Lattes of Love
Barista!Dick Grayson x Reader
TW: Stalking
The only reason you stepped into Haley’s Coffeehouse was because your legs were shaking too hard to keep walking. It was early, the sky still grey and yawning, but you’d felt the weight of eyes on your back since you’d left your apartment. You hadn’t looked. Couldn’t. But you knew.
The café was a safe pocket of warmth—dim lighting, indie music, soft wood tones, and sleepy customers sipping from mismatched mugs. It smelled like cinnamon and coffee and calm.
“Morning,” he said. “What can I make for you?”
His name tag read Dick, and he greeted you with a grin that almost made you forget why your heart was pounding.
You startled slightly at his energy, eyes wide. “Um. Just… a small latte. Please.”
“Got it.” He gave a small nod and turned toward the espresso machine.
Dark hair, slightly tousled like he’d run his hands through it a dozen times. Rolled-up sleeves, forearms dusted with flour. Smile like sunshine filtered through rain—soft, warm, never too much.
You stood awkwardly at the counter, twisting the strap of your bag around your fingers. He didn’t seem to notice, already chatting with the next customer, who was trying to flirt and clearly striking out. You watched as he smiled, made a dad joke about croissants, and completely missed the way the girl leaned across the counter a little too far.
You exhaled softly, half-amused. He was charming, sure. But definitely unaware.
When your latte came, he set it down carefully. “One small latte. You want cinnamon on top? It’s kinda the house signature.”
“Sure,” you whispered, then hesitated. “Thanks. For being nice.”
He blinked, then gave a lopsided grin. “Of course. That’s, like, the bare minimum. But you’re welcome.”
You found a seat in the back corner and tried to look casual. But your eyes kept flicking to the car across the street.
Same black sedan. Same spot. Third time in a row.
You stayed longer than you meant to. Hours passed. The sun shifted. Your coffee went cold. Every time you moved to leave, your stomach twisted. So you stayed.
You’d brought your laptop, pretended to scroll, but barely registered anything on the screen. Your attention kept drifting back to the car.
By late afternoon, the café emptied out. Dick started cleaning up, glancing up in mild surprise when he noticed you still sitting there.
“Hey,” he said gently. “We’re closing up soon.”
You stood slowly, voice small. “I know, I’m sorry—um, could I… could I leave with you?”
His eyebrows lifted slightly. “Like…?”
“I mean—just pretend we’re together. Not together together, just… like, walk out with me. Please.” You glanced toward the car. “That man, he’s been following me. I think it’s the third or fourth day.”
“Yeah,” he said, instantly. “You can stay. It’s okay.”
“I can help you close,” you said quickly, almost tripping over your own words. “If—if you’ll let me. I just want to do something-- to thank you for your kindness. Anything.”
He opened his mouth, looked like he was about to say no… but your hands were already twitching at your sides.
“Alright,” he said. “Only because you asked so nicely.”
You busied yourself wiping down the already-clean tables while he finished closing up. He kept peeking out the window every few minutes, never too obvious.
When the café was dark and the door locked behind you both, the street felt colder. Your fingers curled tightly around your coat sleeves.
“My bike’s a block over,” he said, not mentioning the car. “Want to walk with me?”
You hesitated only a second before nodding. As you started walking, the silence stretched—and you reached for his hand, uncertain and twitchy. But he took it without a word, just squeezed gently.
You couldn’t help the way your eyes kept darting over your shoulder.
He noticed. “You don’t have to keep looking,” he murmured. “I already am.”
At the bike, he handed you a helmet. You blinked up at him.
“I can take you home,” he said. “You don’t have to say yes, but… I wouldn’t offer if I didn’t mean it.”
“I—I trust you,” you said softly, holding the helmet like it might disappear.
The ride home was fast and chilly, but you were too focused on the way he leaned with the curves and kept one hand ready near yours to care. You felt the eyes again—the black car following discreetly behind. He noticed, too. Memorized the plate. Didn't say a word.
When he pulled up outside your building, he walked you to your door like a gentleman out of a dream.
You fidgeted with your keys. “Thanks. For everything. I didn’t think anyone would believe me.”
“Of course I believed you.”
There was a pause.
“Actually,” he added, clearing his throat. “Would you want to… maybe go out sometime? Like, a real date.”
You stared at him, wide-eyed. “Me?”
A sheepish grin. “Yeah. You.”
You looked down fast, heart stammering. “You’re… kind of out of my league.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You’ve seen me trip over an empty mop bucket. I assure you, no league.”
Your lips twitched. “I’d… I’d like that.”
He handed you his phone. “Here, put your number in. And let me know if anything weird happens again. I mean it.”
You nodded, cheeks burning, and entered your contact. Then slipped inside your apartment, heart racing and face still warm.
That night, you fell asleep smiling for the first time in days.
Across the city, Nightwing wasn’t smiling.
He crouched on a rooftop across from a rundown apartment building, eyes locked on the black sedan parked out front. Same license plate. Same creep behind the wheel, still watching.
Dick had run the plate an hour ago, hacked into surveillance from the area, and cross-referenced faces. What he found had his blood running hot.
Photos. Dozens of them.
You walking to work. You at the grocery store. You sipping coffee at the café, headphones in, oblivious. All taken from a distance. Some zoomed in too close on places he shouldn’t have been looking—your legs, your chest. One photo showed you unlocking your apartment door. Another? You asleep on a bench in the park, mouth slightly open, completely vulnerable.
Dick’s hands clenched into fists so tight the leather of his gloves creaked.
By the time he was inside the stalker’s apartment, the man didn’t hear him until the first punch landed.
A hard hook to the jaw knocked him out of his chair, blood splattering the floor. He scrambled back, hand reaching for something in a drawer—but Nightwing had already kicked it shut and smashed the man’s wrist against the desk. A crack followed the scream.
"You think you’re invisible, huh?” Dick growled, voice dark and cold. “Taking pictures of them like they're some kind of prize. Following them. Making them feel unsafe.”
The man whimpered something, and Nightwing slammed him against the wall hard enough to rattle the frames hanging on it.
“You planned to do what, exactly? Just keep watching them forever? Or were you waiting for the day they were alone enough to make a move?”
He didn’t wait for an answer. An escrima stick cracked across the man’s ribs. Then again. And again.
Dick didn’t stop until the guy was coughing blood and begging.
“You’ll never go near them again,” Nightwing hissed, kneeling beside him, eyes glowing in the dim light. “You so much as think about them, I’ll know. I’ll be watching. And next time? I won’t stop myself.”
Then he grabbed the man’s camera and phone, smashing them under his boot. He wiped the drives. Erased the cloud backups. Burned the printed photos in a trash bin right there in the living room, the acrid smoke curling like a warning into the air.
He left him broken. Not dead. But close enough to wish he was.
And as he disappeared into the night, his only thought was of you—safe, warm, smiling, and never needing to know just how far he’d go to keep you that way.
The next morning, headlines hit the news: Man Revealed to be Stalker by Unkown Source in Gotham Found Nearly Beaten to Death.
You read it once. Then again. And your hands trembled.
That night, you met Dick at a small restaurant for your first official date. You sat across from him in soft lighting, fork barely moving.
You studied him carefully, then finally whispered, “It was you. Wasn’t it?”
He paused, looking away and jaw clenching then nodded. “Yeah. It was... Does that scare you?”
“No,” you whispered. “I think it’s kinda… hot.”
He blinked, taken aback. “Wait, really?”
“You still want to go out with me?”
You bit your lip. Then gave the tiniest smile. “I mean—not that I’m into violence or whatever, I just—thank you.”
You leaned over and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek, pulling back fast, face flaming.
He blinked. Actually blinked.
Then—“Oh. Wow. Okay. Cool. Cool cool cool.”
He chuckled, a little pink in the ears now himself. “God, you’re cute.”
You smiled into your glass. “Still think you’re way out of my league.”
