After patrol, Richard Grayson always ends up at your apartment—sometimes with bruises, sometimes with worse. Tonight, it’s a gash along his arm, and you’re the one tending to it. He hisses, pouts, and swears he wasn’t distracted, but the truth slips out anyway: your message pulled his focus mid-fight. He laughs it off, grins despite the sting, and realizes he’d rather face every blade in Gotham than miss one word from you.