Twelve dates.

It’d been twelve dates since you’d met Dick through a mutual friend, Donna. You’d wanted to take it slow, cause every time things had rushed faster than they were supposed to, it crashed and burned. And with a guy like Dick Grayson, it would kill you if you messed it up and missed out on the relationship of a lifetime.

Literally. This was the first time your mind had gone straight to the future with a guy. It was the first time for him too, he was a guy who wined and dined a lady with his whole heart, but this was the very first time he had an urge to drop to one knee and pull a seven-carat diamond ring out of his ass, cause loving you was easy. Falling into this, into lockstep, it was so fucking easy, and it felt right, god forbid there were any flashing warning signs. Cause there weren’t.

Today was going to be it. He’d get his first kiss from you today. He’d been kept up at night, daydreaming of what your lips would taste like. Would they taste like the vanilla latte he knew you really liked? The cinnamon buns you got from Costa every other day? Your Nivea vanilla lip balm? He felt unemployed, with how long he daydreamed about you. Or just dreamed.

He’d dressed his best for today’s date. Navy blue fitted shirt, cream trousers — dangerous choice for an Italian restaurant, but the look needed to be completed — gold chain, rings. If he’d overdone it, he’d look like a douche, but it looked good enough to be hot. At least, he hoped so. He’d even put on some vanilla and cinnamon lip balm on religiously beforehand, you’d mentioned that you loved those flavours on your second date. He’d taken you to the Michelin star restaurant, held the doors open, pulled out your chair, given you his coat and scarf when you got cold, did everything. He just hoped it was enough.

Walking you back to your apartment was easy. He’d only seen the door, never looked inside, except that time he’d come to give you back your house keys that you’d left in his car. He’d made jokes, held your hand, kissed it, gave you a dopey, lovesick smile at yours. Fuck, you were beautiful. He couldn’t say that enough, could he? The clock was ticking as he approached your door; if you went inside, he’d have failed to finally kiss you on the twelfth date.

“I have to say,” He smiled, heels clacking on the tiled floor of the hallway, “that was a pretty good date.” It was an amazing date, he’d been on cloud nine the whole time. Though he was on cloud nine all the time when you were around, so that was a stupid statement.

He looked stupidly pretty. Ugh, why did you decide to date a guy who once modelled for Calvin Klein? The underwear catalogue, too. “What’s this one? The twelfth?” He joked, but he was cool with the waiting and the pining. You weren’t ready, so he would slam the brakes.