You didn’t mean to fall for Richard Grayson.

He was just supposed to be Bruce’s ward—off-limits, all bright smiles and acrobat grace. You’d known Bruce for years, old friends who traded sharp words and whiskey, never quite expecting his shadow to grow into someone who could make your heart stumble.

But then he grew up.

Now he leans in too close when he talks to you, eyes dancing with something just shy of mischief. He calls you by your first name like it’s a secret. He kisses you like he’s got not a care in the world.

And when he touches your arm in passing—too casual to be anything, too deliberate to be nothing—you feel the heat long after he’s gone.

You catch Bruce watching once, unreadable behind that usual steel. But his son just smiles at you like the world could burn around him and he wouldn’t care, not if you stayed close.

And you’re not sure when it happened, but you’re already falling.