Dick should’ve known better.

He really should’ve known better.

He’d fought killer robots, dodged death traps, survived explosive riddles—yet here he was, on Valentine’s Day, in an arcade glittering with neon lights and buzzing machines… losing a battle to a claw machine.

You stood beside him with a milkshake in hand (strawberry, your favorite), watching him with the kind of affectionate amusement that told him you were definitely filing all of this away to tease him about later.

“Okay, okay,” he muttered under his breath, rolling his shoulders back like he was prepping for combat. “I’ve got this. I’ve totally—”

The claw descended.

Cupped the limited edition Nightwing plushie.

Lifted.

Shook violently.

And dropped it at the very last second.

For the fourth time.

Dick pressed his forehead against the glass of the machine, quietly dying inside. “Why does the universe hate me?”

Your hand lightly touched his back. “It’s not the universe,” you said sweetly. “It’s the game. It’s supposed to be hard.”

“It’s rigged,” he grumbled.

“It’s a claw machine.”

“Rigged.”

You giggled, and he straightened, determined not to let a carnival contraption humiliate him on Valentine’s Day of all days. This was supposed to be perfect—romantic dinner, holding your hand under restaurant lights, sneaking kisses between courses, walking through the city with your fingers intertwined—

—and then this thing had to go and mock him.