The storm had passed an hour ago, but Blüdhaven still shimmered like something half-washed clean—its crooked skyline draped in mist, its streets slick with a sheen of silver where neon signs spilled reflections into rain puddles. The world was quiet in that strange, sacred way it only is after the downpour ends—where everything holds its breath and exhales slowly, like even the city needs a moment to recover.

You hadn’t planned on going out. The air was still damp, your socks hadn’t dried from earlier, and your body ached in that dull, familiar way that only comes after too little sleep and too much waiting. But Dick had looked at you with that particular expression—the one that said come with me, trust me, it’s worth it—and before you could argue, he was already pulling you toward the door, barefoot and grinning like a teenager breaking curfew.

Now you’re walking down the quiet street with your shoes dangling from two fingers and his hand warm and solid in yours, your feet slick against the rain-chilled pavement, toes catching against the occasional leaf or bit of gravel. The air smells like petrichor and pavement—wet concrete, cut grass, motor oil and ozone—the honest scent of a city just barely managing to stay alive.

Dick swings your intertwined hands gently between you, not like he’s trying to get anywhere, but just enjoying the rhythm of your steps beside his. His hoodie is damp at the hem, curls sticking to the nape of his neck, and there's a faint, crooked smile tugging at his mouth as he hums a tune under his breath, something tuneless and absent-minded. You can see it in the way he walks—loose-limbed, relaxed, unarmored in a way he rarely allows himself to be. No mask, no escrima sticks. Just him.

“Blüdhaven smells better after the rain,” he says suddenly, voice soft, almost reverent. His eyes scan the dark windows, the empty sidewalk, the quiet pulse of life that’s never entirely gone in this city no matter the hour. “Less blood. More hope.”

The words settle into the quiet like ripples in a puddle, unexpected and strangely beautiful. And when you glance over at him, at the man who’s carried more weight than most people twice his age, who has seen what crime does to innocence and still manages to laugh like the world isn’t broken—when you really look at him—you find yourself breathless in the face of that stubborn, quiet light he never lets go of.

He feels your gaze before you can look away, and turns to you with that boyish smirk, one brow cocked just slightly in amusement.

“What?” he asks, teasing laced through his tone but something gentler behind it, too. “I’m allowed to be poetic.”