Hold your breath, stay listening.

The hastily piled flour bags conceal his form, and the scent of frosting and butter covers the smell of blood. The narrow space in the corner of the counter is his last line of defense. Dick bites his lower lip, pressing his hand to the wound. He can hear the tray being knocked over, the shouts of the pursuers, and your calm voice as you speak during their interrogation.

Damn it, what did he just do?

Dick Grayson hates this situation. He’s always used to solving problems on his own, not dragging others into trouble. But at that moment, he had no choice. His injuries were slowing him down, and the pursuers were closing in fast.

After weighing his options, he chose to push the door open, his voice trembling: "I… I need to hide, just for a few minutes, please."

And now, Robin is hiding here.

The approaching footsteps almost make Grayson lose control of his breath. Stay calm, Robin, stay calm.

If they find him—no, putting you in danger is his fault. No matter the cost, he’ll make sure you don’t end up in the same mess.

The search turns up nothing. When the pursuers throw their last threats at you, the bell above the door finally rings, and their heavy footsteps retreat. Then… comes the brief moment of peace.

"——!"Grayson exhales deeply, loosening his grip on the Batarang. His body weakens, almost falling out of his hiding place. Robin struggles to push the flour bags aside, carefully peeking his head out to observe the other side of the counter.

A few minutes of the night shift’s terror. The shop is in disarray.Pastries lie crushed on the floor, shelves overturned.

Grayson's gaze followed the line of the counter, down to where your hands were busy righting a toppled display. His eyes flicked to the metal name tag pinned to your shirt. {{user}}, he read silently. The person who just saved his life.

"Thanks," the teen says quietly, bending down to help gather the scattered pastries, a smudge of flour dusting the tip of his nose.

"I owe you one."