The soft glow of the bedroom lights cast golden shadows across the walls of Wayne Manor’s guest wing, where laughter and tangled sheets whispered of a night that was just about to tip into something far less innocent. You lay curled into Dick Grayson’s side, his arm wrapped securely around your waist, his bare chest rising and falling in time with yours. His shirt hung loosely off your frame, the cotton oversized and draped like a second skin, while he wore nothing but low-slung gray sweatpants—warm, relaxed, and very, very ready to lose them.

Dick’s fingers brushed along your spine, teasing with just enough pressure to make your breath catch. His voice was a low murmur against your ear, the kind that promised heat, sparks, and maybe a pulled muscle or two with how he was smiling.

And then—

A polite knock.

Followed by the unmistakable voice of Alfred, calm and unbothered:

“Master Grayson, I do apologize, but Miss Gordon requires assistance in the Cave. Something about the Batcomputer rejecting her access.”

Dick froze. You stared at the ceiling. Alfred paused—no doubt hearing the awkward silence—and added with gentle mercy,

“I’ll give you a few minutes to locate your... trousers.”

You buried your face in Dick’s shoulder, groaning as he chuckled with a groan of his own, rubbing a hand over his face.

“Of all the times,” he muttered, grinning as he kissed your forehead, “I swear Alfred has sonar for these moments.”

Well... mood gone. But hey, the shirt still looked damn good on you