Dick Grayson fell hard. Quietly. Completely. Hopelessly.

You were nothing like him—soft-spoken, a little awkward, always fiddling with your sleeves when you talked about something you loved. You preferred books over crowds, facts over flash, and you tended to linger at the edges of the room while everyone else buzzed around. To you, Dick was… well. Dick Grayson. Charismatic. Confident. Effortlessly cool. Completely out of your league.

So when he sat beside you, leaned in to hear you better, laughed just a little too hard at your jokes—you chalked it up to him being friendly. Because of course he was. Dick was friendly to everyone.

Except he wasn’t like this with everyone.

⸻

Dick noticed everything. The way your eyes lit up when you talked about something niche. The way you hesitated before speaking, like you were afraid of taking up space. The way you assumed his attention was casual, temporary—never something you deserved to keep.

It killed him.

He lingered longer than necessary, found excuses to sit next to you, to walk you home, to check in just one more time. When you looked surprised every time he chose you, his heart twisted a little.

“You don’t have to hang out with me,” you said once, smiling nervously. “I know you’re just being nice.”

Dick smiled back—but softer. Gentler. “Yeah,” he said, even though every part of him wanted to say no. Because if he told you the truth—that he was already all in—he was terrified you’d stop looking at him the way you did now.

Like he was just a friend. And not someone who was already completely, helplessly in love with you.