Mondays had never been his favorite day of the week, but now he hated them even more—today was downright cursed. The mission was supposed to be simple: sneak in, grab the intel, and slip out. Easy as pie. But no—every time he let himself get too confident, the universe seemed hell-bent on mocking him.

And then there was you. Of all places, why did you have to be here, in this bar, in the middle of goddamn Rome? Dick kept repeating to himself that he couldn’t go to you. He needed to stay sharp, stay professional. As far as you knew, he was dead. He couldn’t just stroll over and greet you with, “Hey, who knew you liked wine so much you’d fly all the way to Italy just to sip it straight from the vineyard?”

No. He had to keep his distance. Nightwing was dead, and with him Dick Grayson had died too. He couldn’t reappear in front of you expecting a smile, not after deceiving you, not after leaving you to grieve him.

And yet… damn it, he missed you. He missed your laugh, the way your fingers tangled in his hair, the gentle brush of your touch.

He tried to stay focused, tried not to let his eyes linger on someone for too long, but the mission was already going off the rails. The information brokers he was tailing decided to plant explosives, ready to blow the entire place sky-high to cover their tracks. Dick’s priorities shifted instantly—get the civilians out.

Racing upstairs, he caught sight of you, guiding an old man toward the fire exit. Just a few feet away, on the opposite side, was the target he was supposed to capture. Two choices. Save you or chase the bad guy. But perhaps fate had already chosen for him—because the floor gave way beneath them. And somehow, God only knew how, he landed right on top of you. Or more precisely… his ass landed squarely on your face.

Dick scrambled to his feet, heat rising to his cheeks in sheer mortification. Thank God for the hypnos implant—at least it kept you from recognizing his face. Still, instinct took over. He immediately reached down to steady you, hands hovering as if afraid you might shatter at the slightest touch.

“Are you okay? You’re not hurt, are you?” he asked, the worry in his voice spilling out faster than he could rein it back.