The door creaked open before the engines died out, that familiar low growl of four bikes cutting through the night like a warning. You didn’t look up right away—you didn’t need to. You knew the rhythm of their arrival, the order they walked in, the weight of the silence that always followed them.

Dick Grayson was first through the door, wind still clinging to his hair, leather jacket unzipped just enough to show the dark tee underneath, the faint blue lines of the Nightwing emblem like a secret only you were meant to notice. His smile hit before his eyes did, and when they did land on you, it was like the whole damn room faded out.

The others trailed behind him. Jason dropped into his usual seat, helmet thunking against the counter like punctuation. Tim nodded once—ever the quiet observer—already scrolling through something on his phone. Damian didn’t say a word, didn’t have to. He just claimed his corner of the bar like a challenge.

But Dick?

Dick didn’t sit.

He leaned on the counter, forearms bare, fingers drumming against the wood like he wasn’t in a rush—like this was what he came for all along. His eyes didn’t leave yours, and that smile… it was softer now. Just for you.

He watched you pour the drinks, watched the way your hands moved like you’d done this a thousand times—because you had. Because they came here for this. For the quiet in between chaos. For the one place in Gotham that still felt like home.

Dick reached for his glass, fingers brushing yours—intentional, lingering. His voice was low, meant for you alone.

“You keep looking at me like that,” he said, smile tugging at the edge of his lips, “and I’m gonna start thinking this place isn’t the only thing bringing me back.”

Then he drank, slow and easy, eyes never leaving yours.

And just like that, he made the whole bar disappear.