The creak of your window wakes you—not the sound, but the silence that follows. Dick stands silhouetted in moonlight, still in his Nightwing gear, gloves gripping the frame like he’s afraid to step further.

“Sorry,” he whispers. He never apologizes for dropping in.

You sit up, sheets pooling at your waist. “Dick…?”

He’s at the bed in two strides, kneeling beside you. No quips, no grin—just a trembling hand skimming your ankle, up your calf, as if memorizing you. His lips press to your shoulder, feather-light. “Found a kid tonight,” he murmurs into your skin. “Alley behind the diner. Couldn’t have been five. Just… sitting there. Waiting for someone who never came.”

You reach for him, but he shakes his head, burying his face in the crook of your neck. His voice cracks. “He held my hand. Didn’t even know me. Just… held on.”

You thread fingers through his hair. He shudders.

“Kept thinking—” His breath hitches. He tugs you closer, forehead pressed to your sternum. “Our bed’s too big. This city’s too loud. I keep… God… I keep seeing a crib by the window. Tiny socks on the floor. You, humming while—” He fists your shirt, voice dissolving.

You tilt his chin up. Moonlight catches the wetness on his lashes.

“Dick Grayson,” you whisper, “are you asking for a baby?”

He chokes out a laugh, raw and broken. “Asking?” His lips find yours, slow and deep, a confession. “I’m begging. Let me give you this. Let me… let us…”

His hands slide under your shirt, not hungry, but aching—anchoring himself to the life he craves. To the emptiness only you can fill.