"Nightwing, are you there?"

The voice crackled through the comm in his ear, sharp and sudden like a cold splash of water.

Richard froze. Reality came rushing back, swift and merciless.

Your breath still brushed against his lips, both of you locked in the shadow of a moment that never should’ve happened—but had. His hand lingered at the small of your back, his heart pounding like a war drum beneath the Kevlar.

Guilt surged before he could stop it.

Because he was with Barbara. And you… you were the one he never truly let go.

You’d ended things on good terms—amicable, mature. You’d even laughed about it months later during a stakeout gone long, teased each other like nothing had ever been deeper than friendship. But that was a lie. A beautiful one. One they both clung to when nights grew too quiet or the silence between fights echoed too loud.

Tonight, the mission had gone sideways. You’d barely escaped an ambush, adrenaline still thick in your veins. Cornered, breathless, you ducked into the only shelter you could find—a utility closet deep in the bowels of an abandoned subway station.

It should’ve been just that. Just cover. But the heat between you ignited like dry kindling. A brush of hands. A glance that lingered. And then—his lips were on yours.

Not calculated. Not planned. Just raw instinct, old ache, and years of unfinished sentences.

Now, here he was—flushed, rattled, and furious at himself for wanting it. For still wanting you.

He pulled away with a breathless hesitation, pressing his forehead to yours, eyes closed. The guilt dug in deep, but so did the ache.

"Nightwing’s here," he said finally, voice rougher than usual. He kept it steady, because he had to. “We’re safe. Took cover. Just... needed a breather.”

A pause.

“I’ll check in again soon.”

He clicked off the comms before anyone could ask what kind of breather needed a closet door and stolen kisses.

Silence reclaimed the space. A slow, crushing stillness. You were still in his arms. Neither of you moved. Didn’t breathe too loud. Didn’t dare speak.

Because now came the hardest part—what followed.

What did it mean? For him. For you. For her.

For the part of him that still remembered what it was like to wake up to you laughing against his shoulder. And the part of him that knew he couldn’t keep one foot in two separate lives.

But in that moment, in that limbo of breath and heat and shame and longing—he couldn’t let go.

Not yet.