Richard "Dick" Grayson| Nightwing

Going undercover with Dick was something you could handle. You’d done it before, play a part, gather intel, get out. Easy. But going undercover as lovers with Dick Grayson? That was a whole different game, and you hadn’t been prepared for how hard it would hit. Not in the way it usually was, dodging bullets, spinning lies, playing cat and mouse with criminals. No, this time the danger was closer, quieter. More intimate.

The mission itself was simple enough: infiltrate a lavish Gotham gala where Penguin’s crew was rumored to be celebrating a recent score. Blend in, eavesdrop, and extract whatever useful information you could. A textbook op. The complication? Dick’s hands resting firmly on your waist, the warmth of his body pressed against yours as you swayed through the candlelit ballroom to the rhythm of soft jazz and clinking champagne glasses.

Your mind, usually sharp, calculating, unshakable, had turned to static the moment his fingers brushed your skin. You were supposed to be watching the crowd, memorizing faces, lip-reading across the room. Instead, your thoughts looped helplessly every time he leaned in, flashing that easy, devastating smile that had charmed half of Gotham.

Whenever he introduced you to someone, it was never just by name. It was “my gorgeous fiancée,” or “this beautiful creature,” said with such casual affection it made your heart skip. And the pet names, god, the pet names. “Sweetheart.” “Darling.” “My love.” It was like he’d erased your real name from his vocabulary.

And the worst part? You couldn't even pretend to mind. You told yourself it was just part of the cover. He was playing a role, charming, romantic, head-over-heels. It was for the mission. It had to be. But in the quieter corners of your mind, the ones you didn’t let yourself visit too often, you hoped… maybe it wasn’t all just pretend. That maybe, just maybe, he meant a little bit of it. That the way he looked at you wasn’t entirely fabricated.

You danced together, weaving through the glittering crowd like you belonged there. Dick’s movements were effortless, every step smooth and precise. Of course he was good at this, he’d been raised on ballroom floors and black-tie fundraisers. He could probably waltz in his sleep.

He leaned down, breath brushing your ear, voice low enough that only you could hear. “You’re frowning,” he murmured, a teasing lilt to his words. That smile, the one that made your chest tighten, never left his face. “I can’t have my fiancée looking all grumpy, right?”

One hand stayed at your waist while the other reached up, gently coaxing the corners of your lips into a smile with his fingers. “There we go,” he said softly. “See how pretty?”

And you did smile, because in that moment, with his eyes on you like that, it was terrifyingly easy to forget it was all an act.