dick grayson and his terrible, no good habit of waking you up in the middle of the night when he comes home to your apartment even though its starting to feel more like his. he filled the empty drawer you had, and has his toothbrush sitting next to yours in the restroom.

its never the sound of his boots hitting the ground, or the tiny creek of the window when he opens it and slides in with grace. its him. the weight of him, the heat. the way his lips find the bare skin of your calf, soft and warm from the night air, kissing up to the back of your knee with a small sigh.

"hey baby..." he murmures, his voice soft, and tired. he's been waiting all week to be right here. with you.

you stir faintly, murmuring something soft and incoherent, maybe his name? maybe some nonsense. but he doesnt stop. not when the taste of your skin fills the longing void within him. not when you smell like home.

the matress dips under the weight of him, not even bothering to take off his suit. its halfway unzipped, and a small, thin sheet of sweat clings to his body from the night's patrol. dark hair messy, windswept from that night.

he leans down, pressing a soft kiss to the curve of your spine with a small hum, his lips barely brushing against the hem of your shirt.

you mumble again, still, maybe his name again? maybe just a small, sleepy little hum. either way, he smiles. a soft, boyish grin that never seems to fade away. especially when he's with you.

"i missed you..." he murmured, slipping an arm around your waist, pulling you into him, your back pressed to his chest. he buries his face into your neck with a small, tired, sleepy little hum of his.

he smells like soap, the night wind, and a faint metallic smell from his suit, yet you don't mind. not one bit. your boyfriend is back home, safe and sound with you, and thats all that matters.