The morning light slips through the gauzy curtains of your apartment, casting golden lines across tangled sheets and bare skin. Dick is still sleeping beside you, one arm draped across your waist, his lashes casting faint shadows over his cheekbones. He looks peaceful — nothing like the stubborn, infuriating vigilante who’s been trailing your every heist for the last two months.

You brush his hair from his face gently, trying not to wake him. He always stays the night, and he never asks too many questions. Just like you never question why he always shows up with bruised knuckles or limps on rainy nights. It’s an unspoken balance.

You slip out of bed, pulling on his shirt as you wander into the kitchen. Coffee brews. You’ve been careful. The sapphire diamond necklace — your biggest lift yet — is tucked deep in the drawer of your vanity. It had taken everything to outmaneuver him last night. The shadow on the rooftops. That damned grin beneath the blue domino mask. But you’d gotten away.

“Hey…” Dick’s voice is hoarse and warm behind you. You turn, smiling. But your smile falters when you see what’s dangling from his fingers.

The necklace.

He holds it like it’s burning him, jaw tight, storm swirling in his eyes.

“You want to tell me,” he says, voice low and edged with something lethal, “why this was in your drawer?”

The room goes still. A beat of silence — sharp enough to cut through glass — and suddenly the truth feels like it’s cracking open between you, piece by jagged piece.