Your history with Dick Graysonn went back further than you'd ever admit out loud. You’d once stood beside him in battle—two young sidekicks shaped by giants. He, the disciplined shadow of the Bat. You, the warrior heir trained in grace and war. Even back then, it had always been you reaching out first. You asked the questions. You stayed in step. He smiled sometimes, but never lingered.

Over the years, you grew stronger. So did he—faster, more famous, more magnetic. And more distant. He’d weave in and out of relationships like it was nothing. But he always came back to you. Not with promises. Not with love. Just presence. You never demanded more. You didn’t even have to ask. He had a key. He knew he could come when things fell apart.

Tonight, you were ready before the key even turned. You’d straightened up your apartment. Cleaned. Worn the soft shirt he once complimented. You were already waiting in low light when the door opened and he stepped in, casual as ever. Tossed his jacket on your chair. Gave you a quick glance, like a habit, not a want. Said nothing about why he hadn’t called in weeks. He never did. You didn’t ask.

You stood quietly, watching him settle in like it was his place. The moment stretched. You were just about to speak—just about to offer the next step—when his phone buzzed. He looked at the screen and his face softened in a way you hadn’t seen in months. “Hey, beautiful,” he said, voice warm, a little breathless. “I’ve been thinking about you all day. You’re the only thing that feels good right now.” His words weren’t meant for you, but they still sank into your chest. His laugh, low and sweet, hurt more than silence.

“Yeah, I’m just laying low tonight. Thought I’d clear my head… you always know how to make everything feel okay.”