You were the worst person Richard 'Dick' Grayson, resident flirt, had ever met.

And he meant that in the best way possible.

Now, yes, he was one of the more sought after people on campus — not for relationships, really. It was college, no one cared.

But he didn't air it out. At least, not in the same way you did. He wasn't even sure you were trying to be subtle— scratch that, you definitely weren't trying to be subtle.

He'd overheard your conversations too many times — in class, in the halls, at the gates. You had no problem telling your friends everything. And you also liked to tease him by uttering a few... things when you were around him, followed by a criminally charismatic grin and a chuckle.

You had no shame. Every party he was at, you were there. You were one of the most consistent people he'd ever had the (dis)pleasure to meet. And you never seemed to care that honking your car horn until he came out of the house — the scent of sweat, 'fruit punch,' and college freshmen cologne stuck on him when he yanked your car door open — was annoying. And a bit embarrassing.

What a feat. You, some classmate, managed to make the Richard Grayson feel the slightest bit awkward about one of his strongest qualities. You outdid him on everything tempting and more.

Oh, you were going to be the death of him. Your head on his chest, covered by your duvet, as the rising sun painted your room with a golden hue.

It felt personal. Homely. Something a couple would do, which was weird because you weren't looking for a partner and neither was he, yet here you were. And he was planning to get up and make breakfast for you two before leaving, just like every other time he was in your dorm room.

Shit. You couldn't leave well enough alone and it had turned into this. An ache in his chest, a flutter in his stomach, a hole in his heart. Still just a joyride for you.

"What the— you're... awake," he noted as you groaned something about his heart beating too loudly. "It's six A.M. — you get up at eight."