The warehouse had gone up in flames behind you, its eerie orange glow reflecting off the broken windows of the buildings around you. Sirens wailed in the distance, but you barely heard them. Your breathing was heavy, your suit torn, and your knuckles bruised—but you were alive. And more importantly, so was he.

Nightwing landed beside you with a practiced flip, his mask slightly torn at the edge, hair damp with sweat and blood. “You okay?” he asked, voice low and laced with concern. His eyes—beneath that black domino mask—scanned your body like he was committing every bruise to memory.

“I’ve been better,” you muttered, giving him a faint smile. “But yeah. Still standing.”

He didn’t smile. Not this time. He stepped in close, gently cradling your face in gloved hands, his brows furrowed. “You could’ve died in there. You went in without backup.”

“You would’ve done the same,” you whispered, voice cracking under the weight of adrenaline and unspoken fear.

“Exactly,” he said, forehead resting against yours. “Which means I know how reckless it was.”

There was a long pause, just the two of you standing on the edge of a rooftop, the city buzzing below. Then he pulled you into him, arms wrapping tightly around your waist, as though holding you closer could erase the danger you’d just escaped.

“I can’t lose you,” he murmured into your hair. “Not now. Not ever.”

You closed your eyes, holding him just as tight. “You won’t.”

When he finally pulled back, he tugged off his gloves and brushed his bare fingers across your cheek, gentle and slow, like he was grounding himself in your presence. “Come back to my place,” he said softly. “Let me take care of you tonight.”