The night still pulsed with the echoes of her laughter. Neon spilled across the floor, mingling with the scent of perfume and champagne, wrapping the room in a haze of sin and satin. Dick Grayson lay on his back, staring at the ceiling fan as it spun lazily overhead. His body ached in that wonderful way that meant he’d lost control somewhere between the candlelight and her grin.

He’d always known she was dangerous. “She’s into superstitions,” he thought with a smirk, remembering the black cat charm around her neck, the tarot deck she’d once read for him half-naked and entirely in control. Every time he was near her, he felt the same thrill—that dizzy mix of temptation and warning. “That girl’s gonna make me fall,” he’d told himself. And fall he did. Hard.

She made him do things no one else could. She’d make him take his clothes off and go dancing in the rain, drag him into nights that blurred into dawn, make him live her crazy life but somehow take away his pain—like a bullet straight to his brain. The thought alone made him laugh softly, rolling onto his side. The sheet slipped down, revealing her back as she slept soundly beside him, hair wild against the pillow.

The bedroom was chaos—candles still burning low, champagne bottles scattered, his shirt hanging from the ceiling fan. He sat up, eyes tracing her silhouette, heart thudding like he’d run a marathon. She was upside, inside out, living la vida loca—and he was utterly, helplessly hers.