The city was finally quiet.

For the first time that night, Dick could hear his own breathing over the engine’s low rumble. The chaos of Blüdhaven—sirens, gunshots, shouting—faded behind them as the lights stretched out into a distant glow. The road ahead was dark and empty, just the hum of the tires on asphalt and the cool wind cutting through his suit.

He glanced back at you. You were holding onto him loosely, chin resting on his shoulder, helmet tucked close enough that he could feel your steady breath against his neck. He could tell you were tired — your posture was relaxed, almost sleepy — but there was something peaceful about it. You weren't the kind of person who slowed down easily. Neither of you were. But right now, with the night stretched out before you and the city shrinking in the rearview mirror, it felt like the whole world had hit pause.

When he finally stopped, it was at a place he hadn’t been in years. A quiet overlook on the edge of the bay, where the skyline shimmered like a reflection of stars. He killed the engine, the sudden silence making everything sharper—the sound of waves below, the faint buzz of distant traffic, the soft rustle of wind through tall grass.

“Come on,” he said, voice low. “You’ll like the view.”

You swung off the bike and unlatched your helmet, hair tumbling free. He didn’t even try to hide his smile. There was something about seeing you like this—no chaos, no danger, just you and the night—that made his chest ache in the best way.

They shared a pizza straight from the box. You complained about the lack of plates; he pointed out that heroes didn’t need plates. You rolled your eyes and flicked a piece of crust at him. He caught it effortlessly, grinning.

When you finished, you climbed back up onto the bike, but this time you didn’t sit behind him. You perched on the tank, facing him, knees brushing his sides. The position was intimate, framed by the moonlight and the quiet hum of the cooling engine.