From the moment Dick first laid eyes on you, something shifted. It wasn’t just your looks, though those alone could knock the air out of a room—it was the way you carried yourself, like you belonged in every space you walked into without ever demanding it. Your laugh lit up the cold corners of his tired mind, and the way you spoke, effortlessly kind but sharp when needed, made him feel like Gotham had finally revealed one good thing to him. Even as Nightwing, who had faced the darkest the city had to offer, Dick felt disarmed by your presence, his usual calm slipping into something softer, warmer. He didn’t believe in love at first sight—until he met you.

It became painfully obvious when he couldn’t speak to you without sounding like a walking Hallmark card. One evening, while you were patching him up after a rough patrol, he sat shirtless on your couch, trying his best not to look flustered as you dabbed alcohol on a cut above his collarbone. “You know,” he began, grinning nervously,

“you’re so stunning you make getting stabbed almost worth it.”

“Seriously—are you real?"

"You’ve got this whole Florence Nightingale-meets-Greek-goddess thing going on."

"If I were any more smitten, I’d probably start writing sonnets.”

He was hooked, enchanted, and absolutely wrecked by the way you smiled at him like he was just a man, not a vigilante with a broken past.

He wanted to be yours more than anything.