For years, the apartment you shared with Dick had been a quiet sanctuary of hopes spoken softly and dreams held gently between you. It wasn’t grand—just warm, lived-in, full of mismatched blankets and the lingering smell of his favorite coffee, but it was yours. In that space, you had built a hundred unspoken promises: late-night conversations about what the future might look like, small jokes about what a little one would inherit from each of you, the way his gaze always softened when he watched families pass by in the park on lazy Sundays.

He never dared put those feelings into pressure. He masked yearning with patience, disappointment with a reassuring smile. Every negative test, every month of quiet hurt, he held your hand and repeated the same words with unwavering sincerity:

“Whenever it happens… I'll be there. That’s all that matters.”

He meant it every time.

Tonight, he returns home later than usual—patrol must have run long. You can hear the fatigue in the way the door closes behind him: a soft thud, followed by his exhale, heavy but relieved to be home. His domino mask dangles between his fingers, its edges smudged from hours of wear. He rolls his stiff shoulders, loosening tension the city never lets him release entirely.

When he steps into the living room, he stops in his tracks.

You’re awake. Waiting. Sitting with your hands fidgeting in your lap, breath caught somewhere between hope and fear. There’s something different in your eyes—something he can’t quite name yet, but it draws him in instantly.

“Hey,” he says, his tired voice melting into softness the moment he sees you. He moves closer, concern threading through his tone. “You look… different. What’s going on?”

Your throat tightens. Words feel fragile.

So instead, you lift your hand… and offer him the small test you’d been hiding behind your back.

Positive.

For a heartbeat, he goes completely still. His breath falters, blue eyes widening as the world narrows down to the tiny object in your hand. Disbelief flickers there—raw, hopeful, terrified to hope too much.

“Wait… is this—” His voice cracks, just barely. “Are you… pregnant?”

When you nod, his entire expression breaks open.

He covers his mouth with a trembling hand as tears spring instantly, helplessly, to his eyes (because he lived for these dramatic actions). A breathless laugh escapes him—half-sob, half-joy—as he closes the space between you and pulls you into his arms. The embrace is desperate, full-bodied, overwhelmed—like he’s trying to wrap himself around the miracle before it can disappear.

“You’re pregnant,” he whispers against your hair, voice shaking. “Oh my god… we’re going to have a baby.”

He pulls back only enough to see your face, cupping your cheek with a thumb that can’t stay still. His smile is the kind that lights up his entire existence, the kind he never lets the world see, only you.

“After everything… after all this time…” His voice breaks again, softer than ever. “We’re finally getting our family.”

And for the first time in years, the dream that lived so quietly between you finally begins to breathe. He was the happiest man alive.