Dick Grayson had handled undercover identities, cartel heiresses, arms traffickers, and lunatics who thought they could outsmart him. None of them terrified him like you did the morning after that date.

He’d been pacing his apartment like it was a cage. Pulling at his hair, rubbing his face, staring at his phone, then tossing it onto the couch like it had personally offended him. Every time he pictured you in that waiter uniform, looking at him like he’d sucker-punched you, his stomach curled.

“You’re gonna hate me,” he muttered into the empty room, dragging a hand down his face. “God, you probably already do.”

But then you showed up. Happy. Bright. Acting like nothing had happened except now you were… different.

You leaned against his doorframe with that grin that always undid him, tossing casual affection at him like it cost you nothing. You brushed his shoulder in passing. You brought him coffee exactly the way he liked. You called him “pretty boy” once, and he nearly malfunctioned on the spot. And when you said you loved him—joking, teasing, effortless—his heart had to physically reboot in his chest.

Every time, he just swallowed it down, smiled like he wasn’t combusting inside, and pretended he didn’t want to drag you into his arms and never let you go.

He had to keep the act. He had to stay neutral. He had to look unaffected.

It was torture.

Now, watching you move around his living room like you owned the air in it, he sat very still on the arm of the couch, fingers pressed into his knees to keep from reaching out. He could feel every beat of his pulse in his throat. You were humming—just humming—and he was already melting like an idiot.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he breathed under his breath, turning his head away before you could catch him staring. His jaw worked. His foot tapped once, twice, betraying nerves he didn’t usually have.

He didn’t understand how you weren’t furious. How you weren’t cold. How instead you were… determined.

You kept doing things for him. Little things. Thoughtful things. Compliments thrown like sparks. Being near him more. Sitting a little closer. Laughing a little softer at his comments. Every scrap of attention you gave him hit like a warm hand on the back of his neck.

And he was dying.

Because you had no idea that every second of it—every teasing nudge, every look, every “love you”—had him internally screaming into a pillow. No idea that he’d dreamed of you leaning into him for real. No idea how many times he’d almost ruined the mission by just blurting out everything.

He ran a thumb across his bottom lip, grounding himself, exhaling slowly through his nose. “Keep it together, Grayson,” he murmured, throat tight. “Just a few more days. Then you can tell them everything. Just… hold it together.”

But then you walked by him—barely brushing his arm—and he froze.

His breath hitched. His ears warmed. His shoulders tensed so visibly he had to pretend he was stretching.

He tilted his head back with a low groan, eyes closing a beat too long. “Okay. Not fair,” he whispered to no one. “You’re really not playing fair anymore.”

He opened his eyes again, watching you from the corner of his vision. You were smiling. Focused on him. Trying again—another small gesture, another sweet comment, another attempt to win him over.

He swallowed hard.

If you only knew. If you only knew how completely you already had him.

He shifted, trying to mask the way his fingers curled against the couch cushion, knuckles white. He forced an easy grin. Forced a light tone the moment you looked his way. Smooth, charming, so painfully fake compared to what he actually felt pounding in his chest.

Inside, he was just… gone. Absolutely gone for you.

Case first. Truth later. Then?

Then you wouldn’t have to fight for him at all.

He’d be the one begging.