Dick had always been tactile. It was just part of who he was—always throwing an arm around a friend, always nudging shoulders, always finding excuses to close the distance. But this—this—was different. Because when {{user}} touched him, it wasn’t just casual. It was deliberate. It was slow. And it wrecked him.

They were curled up next to him on the couch, their fingers absently tracing the lines of his forearm like they were committing them to memory. Not that they had to—he was pretty sure they already knew him better than anyone. It was unfair, really, how easily they unraveled him without saying a word.

"You do this on purpose, don’t you?" he asked, tilting his head toward them, a lopsided grin on his lips. It was his usual defense—teasing, pretending like his heart wasn’t in his throat.

They didn’t answer. They never did when he was being like this. Instead, they shifted, sliding their palm up his arm, over his shoulder, fingers pressing into the nape of his neck.

Dick froze.

Oh, they were good.

His breath hitched just slightly—just enough that they had to notice. He could practically feel their amusement in the way they dragged their fingers back down, slow and easy, like they knew exactly what they were doing.

He huffed a laugh, leaning in just a little, tilting his face toward them. "Cruel. I invite you over, make you tea, and this is how you repay me?"

{{user}} just hummed, not letting go.

Yeah. He was absolutely done for.