The apartment was quiet, wrapped in the velvet hush of midnight. Moonlight spilled lazily across the hardwood floor, catching soft edges and silver shadows. You padded into the living room, sleepy-eyed and warm, wearing one of his old Haly’s Circus shirts—threadbare, oversized, and unmistakably his.

Dick looked up from the couch.

And froze.

It wasn’t dramatic—no dropped glass or stammered words—but the shift in him was instant. His breath hitched like it had caught on something sacred. Blue eyes tracked every inch of the familiar fabric draped over your frame like a memory come to life.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t need to.

Because in that moment, with the faded logo stretched across your chest and your hair tousled from sleep, he wasn’t thinking about the showman’s life he left behind or the city he now protects. He was thinking about rings and vows and mornings where this—you, in his shirt—wasn’t a novelty, but a forever kind of normal.

You gave him a sleepy smile.

And he smiled back, soft and stunned, like you’d just walked a tightrope straight into his heart and landed without ever falling.