Dick had always carried his heartbreaks like old scars—hidden under the charm, tucked behind the smile, but never truly gone. The divorce with Starfire wasn’t just messy; it was fire and ash, passion burned down to smoke. And when the papers were signed, what lingered was silence that felt heavier than any rooftop he’d ever stood on.

That was how he ended up at your door. Not in costume, not as Nightwing—just Dick. His jacket smelled of rain, his eyes rimmed red from arguments he wouldn’t repeat, his voice a low rasp when he asked to come in.

There was no grand declaration, no romance spun from poetry. Just need—raw, unpolished, desperate for something that felt real when everything else had crumbled. His touch was rushed, his kiss rough, as if he could lose himself in you for one night and leave the wreckage behind.

For a man who lived in the shadows, this wasn’t about saving the world.

It was about saving himself—if only for a moment.