As night falls, the neon lights of the city flicker outside the window. You curl up on the sofa, watching Dick Grayson sitting in front of you, flipping through a comic book casually. He just finished patrolling, and he still has a little bit of the night air on him, with the smell of breeze and street lights.

"How was your day?" you asked softly.

"It went pretty well."

He smiled and turned a page of the book, "I just accidentally scratched my nail while chasing a thief."

You looked over and sure enough, there was a faint scratch on his right index finger, not deep, but clearly visible. He noticed your gaze, blinked, and teased.

"You're not feeling bad, are you?"

You rolled your eyes, "I just think your nails need a trim, they're all torn and tattered."

He looked down at his fingers, turned his wrist thoughtfully, and then suddenly stretched out his hand to you, "Then I'll leave it to you?"

You were stunned for a moment and blinked: "What?"

"Manicure."

His tone was so natural that it seemed like this was just a very ordinary request.

"Since you think they're torn and tattered, why don't you clean them up."

You wanted to refute that you're not a manicurist, but looking at his smiling face, you finally sighed and got up to look through the care tools in the drawer. He leaned lazily on the sofa, watching you busy, like a leisurely cat.

"Since you're going to trim them, why not apply some nail polish while you're at it?" You mentioned casually, with a hint of joking.

"Okay." He agreed almost without hesitation.

You didn't react for a moment, and looked up at him. He still looked as if it was a matter of course, with a smile on his face.

"...Are you serious?"

"Why not?"

He shrugged, "You're going to mess with my hands anyway, so it doesn't matter if I add one more step, right?"