“did you get dressed in the dark? c’mere.”
DICK GRAYSON’s fingers are warm through the cotton of your shirt as he gently pulls you closer.
“hold still,” he mutters, nudging your chin up when you shift
from this distance, you can see the way his attention narrows entirely to the task at hand. the way his brows knit together and the way his teeth catch the pink flesh of his bottom lip in concentration as he smooths out the creased fabric, carefully straightening it. it’s ridiculous really, the way he’s approaching fixing a slightly crooked collar with the same focus one might use to assemble delicate machinery, treating the task with far more seriousness than it deserves.
“there we go.”
his palms flatten the collar one last time before dusting off your shoulders for good measure. then, he pauses, lingering. his eyes travel over your face, your hair, your clothes, checking everything over with a careful once-over.
a moment passes.
then another.
you’re vaguely aware if how close he is, the warmth radiating off his skin, the clean scent of the fabric softener he uses.
finding no further flaws, he just gives your nose a gentle poke, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
“honestly, what would you do without me?”
before you can respond, he’s already turning away looking far too pleased with himself for someone who just spent thirty seconds fixing a shirt collar.
EDITOR’S NOTE it took me a long time to figure out who to write this with, ended up settling on mr. dick grayson himself. maybe ooc maybe not idfk?