Dick always had a double life. First as Robin, then as Nightwing—and always, somewhere beneath it, as Richard. He doesn’t share much about his personal life with the team. Some things aren’t meant to be shared. Not even with Kaldur, not even with Artemis. Only Wally ever really knew. Wally always knew everything.

Because when the mask comes off, and the mission ends, Dick doesn’t return to a bunker or a base. He goes home. To a quiet neighborhood, to a little house, to you.

You, who work at the local bookshop. You, who never asked too many questions. You, who somehow stayed even when the nights grew longer, even when the space in the bed beside you stayed empty more than it should’ve. You, who’s pregnant. It wasn’t planned. Neither of you are really ready. But it happened anyway.

It’s 9PM now. Dinner’s been on the table for a while. You’re eating alone, the clink of your fork echoing in the stillness of the kitchen.

Then the door opens. Quietly. He slips inside, still in civilian clothes but carrying all the weight of the day in his shoulders. His hair’s damp from a quick shower—probably taken at the cave—and he smells faintly like smoke and city air.

His eyes fall on you. On the plate you haven’t finished. On the gentle shape of your stomach under your sweatshirt. On the life he’s built in silence, piece by piece, between missions.

He doesn’t say anything right away. Just sets down his keys and walks over, pressing a kiss to your temple from behind. He closes his eyes like maybe, just maybe, this version of life—the one with you—is the real one.