Dick Grayson's hunger was a persistent companion.

Not the sharp, gnawing pangs of immediate starvation, but something deeper - a slow drizzle seeping through the marrow of his bones, the lingering aftertaste of joy extinguished. It accumulated like sandcastles built during low tide, each grain representing moments when absence carved hollow spaces beneath his ribs.

His hunger was composed of fractured instants.

The millisecond when family warmth evaporated into smoke. The suspended breath upon entering his frigid Bludhaven apartment after night patrol, keys jingling in the hollow silence. The heartbeat's hesitation before abandoning friends at movie nights or strangers at coffee shops to answer crisis calls. That vertigo-inducing moment last Tuesday when he'd believed you were gone - truly gone - and his world had tilted on its axis.

Tonight, his knife methodically dissected vegetables. Carrots blushed in orange crescents, potatoes yielded pale cubes, onions wept translucent tears. The cream stew bubbled gently, releasing tendrils of rosemary and thyme that waltzed with the earthy sweetness of root vegetables. He stirred clockwise, counter-clockwise, creating velvety whirlpools in the cast iron pot. A splash of sherry, a whisper of nutmeg - alchemy transforming simple ingredients into liquid comfort.

The door sighed open. Your footsteps carried the crispness of late winter air and something indefinably warm.

He turned, wooden spoon still dripping cream onto the stove. The sight of you unwinding your scarf sent warmth cascading through him like sunlight through stained glass. Your nose twitched appreciatively, drawn to the stew's embrace of cream and nostalgia.

"Smells like..." you began, peeling off gloves.

"Home?" he offered, dimple appearing as he ladled golden broth over tender vegetables. The steam rose in a fragrant cloud, carrying whispers of smoked paprika and promises.