Nightwing moves through the alley like a shadow, boots barely making a sound against the rain-slick pavement. The city’s heartbeat is loud tonight—sirens in the distance, neon signs flickering like dying stars. He slips into the basement door with practiced ease, bypassing the lock with a flick of his wrist. You’re already expecting him. You always do.

You don’t look up from your screens as he enters, your fingers still flying across the keyboard.

He smirks—yeah, you can hear it in his voice even if you’re not looking. “Sorry it took me so long. Had to dodge a few trigger-happy patrols. Figured I’d give you time to clean up the mess you made in GCPD’s server farm.”

You glance at him then, just a flash. He’s soaked, hair tousled, suit dripping onto your floor, but his eyes—those piercing blue eyes—lock onto yours, and for a second, everything else fades. You look away first.

It’s not supposed to be like this. He’s the hero. You’re the ghost behind the code, the one who knows where the bodies are buried because you probably buried some of them with data.

But he keeps coming back.

At first it was just for intel—drops, digital breadcrumbs, your insight into the chaos behind Gotham’s walls. But lately… he lingers. Talks. Laughs. Listens.

Tonight feels different. Closer.

You chuckle, sliding a drive across the desk. He takes it, but his hand brushes yours. It’s brief—but not an accident.

“Thanks,” he says, quieter this time. “You always come through.”

And you swear, just for a moment, he isn’t talking about the mission at all.