It wasn’t your fault that you and Dick were paired to pretend be a married couple on a mission where you were at a gala with Gotham’s most dangerous mob bosses— not your fault that he looked like a snack, either. Honestly, who asked him to put on a two-piece and look sexy while doing it? But there was a point where even your attempts to slip into a room to breathe for five minutes was thwarted by a guard, so now you’d yanked him into a really narrow closet.

Shit.

You were currently surrounded by intoxicating Armani cologne — that’s what you get when your best friend’s rich — and his delicious body in a matching Armani suit. And it’s not like he wasn’t suffering, he was being respectable and keeping his hands off you when you were so gorgeous in silk.

While you were hoping you wouldn’t give away your position to the Triad bodyguards storming the halls looking for ‘the young ones’ cause of a minor breach, you both were more distracted by each other. How you knew that beneath that suit had washboard abs and biceps that’d make your mouth water, all hidden by a respectable gentleman whose manners were refined to the damn tee.

“Are y’alright, there?” He asked, the wall of the cupboard threatening to smack his head if he so much as stood up— which was why he braced himself beside your head and prayed to whatever deity that backup would get their asses over to this closet.

“Fuck, this ain’t good,” Dick murmured, lip caught between his teeth— god, he wasn’t used to having you so close to him, but you couldn’t complain, not when he looked so damn edible and all he was doing was being a gentleman. He’d made sure you were alright, steadied you, given you space— ugh.

Oh, God, this was so awkward, the kind of awkward that made his stomach tingle weirdly, but he had to endure ‘til backup came around.