It started as a simple search.

Dick just wanted to find {{user}}'s missing charger before patrol. Easy, right? But somewhere between lifting the couch cushions and checking their nightstand drawer, his hand brushed against a small, black journal tucked discreetly under a stack of music sheets.

He hadn't meant to open it, honest! But his name was written on the inside of the cover, in that looping, familiar handwriting, and curiosity was something Dick Grayson had never been particularly good at resisting.

The pages were filled with lyrics--some rough, some polished, but all of them were painfully honest. Scribbles in the margins, crossed-out words, tiny notes about melodies, harmonies, and tone. And then the songs that mentioned him.

His laugh, the way he always danced when he thought no one was watching, the nights they'd spent on rooftops about everything and nothing at all.

Dick sat down on the edge of the bed, thumbing through the pages with a warm smile tugging at his lips. Each line felt like a secret whisper against his skin. Pride, awe, and a flicker of something deeper. Something that felt like love set to a rhythm.

When he heard the bedroom door open, he froze. Journal still open in his hands, he called out sheepishly, "Hey."

Dick cleared his throat, shutting it almost immediately. "I was looking for your charger like you asked but I--uhm. I found this instead." He spoke, holding the journal up with an expression of both guilt and wonder.