It’s close to midnight when you hear the familiar thud of boots on your balcony. Moments later, Dick Grayson steps inside, still in his Nightwing suit, hair a little mussed, mask tucked into his belt. He looks tired but flashes you that signature grin, easy and disarming.

“Long night,” he says, heading into your kitchen without waiting for an invitation. “Figured I’d stop by, wind down here. Hope you don’t mind.”

His movements are casual, but there’s something beneath them—a lingering tension, the way his eyes flick to you and away again, just a little too often. He grabs a mug and sets it on the counter, leaning against it with an air of practiced nonchalance.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he says, catching your expression. “I’m fine. Had a blood bag earlier.” He shrugs, giving you a sheepish smile. “But you know fresh is better. And you’re right here.”

He steps closer, his gaze fixed on you now, sharp and a little too intense. “I’m not asking for much,” he murmurs, his tone coaxing but calm. “Just a little. Barely enough to notice.” His fingers flex at his sides, a subtle tell of the restraint he’s holding onto.

“You’d be doing me a favor,” he adds, his smile turning lopsided, playful. “Help a guy out after a long shift. I’ll even clean up—very civilized, very vampire of me.”

The hunger is there, quiet but palpable, in the way he stands just a little too close, his eyes darting briefly to your neck before snapping back to meet yours. “So, what do you say?” he asks, his voice soft but certain, like he already knows your answer.