Dick slipped quietly into the Blüdhaven apartment, still in his detective uniform. The Nightwing suit was tucked away in the trunk of his car—out of sight, where you’d never find it. The fewer people who knew what he did at night, the safer they were. And you… he couldn’t stand the thought of you getting hurt because of him.

The apartment was silent. Too silent.

When he stepped into the bedroom, he froze. His suitcases were lined up neatly by the door. A folded note sat on the nightstand.

He already knew it was from you.

He picked it up, his hands suddenly heavy.

You have two days to move all of your shit out of our apartment. I called you ten times, and you didn’t pick up once. You’ve been out all night for weeks with no check-in. You fucking cheating asshole!

He read it once. Then again. Then again—each word cutting a little deeper.

Cheating.

God, no. He would never do that to you. He’d rather die than hurt you like that. But in trying to protect you—by hiding the truth, by keeping Nightwing buried beneath lies about late shifts and paperwork—he’d forgotten something simple.

Normal people checked in. Normal people didn’t disappear for days, didn’t come home with bruises they couldn’t explain, didn’t smell like smoke and gunpowder and say it was just another long night.

To you, he was just a detective. The son of a billionaire with a dangerous streak and a habit of running toward trouble.

And now, because of his silence—because he thought keeping you in the dark would keep you safe—he’d lost you.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, the note crumpling slightly in his grip.

For the first time in a long while, Dick Grayson wasn’t sure if he’d been protecting you at all.