The windows are fogged, smeared faintly where your breath has touched the glass, the city lights outside bleeding through in smudges of gold and red. Rain taps gently against the roof of the car—a soft, rhythmic patter that muffles the world beyond—and the engine hums low beneath you, idling as if it, too, is trying not to draw attention. The leather seats are cool, the air still sharp with the after-scent of sweat and adrenaline and the faint trace of Gotham smoke that clings to both your bodies like second skin.

Dick leans over the center console, the zipper of his suit slightly undone at the throat, revealing the line of his collarbone and the fine sheen of sweat that still clings to his skin from patrol. His hair is damp, curling at the edges, and his eyes are lit with that particular kind of hunger he tries—fails—to hide when he looks at you like that. Like you’re the only thing anchoring him to earth after flying too close to the dark.

You’d barely made it into the car before he reached for you—gloved hands tugging you across the seat, one arm hooking around your waist, the other bracing against the dash as his mouth found yours with the kind of intensity that had nothing to do with lust and everything to do with relief. The kind that says you’re alive, I’m alive, we’re here and I need you right now.

His lips are warm and urgent against yours, tasting faintly of the spearmint gum he always chews after patrol. The kiss deepens, grows a little messy, a little too rough around the edges as he exhales against your cheek and shifts you into his lap. The weight of your knees pressed into the sides of his thighs seems to settle him somehow—his grip loosens, his hands smoothing down your back, finding the hem of your shirt and tugging you impossibly closer.

But then you feel it—the slight hesitation. That microsecond pause where he pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, breath heavy and uneven. His eyes flick up, scanning the windshield, the rearview mirror, the rooftops beyond.

You already know what he’s thinking.

“Relax,” you murmur, lips brushing the corner of his mouth, your fingers threading through the short, damp hair at the back of his neck. “He’s not here.”

“Yet,” Dick mutters, though there’s a grin starting to creep in, tugging at the edge of his lips like he knows he’s being ridiculous. “You know B’s sixth sense for ruining moments is uncanny.”

“He’s probably halfway across the city.”

“That’s what he wants us to think.”