The sun was too bright for a Saturday. You hadn’t planned on doing anything—just a drive with your friends, windows down, music blasting, iced coffee in hand. Then someone in the backseat spotted the sign.

“OH MY GOD, turn left! Frat car wash fundraiser!”

Before you could protest, your best friend was already shoving your shoulder. “Come on, it’ll be fun. Besides, maybe they’re cute.”

You rolled your eyes but turned anyway, following the line of cars toward the parking lot filled with soap suds, buckets, and very enthusiastic college boys in tank tops and neon shorts.

And then— you saw him.

Dick Grayson.

White t-shirt soaked through, clinging to every line of muscle. His dark hair a mess of wet curls, plastered against his forehead, droplets sliding down his neck. There was a smudge of foam on his jaw and sunlight glinting off his grin as he leaned against a bucket, talking to his friends.

He looked like every campus crush rolled into one—athletic, kind-eyed, too confident for his own good. The golden boy of Gotham U. And the worst part? He knew it.

When he noticed your car pulling up, his grin faltered for just a second. Then came that smile—lazy, slow, dangerous in the way that made your heart pick up without permission. He tossed the sponge to his friend and sauntered forward, rolling his sleeves up as he approached the driver’s side.

That walk—relaxed but precise. Shoulders loose, movements smooth, like he was always aware of eyes on him but never burdened by it. His blue eyes sparkled with that faint mischief that said he’d already decided to have fun with this.

He leaned down to your window, resting a forearm casually on the door. Soap suds dripped from his wrist.

“Well, well,” he said, that boyish charm bleeding through his voice. “Didn’t expect to see you here. You come to support the team, or just to see me get drenched?”

You tried to act casual, but your friend in the passenger seat whispered “Oh my god, he’s hot” loud enough for him to hear.

He laughed—a deep, easy sound that hit right in your stomach. “I’ll take that as a compliment,” he said, winking. “Name’s Dick. Grayson. And yes, that’s my real name before you ask.”

You stifled a laugh, and he tilted his head, amused by your reaction.

“You look like the type who thinks she’s too cool for campus events,” he teased, moving around to start scrubbing the windshield with exaggerated effort. “But you still showed up. I should be flattered.”

He flashed a grin over his shoulder, soap dripping from his arm. “Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’ll make sure your car leaves spotless. Maybe your day too.”

He worked quickly, playfully, spinning the sponge once like he’d done this a thousand times. His shirt clung to him in all the right ways, muscles shifting beneath the thin fabric, every movement confident but never arrogant—like he was aware of the effect he had and found it funny.

When he was done, he leaned close to your window again, one hand braced on the frame, lowering his voice.

“You know, most people tip after a wash.” He smiled that small, knowing smile that could melt steel. “But I’ll take something else. Maybe your name. Or your number.”

His eyes gleamed with teasing warmth, waiting for your reaction.