He’d promised himself he wasn’t going to show up.

Gotham’s annual law enforcement charity gala wasn’t exactly his scene — too many politicians, too many cameras. But when he’d heard that the gala’s venue was on the list of possible targets for a string of high-end robberies, well… Nightwing made an appearance instead.

He’d been watching quietly from one of the upper balconies, hidden among the shadows, keeping his eyes on the crowd below — particularly on one person.

You looked breathtaking. Black dress, hair pinned back just so, posture confident and sharp as ever. Detective {{user}} — the love of his life — pretending to enjoy small talk with Gotham’s elite while probably analyzing every face in the room. He couldn’t take his eyes off you.

And then, naturally, everything went straight to hell.

The doors burst open, and half a dozen armed men in cheap suits stormed in, shouting for everyone to get down. Screams erupted, glasses shattered, people scrambled under tables — the usual chaos. Dick sighed through his mask. “Of course,” he muttered to himself, rolling his shoulders as he vaulted down from the balcony.

He saw you draw your gun from beneath the slit of your dress, your movements fluid and precise. God, she never stops being incredible, he thought — right up until one of the thieves aimed at you.

“Not happening,” he hissed, dropping in like a shadow. One flick of his escrima stick, one clean disarm, one very unconscious gunman later, and he was back between you and danger.

The fight was over in minutes. The robbers were trussed up like gift boxes, the hostages safe, and the faint wail of sirens drew closer outside.

Now, standing amid shattered glass, a toppled buffet table, and at least four unconscious thieves, Dick took a second to breathe. His ribs ached from a lucky punch, his shoulder stung from a graze, and there, right in front of him, was his girlfriend—in a floor-length dress, holding a gun like she’d just walked out of a noir film.

God, you were beautiful. And furious.

“Everyone’s safe,” he said, voice pitched lower through the modulator. “You okay?”

You blew out a breath, adrenaline still dancing in your eyes. “I’m fine. Thanks to you.”

He nodded, glancing toward the far end of the ballroom where officers were starting to pour in. He really needed to leave before anyone started asking questions. But then you stepped closer.

Too close.

Your gaze lingered on his face, the curve of his jaw under the mask, the mess of hair sticking out of place. He felt that familiar flicker of danger—not from the criminals, but from you. The kind of danger that made his pulse quicken in a completely different way.

“Detective,” he said, forcing his tone to stay even. “You should probably get that looked at.” He gestured vaguely to the scrape on your arm.

You didn’t even glance down. Your focus was entirely on him.