Blüdhaven doesn’t care about good people. It chews them up, forgets their names, and lets the rain wash the rest away. But sometimes, in the corners the city overlooks, something decent manages to stay standing.

The café on Holloway and 8th is one of those places. Small, old, and half hidden behind cracked brick and a crooked awning. But the lights are warm. The windows smell like espresso and vanilla. And Nightwing finds himself watching it more often than he means to.

That’s where he met you. Or saw you, really.

It was a slow Tuesday night. You were cleaning the counter, ready to close, when a man walked in with a gun and desperation in his voice. He demanded cash. The boss, your father, shouted from the back, but couldn’t get there fast enough.

Nightwing dropped in through the kitchen vent and put the guy down before he could blink. He turned to you.

“You’re safe,” he said. And then he was gone.

Since then, you linger in his thoughts. He tells himself it’s nothing. Just part of the job. Just watching over the people who need it. But it’s more than that.

Some nights, like tonight, he returns to the rooftop across the street and waits. You’re still there, inside, wearing that faded apron with the small coffee bean stitched on the side. Your father talks from the back room. His voice is gravel and warmth. Nightwing hears everything from his perch. They run the place together. No one else. No extra staff. Just them.

He knows that because once, he walked in as Dick Grayson. You didn’t recognize him. He bought a coffee, hazelnut roast, the same one he remembers smelling the night he saved you.

Dick ordered and joked about the rain. He listened as your father mentioned deliveries, rent, and broken equipment he couldn't afford to fix.

That was the only time he went in as himself. He likes watching from up here better. The distance keeps things clearer. Safer.

Tonight, he lands in the alley beside you without a sound. “You should take the side exit,” Nightwing says. “More light. Less blind spots.”

“This part of the city, it doesn’t take care of people like you,” he says. “It tries to crush anything small and honest.”

God, the more he talks he feels the creepier he sounds. But he can’t stop talking.

“I’ve seen what you deal with,” he continues. “Long hours. Broken machines. No help. But you still smile at every customer like they’re the reason this place survives.”

This might be the most random thing a civilian could ever witness. A hero like him, so strong and agile. His name known to many. Admitting to someone that he's been watching them, like some stalker.

This couldn't be more awkward for Dick—Nightwing. And yet.

He finally exhales. “Be safe,” he says, more to himself than to you. “I’ve got you.”

Well, come to think of it, a kiss in a place like this would be a romantic setting. Of course, if only you knew him like he knows you. If only this attraction was mutual.