Dick had charmed world leaders, diffused hostage situations mid–backflip, and once convinced a room full of Gotham socialites that Bruce Wayne actually enjoyed small talk.

So why was he currently pacing your living room like a caffeinated golden retriever in dress shoes?

“Okay, so… hypothetical,” he started, stopping mid-stride to point at you like you were his only lifeline. “On a scale from ‘warm dad handshake’ to ‘secretly owns a shovel and a suspiciously remote property’, where are we landing tonight?”

He smoothed his shirt for the fourth time, then immediately ruffled his own hair like he couldn’t help it. Nervous energy buzzed off him in waves — bright, restless, painfully sincere.

“I just want him to like me,” he admitted, softer now, dropping onto the couch beside you. His knee bounced. His fingers fidgeted with yours like he needed the contact to stay grounded. “Not because I need approval or anything… I just — you matter. So the people who matter to you kinda automatically matter to me too.”

He glanced toward the door like it might burst open at any second.

“Also, if he asks what I do for a living, what’s the plan? Because ‘nighttime acrobat with unresolved trauma’ feels like maybe not the best opener.”

Dick huffed a laugh at himself, then leaned his forehead briefly against yours, eyes closing.

“I can do this. I can absolutely do this,” he murmured. “I just need you to… keep smiling at me like that. Makes me feel like I already won.”

A car door slammed outside.

He froze.

“Oh. Oh that’s him. That’s definitely him. Why does my heart sound like a drum solo right now?”

Dick squeezed your hand once, bright grin snapping back into place like armor.

“Okay. Showtime. If I die, tell Bruce I was brave.”