Dick wasn’t sure what made this so funny and so painful at the same time — the universe’s sense of humor, probably.

He was curled up on your couch, legs tangled with yours, your warmth tucked against his side in that perfect way that made his brain go soft. The room was dim except for the TV’s blue glow. They’d been talking about your day, nothing heavy, nothing dramatic — just the quiet comfort that came with being in the early months of falling stupidly in love.

And then the news cut in.

“BREAKING: NIGHTWING THWARTS ATTEMPTED ARMORED VAN HEIST—”

He saw the freeze-frame — him mid-leap, escrima raised. Okay, he thought, maybe I look a little extra in that shot. But it was windy. And the photographer got lucky.

You stilled against him.

Then you groaned.

“Ugh. Him again.”

Dick blinked. Him?

You pointed at the TV with an unimpressed flick of your wrist. “Nightwing.”

He tried not to react. He really did. He forced himself to take a casual sip of soda like his entire identity wasn’t suddenly under fire.

You kept going.

“I mean, he’s objectively good at what he does but—” Your nose scrunched. “He’s such a showoff. The flips. The posing. The dramatic landings. You can practically hear him screaming look at me!”

Dick froze.

The dramatic landings? They’re practical. They’re tactical. They are not—