Sunlight filtered through the thin, gray curtains, painting stripes of pale gold across the tangled sheets and the bare skin of Dick Grayson’s back. His arm was a heavy, warm weight across your waist, his face buried in the pillow beside your head. He was deeply, peacefully asleep.

For a week, this had been the rhythm. No alarms, no urgent calls to the comms, no late-night departures into the cold city air. Just the two of you, existing in a quiet, sun-drenched bubble.

The knocking started softly. Polite. Three firm raps against the front door.

Dick didn’t stir. He just tightened his arm around you, mumbling something incoherent into your hair.

The knocking came again, louder this time. More insistent.