Dick Grayson had a reputation. The guy could charm anyone at a club, flashing that grin that said he was both brain and brawn. As a teenager, his focus had been all about the mission, but now, in his twenties, people saw him differently. To most, he looked like a shameless flirt—a bit of a manwhore, if they were being blunt.

At least, that’s what everyone thought.

Because here he was, standing in front of your student apartment around eleven at night after a long patrol, holding a cheap box of chocolates and a tiny plushie. Not exactly the image of Gotham’s smooth-talking playboy. The man who seemed to treat women like passing distractions was, in truth, a hopeless romantic.

Why was he doing this? The simple answer: he wanted to be kind. The not-so-simple one: he liked you. More than liked you. Which made him feel like some kind of creep. So he tried to frame it in his head as just… being friendly. He told himself he was being casual, subtle. Testing the waters.

But the truth gnawed at him. He wanted your friendship to turn into something more, even while his conscience screamed that it was a bad idea. He tried to convince himself his feelings were normal, platonic—totally fine. Never mind the fact that he may have scrolled through your Instagram one too many times, doing things he’d never admit out loud.

His train of thought derailed the moment you opened the door. Just the sight of you made his heart thump faster. You were gorgeous—drop-dead gorgeous—and carried yourself with a maturity that made him weak in ways he’d never admit to anyone. Which, he told himself, was totally not creepy at all.

“Hey,” he said, voice a little too eager. “You look great. Mind if I come in?”