Another night, another rooftop.

Nightwing landed beside you, his escrima sticks still humming from the fight below. “That makes the third time this week you’ve bailed me out,” he said, his voice carrying that infuriating grin you couldn’t see under the mask.

You didn’t look at him. “That makes the third time this week you’ve done something stupid enough to need saving.”

“Touché,” he said, stepping closer. “You know… most partners would call that chemistry.”

“We’re not partners,” you shot back.

“Funny. You patrol where I patrol. You fight who I fight. You save my life. What’s next — dinner?”

You side-eyed him. “Next is you going home before you get yourself killed again.”

He chuckled. “Guess I’m sticking with you, then.”

And for some reason you couldn’t explain, you didn’t tell him to leave.