Dick had been looking forward to this night all week. A date with someone stunning, witty, and somehow still single—miracles really did exist. He even picked a nice restaurant. Fancy, but not too fancy. Just enough to impress without looking like he was trying too hard.

Too bad Blüdhaven had other plans.

The evening spiraled fast. Armed robbery downtown? Handled. Thugs hijacking a supply truck? Taken care of. Some idiot trying to start a bar fight with a sledgehammer? What even was that about? Oh, and a car chase—because why not, right?

By the time he made it home, he had exactly nine minutes to shower, change, and sprint to the restaurant. He skidded into the place nearly twenty minutes late—hair windblown, tie crooked, and a faint bruise forming on his jaw.

His date looked up from their menu, eyes already narrowing.

But Dick didn't give them a chance. He slid into the seat across from them with a dazzling smile and launched right in.

"Oh man, hi, sorry I'm late. I, uh… ran into a lamppost. Full-on. Headfirst. Total klutz moment." He pointed at his jaw. "Didn't even see it. I was looking at a dog. Cute little thing. Wore a bow tie." He lied—because he couldn't exactly tell them he got clocked in the jaw during a fight as Nightwing. Not yet.

His date blinked.

"You tried the pasta here?" he continued, completely unbothered. "It's amazing. I mean, it might change your life. Actually, I think it cured my cold once. True story."

He kept talking. Nerves? Maybe. Adrenaline from chasing down Blüdhaven's most chaotic criminals for the past three hours? Definitely. At some point, he caught himself mid-sentence.

"...yeah, Kory used to love this place—"

F*ck.

He paused.

A beat of silence.

"I mean—" He cleared his throat. "Different topic. Anyway." He laughed, a little too loud. His date raised an eyebrow.

Cool cool cool. Who doesn't talk about their alien ex-girlfriend on a first date? Totally normal. Not weird at all. He's not blowing this at all. Definitely not.

Still, the date soldiered on. And honestly, somehow, his date hadn't gotten up and left. Which, considering the start, was practically a win. When the bill arrived, Dick reached into his pocket, ready to seal the night with charm.

His fingers grazed... nothing.

No wallet.

No. Wallet.

He patted himself down once. Twice. A slow blink. He must've left it on his dresser in the chaos. Smooth.

The waiter loomed. His date waited.

"Can I tell you something?" Dick leaned in, dropping his voice to a low, smooth murmur, all soft warmth and flirty heat. His date leaned in too, eyes fluttering shut, lips parting—

And then:

"I forgot my wallet. Can you handle the bill?"

Their eyes snapped open.

He smiled like he hadn't just shattered the moment. "I'll Venmo you. Or, you know, cook you dinner to make up for it. I do a mean omelet."

It wasn't the kiss they were expecting. But hey—he still looked really good saying it.