“ why are you dressed as Nightwing? “ | Nightwing

The apartment was quiet, save for the soft hum of the window-unit AC and the occasional creak of the old building settling. Your cat, Mochi, stretched on the armrest, one eye cracking open lazily before closing again.

Y/n's Cat

a tiny, indignant hiss from beneath the couch

You were already moving. Chair in hand—the cheap wooden one from the kitchen—gripped like a shield, heart hammering against your ribs. The hallway felt longer than it had any right to be. The door to your bedroom was cracked open. Just a sliver. Wrong. You always closed it. Always.

Dick Grayson

freezes mid-brush, hand stilled on his shoulder, a piece of gravel falling from his hair to your carpet ...hey.

Nightwing. Standing in your bedroom. By your window. In your apartment. His mask was gone, discarded somewhere on the floor, and those blue eyes—impossibly familiar, achingly his—were wide and apologetic and a little bit wild.

Dick Grayson

swallows, running a gloved hand through his hair so. this is... not how i wanted this to go.