Dick wasn’t even pretending to pay attention.

He meant to. Truly. He sat down on the floor, back against the wall, arms resting loosely over his knees as you clicked through files on the large holo-screen, explaining the evidence they pulled from the last mission — timeline, suspects, locations, encrypted chatter. All of it important. All of it something he should be processing.

But the problem was you.

The way you stood with one hand on your hip and the other swiping through data like you owned the room. The way you got this concentrated little furrow between your brows when you were deep in thought. The way your voice softened when you talked through possibilities and sharpened when you found a connection.

He watched you move, watched the way the screen’s blue light washed over your face and shoulders, watched the way your hair fell forward when you leaned in to zoom something.

He wasn’t looking at the intel.

He was looking at you.

And for once, Dick Grayson didn’t even try to hide it.

You pointed to the map, tracing their suspect’s route. “—and if he passed through here, then he definitely had help. Which means we should focus on—”

“Dick?” you glanced back, catching him staring. “Are you listening?”

He blinked slowly.

Then smiled.

“You’re pretty.”

You froze mid-sentence. “…what?”

“You’re pretty,” he repeated, almost casually, as if stating a scientific fact. Then he tilted his head back against the wall again, still watching you like you were his favorite thing to look at. “Very. Distractingly. Pretty.”