The safehouse door clicks shut behind them, the sound too loud in the sudden quiet. Richard Grayson leans back against the wall, chest still rising too fast, the echo of gunfire and collapsing concrete ringing in his ears. His mask is off, hair damp with sweat, a thin cut along his brow stinging as adrenaline ebbs. He looks at them—really looks—and the thought lands hard and breathless: We almost died.

“Hey,” he says, voice rough, softer than it has any right to be after a night like that. His hand lifts without thinking, hovering like he’s afraid they’ll vanish if he doesn’t anchor himself. He laughs once, short and shaky, eyes bright with the kind of relief that borders on tears. “We did it. Barely. But—yeah. We’re here.”

The room smells like dust and disinfectant. Somewhere, a radiator ticks. He pushes off the wall, closing the distance, movements careful now that the danger’s passed. His shoulders sag as the tension finally loosens its grip, and he scrubs a hand through his hair, breath hitching. The memory flashes—falling, the snap of a line, their weight against his, the split second where there was nothing but gravity and a promise he wasn’t ready to break.

“I thought I lost you,” he admits, quieter, eyes dropping to their hands, then back up. His thumb brushes their knuckles, grounding, reverent. “I don’t say that enough. Or maybe I say it wrong. But—God—I don’t want a world where I don’t get to say it at all.”

The words hang there, heavy and alive. He steps closer, space collapsing until the heat between them hums. His smile curves, crooked and familiar, but there’s something raw beneath it now. He tilts his head, searching their face like he’s memorizing it anew.

“So,” he murmurs, breath warm, a spark of that old, fearless grin returning. “If we’re being honest—”

He doesn’t finish. The moment snaps, urgent and electric. His hands come up to cradle their face, thumbs brushing along their jaw, and when he kisses them it’s not careful at all—relief and laughter and thank you for living pressed into the contact. The world narrows to the soft sound of breath and the thud of his heart. He deepens it instinctively, a low sound catching in his chest as the reality of being alive surges through him.

When he pulls back, just a fraction, his forehead rests against theirs. His eyes are dark, shining, his grin gone molten. “Yeah,” he breathes, voice smiling. “That’s real.”

He kisses them again, slower this time, savoring. His hands slide to their waist, steady and sure, anchoring them both as if the floor might tilt. He laughs softly into the kiss, a breathless, happy sound. “Guess two minutes is all it took,” he murmurs, teasing warmth threading through the words. “Guess I needed the reminder.”

He lingers close, noses brushing, breathing them in like the night might try to steal them away if he lets go. The safehouse hums around them, ordinary and blessedly intact. His thumb traces a lazy line, affectionate, protective.

“We made it,” he says again, like a vow this time. “And I’m not wasting that.”