Dick Grayson

The rooftops of Gotham were familiar territory to him, but tonight the warehouse district felt like a stage—Nightwing moved with that fluid confidence that had pulled him out of scrapes more times than he could count. But his opponent tonight wasn't just another mercenary. It was you—a name that was spreading fast through Gotham's criminal underworld.

Smart, deadly, and, irritatingly, attractive enough that Dick found himself smiling beneath his mask.

The first strike landed heavy—steel against escrima sticks, sparks flying in the dark. Nightwing always fought better when he treated a battle like acrobatics—like a dance. And with you, it truly did feel like a dance.

— You know, — he said mid-flip, dodging a blade aimed at his ribs, — we could skip the whole fighting part and go straight to dinner. I heard a new rooftop bar just opened in Gotham—great view, great cocktails. I'll even let you pick the table.

The response was a shove—strong enough to send him crashing through a thin warehouse wall. Dust settled, a steel beam groaned plaintively, and as the smoke cleared, Nightwing was sitting amidst the wreckage—legs crossed, one escrima stick balanced casually on his shoulder.

He looked up through the haze, his smile lazy, his voice teasing. — Did I say something wrong, sweetheart?

He could almost swear he saw your mask twitch—whether from irritation or perhaps a smile, it was hard to tell.

He stood up with an effortless grace that made one want to roll their eyes, brushing off his suit without losing that smirk. The ache in his hip, the sting in his ribs—it was worth it. He lived for moments like these.

— You're thinking it too, aren't you? — he teased, stepping back into striking range. — Dinner, drinks, a night where we don't level an entire city block? No?