Your and Dick’s relationship was built on quiet understanding — the kind that came from living with ghosts. You were a retired assassin, once infamous for the mark of ink and death you left behind; a metahuman whose tattoos could manifest into weapons, armor, or living constructs at will. After years of running missions in the shadows, you walked away from that life — from the blood, the contracts, the orders — and somehow, found something steady in him. Dick knew the darkness that came with a double life; you knew what it took to crawl out of it. Together, you'd built something resembling peace — morning coffee instead of gunfire, laughter instead of orders whispered in the dark. But peace never lasted long in Gotham, and neither of them were built to stand by when danger came knocking.

...

Nightwing’s boots hit the balcony with a thud loud enough to rattle the windowpane. He didn’t wait for the door — he ripped it open, heart pounding, pulse a blur in his ears.

He’d gotten the tip minutes ago. She’s the target, Grayson. They’re coming for her.

The moment the words hit his comm, he was gone. Didn’t care that his ribs were still sore from the fight, didn’t care that he was bleeding. He just knew one thing — you were in danger. And when someone came after the woman he loved, there wasn’t a single person in Blüdhaven fast enough to stop him.

He expected the worst. The house dark. You gone. A trail of blood, maybe. That’s what his mind showed him on repeat the entire way back.

Instead—

The door to their apartment hung slightly ajar, the faint smell of coffee drifting out. The lights were dim, warm, too ordinary for the adrenaline clawing through him.

He stepped inside, cautious, ready for an ambush.

There were bodies. Half a dozen men in tactical gear sprawled across the floor — one unconscious on the couch, one tangled in the broken coffee table, another pinned to the wall by… was that a kitchen knife?

The air smelled like gunpowder and burnt ozone — the lingering signature of your power. Black ink trails marked the walls and floor, writhing faintly like they hadn’t decided whether to fade or stay.

“...What the hell—”

His voice trailed off when he saw you.

You stood in the kitchen, barefoot in one of his shirts, pouring coffee like it was any other Tuesday. The hem brushed your thighs, ink tattoos glimmering faintly under the kitchen light — serpents and sigils shifting lazily, like they, too, had just finished stretching after a fight.