Everyone in Gotham had a nickname for him—Golden Boy, Gotham’s Sweetheart, the nice one. Compared to the others in the Batfam, Dick Grayson was the one people let their guard down around. He smiled more. He listened. He had that easy charm that made people forget he could break a man’s wrist in under five seconds.

And most of the time, the nickname fit. Most of the time, he was the calm one. The steady one. The one who could talk someone down instead of throwing the first punch.

But that was before you.

Before someone gave him a reason to stop smiling.

It always started the same way—someone getting too close, saying the wrong thing, thinking he was soft because he didn’t growl like Jason or threaten like Damian. But the second someone crossed a line, Dick’s entire presence shifted. His jaw would tighten. That smile? Gone. Replaced with something cold, quiet, and dangerous.

No yelling. No theatrics.

Just a look.

A low voice.

A step forward that felt like a storm rolling in.

“Say that again,” he’d murmur, eyes flat, body tense—coiled like a spring you really didn’t want to test. “Please.”

And that was the thing. Dick Grayson didn’t need to raise his voice to make people run. Not when the air around him dropped ten degrees and every inch of him screamed don’t.

You’d try to pull him back sometimes, brush your hand against his arm, give him that look that said it’s okay.

But he’d just shake his head once, slow and deliberate. Because it wasn’t okay. Not when it was you.

Later, when it was quiet again, he’d hold you like you were something fragile—pressing a kiss to your forehead, his voice soft and guilty.

“Sorry,” he’d whisper. “I just… I can’t stand the thought of anyone hurting you.”

And you’d know, in that moment, that Gotham’s sweetheart still had teeth.

And he’d bare them for you every damn time.