It wasn’t like he hadn’t tried.

For months, Nightwing had been testing the waters, dropping every hint he could think of. At first, it was easy things — compliments tucked neatly between banter during patrols. “Nice work out there. You’re gonna make me look bad if you keep this up.” That sort of thing. He always delivered the words with that signature grin, playful enough to pass as teasing, but sincere enough that he hoped you’d read between the lines.

When words didn’t get through, he tried actions. A coffee waiting for you before a late-night patrol. A gear upgrade left in your safehouse with no note, but his handiwork obvious in the details. Even small touches — a steadying hand on your lower back after a fight, fingers brushing yours when he passed you a baton — subtle, fleeting, but deliberate.

And then there was the way he looked at you. That should have given it away, he thought. The way his eyes lingered a little too long after a joke, or softened when you were tending to your bruises. He wasn’t exactly subtle, and everyone else seemed to notice. Everyone but you.

Which brought him here, to tonight.

The perp hit the pavement with a grunt, cuffed before he even knew what had happened. You straightened, brushing dust off your gloves, satisfied with the clean takedown. Nightwing landed beside you a second later, silent as always, though this time his grin was unusually tight.

“Nice work,” he said, catching his breath. “You’re… getting good at this. Almost too good.”

You shot him a quick smile, distracted as you checked the cuffs. “Thanks.”

His gaze was on you, a soft look on his face as he watched the way you stood over the criminal, a victorious grin on your face, you chest heaving from the mild exhaustion. Why must you be so oblivious?

Then, without giving himself the chance to stop, he blurted, “You wanna go on a date with me?”