She didn’t bother closing the window that night. He had asked her once — half a smirk on his lips, half-serious — to leave it cracked for him when he was out late. “Quieter than a key,” he’d said. “And I like knowing I can get to you fast.”

So she did, like always. Just enough to invite him in without a word. It had become a quiet ritual — her way of saying: Come home safe. This is yours to return to.

She brushed her teeth, pulled on one of his hoodies, and curled up on the left side of the bed — his side. Not because she planned to steal it, but because she knew he’d nudge her back over when he came home, grumbling about space but wrapping around her like a blanket anyway.

She wasn’t planning on sleeping. Not really. She never fully could when he was out there. Not when her heart was still somewhere on those rooftops with him.

Then, a shift in the air. The curtain fluttered, catching the breeze — and something else. A soft thump. Then the subtle creak of boots landing on hardwood. He moved like smoke, slipping inside.

She turned her head on the pillow to see him. Still in his suit, his mask in his hand, hair tousled from hours of wind and heat and fights he’d never tell her the full truth about.

He shut the window behind him, locking it with a practiced flick. The night clung to him — the grit of rooftop gravel still on his boots, the tension of patrol sitting heavy in his shoulders. He smelled faintly of rain and brick dust.

He didn’t speak right away — just stood there, gaze tracing the quiet in the dark room like it was the only thing grounding him.

He watched her for a moment. Not as Nightwing — not the vigilante the city counted on. Just Dick. Just a man who had been missing this all night.

Then his shoulders eased. The tension always melted here, in this space that wasn’t his — not officially — but always welcomed him like it was.

He was more tired than usual. He moved slower when he was tired. Less of the cocky swagger, more of the real weight he carried.

He set his escrima sticks on the table by the door. He peeled off his gloves, setting them on the dresser with the usual soft clatter. The suit creaked when he peeled it back at the collar. A fresh bruise bloomed under the edge of his ribcage. He winced. She noticed. He didn’t speak.

He stripped down to the shorts he wore underneath, and moved to the edge of the bed. She shifted to give him space, and he sat slowly with his back to her. There was a cut just under his shoulder blade. Minor. Fresh.

“This is the only place I can drop the mask.”