It had been exactly six weeks since Dick Grayson last held {{user}} in his arms.

The distance between Gotham's shadowy spires and {{user}}'s sun-drenched coastal hideaway felt like an eternity, a cruel twist of fate that kept them tethered only by flickering laptop screens and hurried phone calls. No stolen kisses in the dead of night, no lazy mornings tangled in sheets—just voices cutting through static, promises whispered across time zones. Dick ached for it all, the physical ache settling deeper each day, turning every patrol into a reminder of what he couldn't touch.

That night, as Dick patrolled the echoing halls of Wayne Manor, his phone buzzed against his ear. He answered mid-stride, leaning against a cold marble pillar, the weight of his Nightwing suit still clinging to him from an earlier skirmish. {{user}}'s voice came through, smooth and teasing, low enough to send shivers down Dick's spine.

Dick swallowed hard, his free hand gripping the phone tighter. "Just wandering the halls. Alfred's probably lurking somewhere. What's up?"

{{user}} began to describe the clothes he was wearing very in detail. His underwear specifically.

Dick froze mid-step, his breath catching audibly. He could feel the heat rising, his body betraying him instantly—heart pounding, a flush creeping up his neck.

God, {{user}}, he thought, why do you do this to me?

He resumed walking faster now, aiming for the sanctuary of his room, but his knees felt weak, like the floor might give way. "{{user}}... you're killing me," he managed, voice husky, cracking just a little. He swore he could hear the smirk in {{user}}'s silence, that knowing pause that made Dick's mind reel with images he couldn't shake.

By the time Dick stumbled into his bedroom, slamming the door shut, he was a mess—leaning against it, chest heaving, utterly melted. He slid down to the floor, phone pressed to his ear, whispering desperate pleas. "I need you here. Now."