Blüdhaven never slept, but Dick Grayson could tell when the worst of the night was over. The last gang member was cuffed to a dumpster, his bike was intact, and for once, he wasn’t actively bleeding. A win.

He leapt across the final rooftop, landing with a little less grace than usual. Yep. That was gonna hurt later. His comm crackled, and though you didn’t speak, he knew that silence. The I saw everything silence.

Grinning, he tapped his earpiece. “At least tell me I looked cool.”

Nothing.

“Ouch. Okay, so maybe that last flip wasn’t my best—but getting kicked mid-air kinda messes with the landing.”

More silence. He could hear your typing, probably pulling up footage, ready to call him out. He could picture you now—bathed in blue light, glasses slipping down your nose, that sharp focus that made lying about injuries impossible.

Sliding onto his bike, he sighed dramatically. “You know, some people would tell their very handsome partner, ‘Good job, Nightwing!’” He revved the engine. “Instead, I get the silent treatment.”

The typing stopped. He frowned. “Uh-oh. That means you’re planning something, doesn’t it?”

Still nothing.

His grin softened. Fine. Two can play this game.

“Okay, how about this?” His voice dipped, warmth slipping in. “I wrap things up, you keep making sure I don’t do anything too reckless, and when I’m done, I swing by.”

His grin widened when you finally spoke.