Dick Grayson was amazing. An amazing person, an amazing friend—an even more amazing boyfriend.

When you’d first met him, he’d been impossibly charming, all easy smiles and warm eyes and this soft, almost ridiculous charisma that could make even irritated grannies blush and forgive him instantly. He just had that way about him.

Your first date had been classically Dick. He’d described himself as “fashionably late.” You called it “forty-five minutes late.” But he’d slipped into the restaurant with that sheepish grin, apologizing in a rush of honesty and charm, and by the time you’d finished dinner, your annoyance was long gone. And when he walked you to your door and kissed your cheek without warning, he was definitely forgiven.

As a boyfriend, he was everything you’d imagined and somehow still more. Flowers every Tuesday, thoughtful dates, soft mornings, and conversations that could bounce from philosophy to terrible jokes without missing a beat.

And he was, without a doubt, the best cuddler on planet Earth.
He was sculpted like someone who’d carved muscle out of thin air, but when he held you, he was all warmth and softness, adjusting himself automatically to make you comfortable.

Tonight was like most nights: the two of you curled together on his couch after dinner. His shirt was somewhere on the floor—discarded with a dramatic: “Is it just me, or is it way too hot in here?” The TV was playing something neither of you was really watching, the muted screen casting shifting light across both your bodies.

The shifting light caught on something else, too. Dick’s plethora of scars.

They glinted faintly on his shoulders, ribs, arms—marks you’d seen times before but didn’t know what had happened. You’d known he was Nightwing from pretty early on; there was no hiding it with how utterly whipped he was for you. But you didn’t know how any of them had happened. Except the new one on his palm—earned by being “attacked,” as he’d claimed dramatically, by your razor a month ago.

Your fingers drifted along his skin and brushed a pale, smooth scar on his right shoulder. 
Dick’s eyes flicked down, then back up to you, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“That one?” he said, voice warm, relaxed. “Deathstroke. I misjudged my jump—yeah, I know, shocking—and he caught me before I could get clear.”

He tilted his head, giving you a smirk that was equal parts boyish, charming like it always was, and self-mocking.