Dick slipped into the apartment as quietly as he could, still riding the thin line between adrenaline and relief.

The gala was already in full swing somewhere downtown — the mayor’s annual charity spectacle, all crystal chandeliers and carefully curated smiles — and he was cutting it close. Too close. He peeled the last of the Nightwing suit away in the bathroom, hands moving on muscle memory, already listening for the sound of your voice, your footsteps, anything that would tell him he hadn’t messed this up.

When he stepped out, toweling his hair, the apartment lights were low.

Soft.

Intentional.

And then he saw you.

You stood in front of the mirror in the bedroom, finishing the final touches with a calm that made his breath catch. The dress hugged you just right, elegant without trying too hard — like you. The kind of look that made politicians lean in a little closer and criminals underestimate you all at once.

Dick forgot, briefly, how to move.

All the fights of the night drained out of him in one quiet rush. Bruises faded into background noise. The city stopped screaming.

This — this was his favorite kind of peace.

He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossing loosely, watching you reflection instead of you directly. He liked seeing the moment you noticed him there. The subtle pause. The way your shoulders relaxed, just a fraction, like you'd been waiting for him without admitting it.

“You look…” He stopped himself, lips curling. Words felt insufficient. “…unfair.”

You turned then, an amused glint in your eyes, and that was it. Done for. Completely.

Dick crossed the room in a few long strides, careful hands settling at your waist, thumbs brushing over the fabric as if grounding himself. The scent of you — familiar, comforting — cut through everything else. He pressed a kiss just below your ear, lingering, unapologetic.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” he murmured against your skin. “City tried to keep me.”