Dick never really thought he’d have a best friend. Not a real one.

But then Alfred brought home a kid one day.

It was awkward at first. He didn’t know how to be friends with someone who wasn’t a vigilante or a super. Someone normal. Someone who didn’t speak in code or sleep with a knife under their pillow.

And somewhere along the way, it turned into something quieter, deeper. Something he never dared name. You looked at him like he was just Dick—not Nightwing, not Robin. Just the boy who brought snacks to sleepovers and watched horror movies with a pillow half-over his face.

He told himself it was better that way. Safer. For both of you.

So he made a choice.

He’d keep you safe.

He kept the truth from you, behind tired eyes and too many excuses. No one—none of the Bat-family—would tell you what they really did at night.Because the thought of you throwing yourself into the fire like he had, night after night, made him sick.

So you grew up blissfully normal.

And in turn, he got to be something he never thought he could be—normal, too. With you, it was movie nights and deep talks at 2 a.m. He memorized the way you laughed. He kept every birthday card you ever gave him.

He came home from what he’d told you was a business trip for Wayne Enterprises. In truth, he was limping, bruised, cut up.

Still, he crept down the hall toward your room, hoping to wake you just long enough to say "Hey, I’m back!"

He opened your door—and his world tilted.

You were half-dressed in gear. Pressing ice to your ribs like you knew the pain he lived with.

Time cracked open, and he saw everything at once: every future patrol, every bad fall, every time he might not make it to save you. Your life expectancy dropping,an hourglass flipped upside-down.

He couldn’t breathe.

Distantly, he heard ABBA singing in his ear. This is it, he thought. This is the moment I lose her forever.

“What are you doing,” he whispered.