It was one of those nights where Gotham had been just annoying enough to make him regret having legs. He’d spent hours chasing a smuggling ring across rooftops, got shot at twice, dodged a throwing knife, and somehow still managed to end up arguing with Damian over comms about whose turn it was to handle paperwork.

By the time he got home, Dick was done. Too tired to move, too sore to change. The Nightwing suit stayed on — tight fabric, utility belt, gloves and all — while he collapsed onto the couch with a low groan. He let himself sink into the cushions with a long exhale. His suit, black and blue and snug as sin, wasn’t exactly made for lounging. But it was warm, and it smelled faintly of leather and smoke and the faint trace of your perfume — you'd hugged him before patrol earlier, laughing that he was always too “freshly heroic” for his own good.

He stretched out, legs taking up half the cushions, forearm resting over his eyes. For a few glorious minutes, it was just peace. No alarms, no gunfire, no rooftops trying to murder him.

Then the front door clicked.

He smiled automatically — you were home.

He didn’t even lift his head at first. He just heard your keys drop, the familiar shuffle of your shoes. Then silence. Too much silence.

Your words caught midair. Your gaze landed on him — sprawled across the couch, boots off, undersuit tight around his thighs and chest, the faintest smudge of soot across his jaw.

Dick peeked from beneath his arm… and caught you staring.

Your gaze wasn’t on his face. Not even close.

It took him a second to process where you were looking, and when it hit him, he nearly laughed out loud. Your eyes were glued to his legs — his very tightly fitted, black-and-blue-suited legs. His thighs, specifically. The suit did him no favors when it came to subtlety.

A slow grin crept onto his face. Oh, he knew that look.

He smiled lazily. “Hey, sweetheart.”

You didn’t answer right away. Your eyes lingered. A lot. Dick bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. He’d been stared at plenty of times before — fans, crooks, even the occasional paparazzi. But you? That was different. The way you looked at him wasn’t admiration. It was temptation barely hiding behind an innocent face.

He could practically hear the thoughts you were trying not to say.

Then, out of nowhere, you blurted it. “Is that seat taken?”

The question hung in the air for half a second before his brain caught up. His grin came automatically — that dangerous, slow kind of grin that had gotten him into plenty of trouble before.

“Oh?” he said, raising an eyebrow. “You mean this seat?” He patted his thigh like he was inviting a cat, but his pulse betrayed him.