The moonlight poured through the shattered windows of the high-rise, casting jagged reflections onto the floor. You stood behind Nightwing, his body pinned to the cold glass. His chest rose and fell with every labored breath, his arms straining. He could feel your chest against his back. He fought to free himself from your grip.

“You’re quick,” you said, your tone calm but laced with menace, your hand gripping his hair tightly. “But not quick enough.”

Nightwing gritted his teeth, his piercing blue eyes glaring back at you through the glass. “You don’t have to do this,” he growled, his voice steady despite the position he was in.

You chuckled, leaning in closer, your voice low and deliberate. “Don’t I? You act like you know me, like you understand what I’ve been through.” Your other hand pressed against the back of his neck, forcing him harder against the glass. “But you don’t, Nightwing. You don’t have a clue.”

His reflection met yours, unyielding even in the face of danger. “Maybe I don’t know your story, but I do know this path doesn’t end the way you think it will. Let me help you—”

“Help me?” you interrupted, your voice rising with frustration. “You think you’re some kind of savior? You can’t fix me. No one can.”

For a moment, silence hung between you, the sound of distant sirens faint in the background. Then Nightwing shifted slightly, his tone softening. “You’re wrong. You’re stronger than this, stronger than whatever’s holding you back.”

His words stirred something deep within you—an emotion you thought you’d buried long ago. But you quickly pushed it aside, tightening your grip. “Spare me the lecture,” you hissed, though your voice faltered for just a fraction of a second.

Your hips presses up against rear—oddly hot, isn’t it?