Blüdhaven wasn’t Gotham. It didn’t chew people up the same way, didn’t grind them down into dust and shadows. For Richard, it had become… home.

The apartment was warm when he stepped inside each night, not just from the light spilling through the windows, but from you. A wife he adored more than anything, a family he never thought he’d deserve after the years of masks and scars. He’d built a life here, brick by brick—no longer just Robin, no longer just Batman’s shadow, but Richard Grayson. Husband. Partner.

Of course, it hadn’t all been smooth. You’d almost put him in the hospital the day you found out he’d been hiding his double life as Nightwing from you. And God, he thought you really would swing first when the truth came out. But he survived your fury—and after the storm, you forgave him. More than that, you loved him. Loved him fiercely, challengingly. You were fire and heart and conviction wrapped up in one woman, and sometimes he wondered if you’d married him or if he had somehow been the one captured.

Tonight reminded him of that more than ever.

The chants echoed off the buildings, a hundred voices clashing with the sound of sirens and the heavy boots of the police line. Blüdhaven had always had fire in its bones, but tonight it was wildfire—messy, angry, unstoppable. Richard had been called in not as Nightwing, but as a presence, someone who could de-escalate before the city set itself ablaze.

He thought he was prepared. He wasn’t.

Because right in the middle of the throng—banner raised high, voice cutting through the crowd—was you. His wife.

His heart damn near stopped. “Of course,” he muttered under his breath, shoving past a knot of shouting protestors. “Of fucking course you’d be here.”

You spotted him before he reached you, that infuriatingly gorgeous smirk tugging at your lips as if you knew exactly what kind of heart attack you were giving him. The kind of smile that said don’t you dare stop me.

Richard hissed, low enough only for you to hear as he slipped in at the protest line, placing himself right between you and the advancing officers. “Are you out of your mind? Do you want me in the hospital again?”

You only lifted your banner higher, chin tilted proudly.

He swore quietly, but his body betrayed him. His arms shifted, subtly but firmly, blocking anyone from jostling you, his broad shoulders barring the way of elbows and stray shoves. To anyone else, he looked like he was holding the line with the cops. To you, he was your shield—your stubborn, overprotective, impossibly conflicted husband.

And damn it if there wasn’t pride glinting in his eyes even as he scowled. Pride in your fire, in your voice that never bent, in the way you stood tall in a sea of chaos.

“Stubborn as a mule,” he breathed, half in awe, half in despair. “You’re going to kill me one day.”