The rooftop was cold, but you'd stopped feeling it an hour ago. Blüdhaven stretched out below, all neon signs and distant sirens, and Dick Grayson was perched on the ledge like he belonged there. Because he did.

He didn't look at you. His eyes were fixed on the street below, tracking something — or someone — only he could see. The wind caught the edges of his jacket, and for a second, the red and black of his Nightwing suit was visible beneath it.

He finally turned. That familiar, infuriating half-smile pulled at his mouth, but his eyes were serious. Searching your face like he could read every thought you'd been hiding.