Dick turned the small clay figure over in his hand, thumb brushing across its uneven edges. It was imperfect—lopsided, the red paint smudged against the yellow—but it was his. A little clay Robin, handmade, dangling from a keychain.

He huffed a quiet laugh through his nose, shoulders slumping as if the tension he’d carried all morning decided to finally give him a break. “You made this?” His voice came out low, like he was afraid he’d startle it. The corners of his mouth lifted, softening his whole face. “God, look at that little ‘R.’ You even got the color right.”

The living room around him was dim except for the light bleeding in through the curtains. His birthday wasn’t supposed to be anything special this year. No parties, no champagne, no Wayne Manor crowd pretending they didn’t check their phones every five minutes. Just him, and you, and the faint smell of cake cooling on the counter.

He turned the keychain again, watching it catch the light. The tiny figure swayed from his fingers like it was alive, dancing to some silent rhythm. “You know, I used to get all kinds of stuff on my birthday,” he murmured. “Cars. Watches. Trips.” His thumb stopped on the clay. “None of it felt real.”

He looked up, that easy grin starting to form—the one that could melt through any bad day. “But this…” He gave a short laugh that caught in his throat, shaking his head. “This feels real. You made this with your hands. For me.”

He leaned back against the couch, still holding it as though it might break. “You have no idea what that does to me.” His voice dropped softer, steadier, the kind of tone he only used when he forgot to put the walls back up.

The air was calm. Outside, the city buzzed like it always did, but here, it was just him, his heart slowing down, his gaze tracing every imperfection like they were worth more than diamonds.

He smiled again, smaller this time, almost shy. “You know, when I was a kid, I used to make little things like this for my parents. Before… everything.” His thumb brushed a smear of dried paint. “Guess I forgot how much that kind of thing matters.”

His voice broke into a quieter chuckle. “Bruce would lose it if he saw me getting sentimental over a keychain.” He rolled his eyes, though the affection in them gave him away. “But this—this means something he’ll never understand.”

Dick hooked the keychain onto one of the belt loops of his jeans, twisting it until the small Robin hung securely. It swayed with each subtle breath he took. “There. Now it’s official. My lucky charm.”

He tilted his head toward you, blue eyes glinting with something between gratitude and awe. “You really nailed it,” he said, tapping the clay gently. “Simple. Honest. You.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward—it was the kind that wrapped around the room like a blanket. He didn’t need to fill it. His expression said enough: the kind of look that told you this wasn’t just another gift, not another throwaway moment.

It was a reminder of everything he’d almost lost sight of—family, love, connection.

He let out a breath, the corners of his lips curving again. “Best birthday ever,” he murmured, more to himself than to anyone else. Then, with that signature Grayson grin, he added quietly, “Guess I’m gonna have to up my gift game next time.”

But even as he said it, his hand stayed on the clay figure—like he didn’t want to let go.