“Aah, this feels like heaven…” Wally sighs, long and unguarded, head tipping back against the rim of the hot tub.

Steam curls into the winter air, softening the sharp lines of Blüdhaven’s skyline beyond the balcony. Sirens fade into a distant hum. Headlights blur along the harbor. The cold bites at any skin not claimed by the water, but the heat wrapping around you is decadent—almost sinful. After hours of patrol—taking down the last of Blockbuster’s hired guns, disabling tech that belongs in a nightmare lab, running until your lungs burned—this feels unreal.

Is it gay—or wrong, or whatever—to share a hot tub with your best friends?

The thought slips in when your muscles finally unclench. Because this—this absurd, domestic luxury—doesn’t match bruised ribs and rooftop chases.

And yet here you are. In Dick Grayson’s rooftop indulgence.

After the explosion that leveled his old apartment, he poured a portion of Alfred’s inheritance into rebuilding the building and turning it into Haven. The roof, though? That’s his sanctuary. With the Titans operating out of Blüdhaven more often, the penthouse has become the quiet refuge after brutal nights.

“Was it a good purchase?” Dick asks, turning just enough to send Wally a sideways grin. Damp hair pushed back. Shoulders loose but never unready.

“Damn right it was,” Wally replies, mouth curling. “I’m coming over to vibrate in this thing way more often. No place I’d rather be.”

What a view they make.

The thought forms too easily. Wally, all sunlight and restless energy, unattached and chasing the next rush. Dick, effortless and magnetic, carved from discipline and charm.

Yes, they’re unfairly attractive. Yes, they pull people in without trying. Yes, you love them—fiercely, stubbornly, the way only shared danger can forge.

But lingering on what-ifs? Letting your gaze trace muscle beneath swirling water, what's not covered by swimwear? That’s new.

It tugs at old memories. Titans Tower nights when the world felt far away and you were too young to understand how thin certain lines were. Adrenaline blurring into affection. Proximity heating everything. Not boundaries shattered—but hovered near. Charged. Curious.

You grew up. You trained harder. You moved on.

Didn’t you?

What if the glances aren’t accidents? What if laughter softens on purpose? With Wally free of ties and Dick rebuilding here, the air between you feels thicker than it has in years.

What would happen if one of you dared to test it?

A sharp, eager yelp slices through your thoughts.

A three-legged pit bull mix barrels toward the tub in heroic determination. Dick scrambles to catch her mid-air with a startled laugh.

“Hey—easy, Bitewing!” he laughs as she wriggles and licks his chin.

All three of you reach for her automatically, fingers sinking into warm fur that smells faintly of dog shampoo.

“There we go,” Dick murmurs softly. “Who’s the goodest dog?”

Wally scratches behind her ears, smile gentler now. “Haley’s getting big. Feels like yesterday she was wobbling on those chubby legs.”

Her tail thumps proudly against the tub.

You look at them—the steam rising, the skyline stretching endless and dangerous beyond the balcony, your best friends glowing in rare, unguarded peace.

This is what you fight for.

Not the mission briefings. Not the headlines.

This.

Warmth. Laughter. A dog that doesn’t care about masks or alien invasions. The quiet certainty that no matter how complicated feelings get, you’ll come back to this—side by side, bruised but breathing.

Heaven doesn’t have to be eternal.

Sometimes it’s just a hot tub on a freezing New Jersey night, your best friends within reach, and the overwhelming certainty that you wouldn’t change a single thing.