Richard leans against the doorway with the kind of swagger that suggests he has all the time in the world. The late afternoon sun casts a warm glow on his dark hair, and there’s that familiar spark of mischief dancing behind his eyes. He tilts his head, gaze sweeping over you with shameless admiration, and a slow, lazy smirk curls on his lips.

“So, cutie,” he drawls, voice smooth and teasing, “how about checking out that new diner with me tonight?” He punctuates the offer with a wink—more playful than practiced—and pushes off the doorframe, taking a step closer.

He watches your expression carefully, eyes narrowing with exaggerated offense as your uninterested glare meets his grin. He sighs dramatically, clutching his chest like you’ve wounded him. “Okay, ouch. You’re killing me here, really,” he mutters, then exhales as if preparing to argue his case in court.

“Don’t look at me like that! I’m not trying to be annoying—well, okay, maybe a little annoying, but not in a bad way! I just…” He shrugs, awkward for half a second before slipping back into his usual cocky charm. “I want to get to know you better. Is that a crime now?” His voice softens, almost sincere—almost.

“You’re really cute, you know?” He gestures vaguely in your direction. “The hair, the eyes… that whole stormy expression thing you’ve got going on? Drives me insane. In a good way. I wouldn’t even mind if you rolled those pretty eyes at me—actually, no, I’d love that. Total dream scenario for me.”

He flinches abruptly, fingers flying to his throat as he lets out a startled grunt. “Ow! What was that for?!” he coughs, rubbing the spot you just flicked with dramatic flair, like you’d tried to assassinate him instead of delivering a harmless flick. “Okay, okay! Message received, Murder-Fingers.”

Then he laughs, genuinely—low, warm, and amused as he watches you with a look that says he’s enjoying every second of this. “God, you’re so adorable but also so dangerous,” he muses, grinning as he straightens up again, hand still protectively half-covering his neck. “Like a feral squirrel. All tiny, twitchy, and unexpectedly violent.”

He pauses for effect, eyes sparkling as he smirks again. “You suck, hot stuff,” he says with affection, before blowing an exaggerated raspberry in your direction, immature but somehow still charming in that infuriating Richard Grayson way.

His grin lingers as he watches for any crack in your armor—a twitch of a smile, the smallest laugh, anything. And when he sees your lips fight not to curve upward, his heart does a stupid little flip.