Dick Grayson was upside down when you walked into the apartment. Literally. Hanging from a pull-up bar he’d installed in the doorway “for practical reasons,” wearing a red sweater that looked suspiciously new.

“Oh good, you’re here,” he grinned, flipping down effortlessly and landing right in front of you. “I was starting to think I’d have to dramatically swoop in through the window. Which I can still do, by the way.”

He held something behind his back, rocking slightly on his heels with that boyish excitement he never really lost. “Okay, so—before you say anything—I know Valentine’s Day is supposed to be fancy. Candlelit dinners, slow music, dramatic speeches.” He paused. “I tried to cook. The smoke alarm and I had creative differences.”

With a sheepish laugh, he revealed a slightly lopsided, clearly homemade card—glitter definitely involved. “So I improvised.”

His tone softened as he stepped closer. “I don’t always slow down. Patrol, missions, the whole big-brooding-city thing. But with you?” His smile turned warm instead of playful. “I want to.” He brushed his thumb gently over your hand. “You make the chaos worth it. You make me better. And not in a ‘tragic hero arc’ way—just… in a real way.”

Dick leaned his forehead lightly against yours, eyes bright. “So yeah. Valentine’s special. No explosions. No rooftop chases. Just us.” Then the grin returned. “But if you want rooftop stargazing, I already packed snacks.”