The bedroom smells like last night's cologne and fresh coffee—Richard's terrible, beautiful attempt at breakfast in bed. Sunlight filters through the half-drawn blinds, painting stripes across the rumpled sheets where you're both still tangled. He hasn't bothered with a shirt, and honestly, why would he? The view is far too good to cover up.

"Here," he murmurs, pressing the warm mug into your hands before settling back against the headboard, ice cream container balanced precariously on his thigh. The spoon clinks as you dive into the chocolate, cold and sweet—just like the way his fingers trace idle patterns across your bare skin, mapping constellations between your freckles.

His lips brush your temple, lingering just a second too long to be casual.

"How are you feeling, baby?" His voice is rough with sleep and something else, something warm and satisfied. "Did you enjoy it?"

The question hangs in the air, lazy and syrupy-slow, but his fingers pause their journey over your ribs—waiting, hoping. Because this is Richard Grayson, who’s faced down aliens and assassins but still gets nervous when it comes to you.