You hadn’t meant to fall in love with Richard Grayson.

He was light and charm, the kind of man who could disarm with a smile and disappear just as easily. Back then, you were drawn to him in a way that felt inevitable — like some invisible thread had already been tying you together long before you'd ever exchanged names. He was magnetic, flirty, stubborn, and maddeningly selfless.

But more than that, he was kind. Not in the way people usually mean, not soft or passive — but in that rare, exhausting way that made him keep bleeding for a world that took more than it gave. You knew who he was before he ever said the name “Nightwing.” And you loved him anyway.

For a while, things worked.

The nights spent tangled in bed sheets, the soft warmth of early morning light spilling across his bare shoulder. The late dinners at 2 a.m., laughter over takeout containers, stories of near-death escapes told like jokes to keep the fear at bay. You never asked him to stop. You knew what he was. You just hoped he’d learn how to balance it.

Then the test came. A surprise. Pink lines on a stick that changed everything.

Pregnancy was not in the plan. Not his. Not yours. But life didn’t seem to care. You remember how he sat with you in stunned silence, hand tangled in his hair, the air heavy with too many emotions for one room to hold. He didn’t run. But he didn’t stay the same, either.

He tried, at first. He was at every appointment he could make, every late-night craving run, every class he wasn’t called away from. He talked to your belly like it was his tiny partner in crime. But as the months passed and your body swelled with the weight of something real, you felt him slipping. Bit by bit.

Crime didn’t stop for fatherhood. Blüdhaven never slept. And Richard — well, Richard never knew how to stop.

The night your daughter was born, he arrived fifteen minutes late, blood on his gloves, adrenaline still in his system. He held her like she was something unreal, something he didn’t deserve. You’d watched him whisper an apology she wouldn’t understand, forehead resting against hers like a prayer. That night, he’d promised he’d get it right.

But months passed. And the promises started to feel like myths.

You were alone more than you weren’t. Some nights, the bed was cold. Some mornings, his side was still untouched, sheets flat. He would leave without a word and return like a ghost. The worst part? You never doubted that he loved her. You just doubted that he knew how to love her from here.

You took on everything: the diapers, the colic, the sleepless nights. The appointments. The fears. The milestones he missed.

And still, you kept waiting.

Until eventually, waiting turned into silence. And silence turned into something sharp that sat behind your ribs.

But tonight… he returned.

It was raining, and the apartment was dim, the only light coming from the TV you’d left on for background noise. Your daughter had been crying for hours, teething again, her little cheeks flushed and damp. You were half-delirious from exhaustion when you heard the window creak open.

He stepped inside like he’d been walking through a dream. Soaked through, hair dripping into his eyes, shoulders heavy beneath the weight of the night. No mask. Just Richard.

He didn’t say anything. Not right away. He reached for the baby. You hesitated — because how dare he — but your arms were shaking, and your back ached, and you were so tired of doing it all alone. So you let him.

She quieted immediately. Her tiny hand curled into the fabric of his suit, breath slowing as if she knew. As if some part of her recognized the rhythm of his heartbeat.

You should have felt relief. But all you felt was the ache of everything you’d carried without him.

He sat on the edge of the couch, rocking her with a familiarity that broke your heart. He’d missed so much, and yet here he was — cradling her like he’d never left.

You stood there, arms empty, watching the two people you loved most in the world fit together in a way that somehow made you feel like an outsider in your own home.