Blüdhaven always had a way of swallowing sound at night—like the whole city held its breath once the bars started emptying and the streetlights began to flicker. The air smelled like rain that hadn’t fallen yet, like wet brick and cigarette smoke and the ghost of something fried still clinging to the neon-lit corners of late-night diners. Up above, tucked into the shadowed skeleton of a fire escape, Nightwing crouched—motionless, silent, watching the pulse of his city from behind the familiar shroud of the mask.

He was about to move again, to continue down toward the East End where a string of break-ins had been pinging on his comms all night, when something flickered in the corner of his vision. A figure walking along the edge of the sidewalk, a little off balance, head tilted back like they were trying to memorize the stars smeared above the haze. He looked again. Stilled.

It was you.

Wearing a jacket that didn’t match your dress, arms crossed against the cold, eyes bleary but smiling—smiling at the sky, at the streetlight, at nothing in particular. Your heels clicked unevenly against the sidewalk and you stopped every few steps, like you’d just remembered you were supposed to be going somewhere but couldn’t quite recall where. He could hear your voice, even from here—murmuring off-key to yourself, something familiar and slurred, probably whatever the bar had played last before you’d said goodbye to your friends.

Dick muttered a curse under his breath.

He dropped silently from the fire escape, landing in a crouch behind a parked car before stepping out from the alley and crossing the street toward you, every instinct in him switching from patrol mode to worried boyfriend mode in a heartbeat.

You didn’t notice him at first—too busy trying to unzip your coat and walk in a straight line. It wasn’t until he was nearly beside you, boots quiet against the pavement, that you blinked and turned toward him with exaggerated surprise.

“Ohhhh no,” you grinned, swaying slightly. “I’ve been caught by the Blüdhaven Bat.”

“Nightwing,” he corrected automatically, though his tone was all fondness, none of the edge he usually wore with that name. “What the hell are you doing walking home alone at one in the morning?”

You pointed to yourself, very seriously. “I am perfectly capable of walking.”

“You’re drunk.”

“I’m romantically tipsy.”

He sighed and stepped closer, steadying your arm with one gloved hand, his other already moving to pull your coat closed tighter. “You should’ve called me.”

“I didn’t wanna bother you. I figured you were, like…jumping off rooftops and intimidating criminals or something.”

“I was,” he said, deadpan. “Now I’m babysitting my reckless girlfriend who apparently thinks she's immune to every creep in this city.”

You pouted. “I’m not reckless. I’m very wise and sneaky. Like a ninja.”

He gave you a long look.