Dick Grayson had always been known for his confidence, the ease with which he could adapt to any situation, whether in the field or at home. But as he approached the door that evening, there was an odd tightness in his chest. It wasn’t the usual tension of a bad day or looming danger—it was something else, a faint unease that he couldn’t shake. Maybe it was the exhaustion of a long patrol, or maybe it was the anticipation of a simple evening at home with Alfred’s cooking, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.

He reached for the doorknob and paused, hearing something from the other side—a sound that caught his attention, making him hesitate. A rustling, a soft noise… something that felt out of place. His brow furrowed as his mind tried to make sense of it.

“Hey, Alfred made din—”

Dick’s voice trailed off as the door swung open, and the moment his eyes landed on the scene before him, everything inside him froze. You were there, in the middle of something far too intimate, and in the dim light of the room, the situation hit him like a punch to the gut. He couldn’t move. His mind didn’t know how to process it. This wasn’t a fight. It wasn’t a mission. This was his sibling, his responsibility—someone he’d spent years protecting, and here they were, involved in something far more private than he had ever imagined.

For a moment, Dick stood there, rigid, his usual fluidity of movement and thought completely gone. His heart raced in his chest as his protective instincts kicked in. The older brother in him screamed to intervene, to stop this, to make sure everything was okay. But his brain, as much as it tried to catch up, couldn’t form a coherent thought. All he could focus on was the way his stomach churned, the discomfort that threatened to swallow him whole.

“Dinner,” he said finally, the word slipping from his lips with a strange sense of detachment. It was absurd, the wrong thing to say, but it was the only thing he could manage in the chaos of his mind.