sipping quietly, sharing smiles and sleepy glances, letting the city wake without intruding on the fragile intimacy of the moment. Dick reached over occasionally, brushing a loose hair from your face, pressing a light kiss to your temple, the small touches so natural they barely needed acknowledgment.

When the first real sunlight spilled across the table, golden and warm, you leaned into him again, letting your head rest on his shoulder.

“Promise we’ll always have mornings like this?” you asked softly, voice almost too quiet to hear.

Dick wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pressing you closer. “Always,” he murmured. “No matter what else happens, mornings like this will be ours.”

You let yourself close your eyes again, letting the warmth, the quiet, the easy love of the moment wash over you completely. And for the first time in a long time, it felt like the world had shrunk to nothing but the two of you, the slow morning, and the perfect, unspoken promise that whatever came next, you would always wake in each other’s arms.

The apartment was quiet except for the faint hum of the city below, the occasional car horn or distant siren reminding you that the world was still awake. But up here, in the small bedroom you and Dick shared, it was all your own — a warm little bubble that existed just for the two of you.

You padded into the room in your oversized hoodie and fuzzy socks, already grinning because Dick was stretched across the bed, sprawled in a way that made him look impossibly relaxed. With one boot kicked off at the edge, sweat clinging faintly to his arms that rested behind his head from whatever workout or patrol he’d done earlier. Admittedly, the sight made a strange, flustering heat rise in your chest.

“You’re late,” he called, one brow raised, voice teasing, that familiar half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Is that a threat?” you asked, setting your water bottle down on the nightstand and letting your hoodie slip off one shoulder, letting a piece of hair fall across your face.

“Depends,” he said, stretching, the muscles in his arms and shoulders flexing under the soft light. The sheen of sweat made them even more pronounced, and you couldn’t help the slow smirk that tugged at your lips. “Are you joining me, or just watching?”

“Watching is boring,” you shot back, climbing onto the bed beside him. You nudged him as you straddled his lap, earning a groan and a playful shove in return. “I prefer participating.”

“Good,” he murmured, leaning closer until his chest brushed against yours, warmth radiating into your side. “Because I’m feeling generous tonight.”

You rolled your eyes, tracing idle circles on his chest, but your hand lingered, brushing the faint dampness of his skin. “Generous, huh? Sounds… dangerous,” you teased, your voice dropping into something softer, almost mischievous.

“Only if you’re not careful,” he said, voice low and teasing as poked your sides suddenly, prompting you to let out a startled noise and a laugh.

You leaned closer, fingers grazing the edge of his damp shirt where it clung to him. “You’re lucky I like a little danger… though I’m pretty sure you need a shower before you get any ideas,” you whispered, letting your fingers trace a slow line down his arm, deliberately brushing over the damp skin. “You’re… sweaty.”

Dick’s laugh was soft, a low rumble that made your chest tighten. “Sweaty, huh?” he murmured, leaning closer, lips brushing against yours as he propped himself up and adjusted you on his lap. “You sure you’re not just teasing me.”

“I'm pretty sure,” you said, voice taunting and soft, letting your hand drift up to the back of his neck. Your thumb brushed the damp hair at his nape, sliding lightly over the warm skin.

His grin was slow, deliberate, dangerous in the way only he could pull off, and he pressed a soft kiss to your shoulder, trailing a hand down to the curve of your hip, the contact light but electric. “Pretty sure you don't realize just how lucky you are that I love you. Otherwise you would've been totally done for by now.”

You let out a soft laugh, letting your fingers drift to his chest, feeling the heat radiating through the thin fabric.

The room was thick with quiet, teasing tension, punctuated only by your soft breaths, the subtle sound of fabric shifting, the faint hum of the city outside. Your hand trailed lower, just grazing the waistband of his sweatpants, and he caught your wrist, holding your fingers against his skin, eyes dark and playful.

“You’re trouble,” he said softly, leaning down to press his lips to yours, slow and deliberate, lingering long enough to make your pulse spike.

You laughed softly against his lips, letting your fingers brush over his chest, then deliberately began pulling back, just enough to tease. “And you need to cool off a bit,” you murmured, a sly smile tugging at your lips.

Dick groaned, eyes dark with mock protest as you eased away from him, though he didn’t release your waist entirely. “Cool off?” he echoed, voice low and teasing. “Are you seriously trying to kick me out of my ownbed?”

“You’re… very warm,” you teased, brushing a hand through his damp hair with a scrunched up face. “And you smell. I think a shower is in order before you do anything else or get any other ideas.”

He shifted, stretching against the mattress, letting out an exaggerated sigh of defeat. “You’re cruel,” he said, but there was a playful edge to it.

You grinned, planting your hands firmly against his shoulders. “Come on, big guy. Up.” You tugged gently, your body pressed against his as you tried to leverage him into a sitting position since he had taken it upon himself to lay back down in protest.

Admittedly, his size made it a challenge — he was heavier than you were used to handling like this — but he let you, teasing you the entire time with a low rumble of amusement.

“You’re going to hurt yourself trying to get me up,” he said, voice warm and playful, though he gave just enough to let you pull him to the edge of the bed.

“I’m strong,” you shot back with a grin, leaning into him for leverage, pulling with deliberate care. “And motivated.”

He finally swung his legs off the side of the bed, sitting up, his back straightening as he stretched, letting out a quiet groan that made you bite your lip to keep from laughing. “Fine,” he said, standing, brushing imaginary lint off his sweatpants. “I’ll take a shower. Happy?”

“Very,” you said, leaning against the headboard, watching him with a teasing glint in your eyes. “Come on, then. Don’t make it take too long, mister.”

He smirked over his shoulder as he headed toward the bathroom, the towel he tossed over his shoulder doing little to hide the mischievous glint in his eye. “You’re just going to sit there, huh?”

“You know me,” you replied, voice soft but playful as you followed after him. “I have to supervise.” You watched him as he dismissively waved his hand and pulled his shirt over his head.

After taking a moment to admire him as he got ready for the shower, something you simply couldn't help yourself from doing, you leaned against the counter and began to get yourself cleaned up.

As the sound of running water filled the small apartment, you went through your routine slowly, deliberately. Cleanser, toner, moisturizer — every motion measured and intimate in its own way. Your eyes kept flicking toward the shower, imagining the warmth of the water, the playful tension of the morning brushing off into something else, and your lips curved in a quiet, satisfied smile.

From the shower, Dick’s voice drifted faintly through the glass. “You’re taking your time over there, huh?” he teased.

“Just making sure I do it properly,” you replied, brushing a strand of hair back from your face. “Don’t want to look terrible tomorrow.”

He laughed softly, a low, warm sound that vibrated through the tiles. “I think you look perfect every night,” he said, and you could hear the grin in his voice. “Even when you’re talking to me like a bossy little general.”

“Someone’s gotta keep you in line,” you said, smirking, turning to apply your moisturizer. “Or you’d stay in bed all night, and we both know that would be a disaster.”

A soft chuckle echoed from the shower. “That wouldn’t be the worst disaster.”

You rolled your eyes, lips twitching into a quiet laugh. “Totally impossible,” you murmured to yourself, running a hand over your face. But secretly, you loved it. Loved the teasing, the warmth, the slow intimacy of nights like this — his presence, his playful energy, and the knowledge that this little routine, mundane as it seemed, was a rhythm you both shared.

By the time you’d finished getting yourself ready for bed, the bathroom was warm and hazy from the shower steam, and you were sitting on the edge of the counter swinging your legs back and forth.

Dick had finally shut off the water, and the faint scent of soap mixed with him lingered in the air. You watched him step out, a towel wrapped loosely around his waist, droplets of water glistening on his chest and shoulders. Your lips curved into a slow, adoring smile.

“Glad I sat in here the whole time, otherwise I'd have missed this” you murmured while taking all of him in. You had seen him shirtless, completely clothesless, pantsless, hell you had taken care of his wounds all over.. and still you never got tired of seeing him. Each time made your heart flutter like the first time.

“I even sped it up for you,” he replied, a grin tugging at his lips as he draped the towel over a hook. “You’ve been supervising my shower long enough, I think you’ve earned a front-row view.”

You laughed softly, letting your fingers trail over your own arms as you leaned forward. “I was… providing quality control,” you teased, letting your gaze linger on the curve of his shoulders. “And maybe… enjoying the view.”

He raised a brow, stepping closer, the towel doing little to hide the hard lines of his abs. “Maybe?” he echoed, voice low and teasing, reaching out to tilt your chin up gently with his fingertips. “I think you’re not being very honest with yourself.”

“It’s not my fault you look like that after… working so hard.” You whispered, letting your hands brush lightly over his chest, just enough to feel the heat of his skin against your palms.

Dick chuckled, low and deep, leaning closer until his forehead rested against yours. “You’re ridiculous,” he murmured, thumb brushing across your jaw. “And you know it.”

“But you like it,” you countered, smirking, letting your fingers trail down the curve of his torso, teasing the damp skin under the towel.

He groaned softly, the sound warm and throaty, and pressed a quick kiss to your lips, teasing but firm enough to make you shiver. “Yeah, yeah,” he admitted, voice low. “you know I do.”

Finally, the two of you moved back toward the bedroom. Your clothes from the day having been swapped out for pajamas. When you finally slid under the blankets together, Dick immediately wrapped an arm around you, pulling you flush against him. You wiggled playfully, trying to get the upper hand, tugging at his arm just enough to get him to groan and laugh in response.

“You’re impossible,” he said, voice low, teasing, fingers tracing lazy patterns along your spine.

You let out a gentle laugh, as Dick leaned down to brush his lips along your jawline, neck, and collarbone in a slow, teasing trail. “I love you,” he murmured, voice roughening slightly.

Your fingers threaded through his strands of his hair that were falling into his eyes.

"And I love you," you whispered, letting the weight of your touch and the closeness of your bodies speak loud than words.

His hand slid lower, tracing along your hip, teasing the curve beneath your pajamas, and you shivered at the warmth and pressure. “Careful,” you murmured, breath hitching slightly. “You’re going to make me… distracted.”

“I think that’s the point,” he whispered back, lips brushing against your temple as his hands explored just enough to make you squirm without crossing the line. “But don’t worry… we’ve got all night.”

You let out a soft laugh, biting your lip, pressing closer against him. The blankets were tangled around your legs, warmth pressed into skin, playful teasing and soft touches mixed with laughter and low, murmured promises. Every brush of lips, every teasing nudge, every whispered word made the night feel infinite, private, and entirely yours.

And as you finally settled, pressed together under the blankets, bodies warm and hearts beating in sync, you realized that this — the laughter, the teasing, the soft intimacy, the barely restrained desire —was exactly what you wanted. Nights like this, with Dick, where even the simplest routines became an excuse for closeness, were exactly why you never wanted to sleep alone.

You weren’t supposed to fall for a hockey guy.

You’d seen enough of them to know the type of guys they were... loud, cocky, always smelling faintly of sweat and victory. They traveled in packs, wore backwards caps like a uniform, and had a tendency to flirt like it was a second sport. You’d sworn off them after your freshman year, after one too many locker room stories and one very public breakup in the student union.

But then there was Steve Rogers.

Captain of the team. Right wing defenseman. The kind of guy who held doors open and apologized when he accidentally bumped into someone, even if it was during a legal check on the ice. He was polite, attentive in class, and ridiculously handsome in that all-American way, with a jawline that looked carved from marble and eyes that made you forget how to form sentences.

And he was nice. Like, genuinely nice. The kind of nice that made you suspicious at first, because no one was that kind without an angle.

You met him during a post-game interview. You were covering the team for the campus paper, and he was fresh off a win, hair damp, jersey still clinging to him and his helmet tucked under his arm. Admittedly, you went into this interview less than excited because you’d expected the usual bravado. Instead, he’d answered the questions with a level of care no one ever had, didn't say "gotta get the pucks in deep" one time, smiled in a way that was almost shy, thanked you for your time, and asked if you needed help carrying your equipment back to the office.

You’d said no. He’d carried it anyway, of course.

After your advisor had seen your work, he assigned you to cover the team for the rest of the season. So there you were, the cold from the ice seeped through the metal bleachers, biting at your legs even through your thick jeans. You’d bundled up — layers, scarf, gloves — but nothing really prepared you for rinkside chill. Still, you wouldn’t have traded your seat for anything. You were close enough to hear the blades scrape, to see the sweat glisten on foreheads, to watch Steve Rogers skate like he was born to do it.

You were seated just behind the bench, tucked besides two assistant coaches, a pile of spare sticks, and the entrance into the tunnel. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was the best view in the house. From here, you could see the speed that came from all of the players — the way Steve’s eyes scanned the ice before every shift, the way he tapped the cage of all of his teammates' helmets when they came off the ice, and the way he always looked over his shoulder toward you before stepping onto the rink.

It wasn’t obvious, it wasn’t dramatic, but it was consistent. Like clockwork, and like it was beginning to become a habit.

You weren’t sure when it started — maybe after your third article, maybe after that late-night interview in the locker room when he’d offered you his hoodie because you looked cold. But now, every time he skated past, he looked for you. And every time you caught his eye, something in your chest fluttered like it was trying to take flight.

The game was tight. Third period with a tied score. The crowd was loud, stomping and shouting and waving their hands when the refs made (or failed to make) a call.You stayed quiet, watching Steve with laser focus. He was locked in, jaw clenched, eyes sharp. He moved like a machine that was controlled, powerful, relentless.

Then he took a hit.

It wasn’t dirty, but it was hard. Shoulder to shoulder, slammed into the boards with enough force to make the glass rattle and the onlookers' drinks to topple off of the sill of the board. You flinched instinctively, hands gripping the edge of your seat. He bounced back quickly, skating off to the bench with a grimace, but you saw it — the way he favored his left side, the way his hand hovered near his ribs.

He dropped onto the bench, breathing hard, and you leaned forward without thinking.

“You okay?” you asked, voice low enough that only he could hear.

Steve turned toward you, sweat dripping from his hairline, cheeks flushed from exertion. He gave you a small smile, the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’ve had worse.”

You frowned and raised an eyebrow while reaching over to hand him a water bottle. “That doesn’t mean you’re fine.”

He shrugged, wincing slightly. “It’s a big game, I expected some big hits.”

You stared at him, heart thudding. “That doesn’t mean you’re invincible, Rogers. You just got rammed into the boards like a freight train hit you.”

Steve looked at you then—really looked. Like he was seeing past the scarf and the notebook and the press pass clipped to your jacket. Like he was seeing the worry in your eyes and the way your fingers trembled slightly from the cold and the adrenaline.

“I’ll be careful,” he said softly.

You nodded, swallowing hard, only just then taking note of how close you two were, and how the heat radiated off of him and pierced through the cold that was all around. Clearing your throat and grabbing your notebook as a crutch, you nodded with a smile, “Good.”

And when he stepped back onto the ice, he looked over his shoulder again.

This time, you didn’t just watch. You waited.

The win from the last game left you bubbling with excitement, and now the team had won again and of course the arena had been erupting. Today was an off day, but of course they were still hard at work practicing, and you had come to get some pictures, but ended up staying much longer than needed.

The hallway outside the locker room was dimly lit and smelled faintly of sweat, rubber, and whatever industrial-strength cleaner they used to keep the place from turning into a biohazard. You leaned against the wall, arms crossed, trying to look casual even though your heart was thudding like you were about to walk into an exam you hadn’t studied for.

You weren’t sure why you’d stayed. You didn’t need another quote for your article. You’d already filed your notes, already had enough material to write three different angles on the past two games. But something had pulled you here anyway.

The practice had ended twenty minutes ago. The guys had come and gone slowly from the locker room, the rest of the workers had thinned out, the rink lights dimmed, and the only sounds left were the occasional thud of gear being tossed into lockers and the low hum of post-practice chatter behind the closed door.

You shifted your weight, glancing at the locker room entrance. You weren’t sure what you were going to say when Steve came out. You just knew you wanted to see him.

Then you heard the muffled voices, laughter, and one very familiar drawl.

“Don’t forget your favorite reporter’s waiting out there,” Bucky teased, which was followed by a whistle from another voice. “You gonna fix your hair first, or just hope she’s into the sweaty look?”

There was a pause, then Steve’s voice came quieter, but still audible through the door. “She’s not just a reporter.”

You froze, breath catching.

Sam laughed lowly in amusement, “I know, man. I’ve seen the way you look at her. You skate like you got a damn dragon chasing you when she’s in the stands. You think we don’t notice?”

Steve didn’t respond right away. “I don't know.. She’s smart,” he said finally. “And funny. And she actually listens, not the way some people do where they just wait for their turn to talk. I just like being around her.”

Your heart did something strange then — something soft and sharp all at once. You hadn’t expected that. You hadn’t expected him to say that.

Bucky whistled lowly, followed by a playful smack on the back. “You’re gone, Rogers.”

“Shut up,” Steve muttered, but there was no bite in it only a soft chuckle that followed.

You stepped back from the door, suddenly unsure if you should still be standing there. But before you could decide, the locker room opened and Steve stepped out, hair damp, hoodie pulled on, and hockey bag slung over one shoulder.

He stopped just outside of the door when he saw you. His eyes widened, then softened, and he smiled slow and shy, like he wasn’t sure if you’d heard anything but suspected you had.

“Hey,” he said, voice low.

You smiled back, heart still racing. “Hey.”

He shifted his bag, stepping closer. “You waiting for me?”

You nodded. “I was hoping to catch you before you left.”

Steve’s smile grew, just a little. “I’m glad you did.”

Behind him, Bucky emerged, smirking as he passed. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

Sam followed suit and saluted him with a grin, "Good luck, soldier."

You rolled your eyes. Steve just shook his head, cheeks pink.

Once they left, you and Steve began heading down the hall at a slow, leisurely pace. The air between you was quiet, but comfortable, and your arm bumped against his every now and then. “How’s the shoulder?” You asked, finally breaking the quiet

He shrugged and brought a hand up to rub it, as if your presence had made him forget entirely that it had been bothering him in the first place. “Still sore. But I’ll live.”

You hesitated, then reached out and poked his arm gently. “You should rest it. I meant it when I said you’re not invincible.”

Steve tilted his head, eyes soft. “You worry about me?”

You blinked. “I worry about my article. If you get benched, I lose my star quote machine.”

He laughed, the sound warm and easy. “Right. All business.” He winked with a smile, and it made you practically melt into the floor right there.

"All business." You echoed with a nod that held a fake seriousness to it.

The parking lot was quiet, the sky streaked with the last light of sunset, and the air smelled faintly of melting snow and pine from the nearby trees. You stopped by your car, keys in hand, and turned to face him.

“Y'know,” you began, though you hesitated because saying this out loud meant admitting something you weren't sure you wanted to admit yet, “you’re not like the other hockey players I've unfortunately had to talk to.”

Steve raised an eyebrow, before a laugh escaped his lips. “Is that a compliment?”

“It’s an observation.”

He stepped closer, just enough that you could smell the faint trace of peppermint from his shower gel. “Well, you’re not like the other reporters.”

You smiled. “Is that a compliment?”

He pretended to think before a grin came to his lips and he nodded. “Definitely.”

There was a pause. A beat. The kind of silence that felt full, not empty. Then he leaned in, slow and careful, like he was giving you time to change your mind.

You didn’t.

His lips were soft, warm, and just a little tentative like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to want this as much as he did. You kissed him back, fingers curling into the fabric of his hoodie, heart pounding like you were the one who’d just come off the ice.

When you pulled away, he was smiling. “I’ve been wanting to do that for a while,” he said, voice quiet.

You looked up at him, cheeks flushed. “Then why didn’t you?”

He shrugged, eyes still locked on yours. “I didn’t want to be just another hockey guy.”

You shook your head, a soft breath of amusement leaving your lips. “I knew I shouldn't have said it like that." You teased, before your smile softened into something gentler, "But, you never were.”

And in that moment, with the rink lights glowing behind him and the night settling in around you, you realized that maybe falling for a hockey guy wasn’t such a mistake after all... at least, not when it was Steve Rogers.

ᝰ.ᐟ edawgz 2025