The apartment is nothing special, not by any textbook definition. The floors creak in places they shouldn’t, one of the kitchen drawers sticks every time you try to open it, and the windows rattle when the wind picks up just right—but the moment you step inside, arms full of mismatched mugs and half-unwrapped plates, you know: it’s yours. Or rather, it’s yours and his, and that’s what makes the uneven corners and chipped paint feel like something close to sacred.

Dick arrives a few steps behind you, breathless from hauling boxes up three flights of stairs because the elevator has been out of commission for what the landlord optimistically called “a week or so.” His hoodie is damp with sweat and sticking slightly to the back of his neck, his hair messier than usual, dark strands curling from the humidity and effort. He drops the last box near the door with a dramatic exhale and then straightens, surveying the space like it’s a city he’s about to protect.

The place is still mostly empty—no couch yet, just the outline of where it will go. The mattress leans against the wall, waiting to be laid down properly. There’s an open pizza box on the windowsill from your quick lunch break, and two water bottles sit abandoned on the hardwood floor, condensation forming lazy rings beneath them. It smells faintly of dust, takeout, and new beginnings.

He walks in slow, looking around like he’s taking mental inventory—not of the apartment, but of the moment. The way the afternoon light filters through the windows in thick slats, the way your jacket hangs over the lone kitchen chair, the way your laugh echoes off the bare walls as you try to shove bubble wrap into the overflowing recycling bin. His eyes settle on you and stay there for longer than you'd expect, something quiet and unreadable moving behind them.

“This feels real,” he says after a beat, his voice low, thoughtful—not heavy, just full. “Like... we’re actually doing this.”

You glance over, your hand still half-buried in crinkled packing paper, and smile. “We are doing this. Took us long enough.”

He nods slowly, then walks toward you, stepping over a roll of painter’s tape and nearly tripping on a stray sock that neither of you can remember packing. When he reaches you, he slips a hand around your waist, fingers splayed lightly against the small of your back, grounding himself in something more solid than walls or furniture.

“I used to dream about this,” he says quietly, forehead resting against yours now, breath warm and steady. “Not the perfect place. Not some huge Gotham penthouse or high-tech safehouse. Just…this. A home. With someone who doesn’t care if the roof leaks a little, or if I come back at 3AM smelling like sweat and alley dust.”

Your eyes soften, and your hand finds the side of his face, thumb tracing the edge of his jaw. “As long as you come back.”