This Isn't a Relationship
| pairing: Richard Grayson x reader
| wordcount: 1.8k
| warnings: reader doesn't like relationships, a little angst, fluff!, mentions of school, Dick lowk obsessive
| summary: Dick really doesn't understand why you don't do relationships, and the fact doesn't deter his affections for you in the slightest.
You didn’t date.
That wasn’t a phase, or a coping mechanism, or some secret heartbreak origin story waiting to be revealed under dim lighting and soft music. It was just… you. Clean, simple, intentional. You liked your life the way it was—quiet when you needed it, loud when you chose it, entirely yours.
So when people asked, you shrugged. When they pushed, you laughed it off. And when they insisted you just “hadn’t met the right guy yet,” you gave them that look—the one that shut things down real fast. You weren’t planning on taking the first guy you saw to be yours.
You were not waiting for anyone.
Which is why Dick Grayson was, quite frankly, a problem.
You noticed him before you ever spoke to him. That wasn’t unusual, I mean, everyone noticed him. He moved like he belonged everywhere at once, as if gravity didn’t quite apply to him the same way. There was always a kind of brightness trailing him, effortless and irritating.
So irritating.
At first, he was just a background character in your days. A blur of dark hair, easy smiles, and people orbiting him as if he were the center of something you didn’t care to understand.
Then one day, he spoke to you.
“You’re new.”
You didn’t look up from your book. “Observant.”
A beat of silence.
Then, amused, “And you’re not very friendly.”
You turned the page. “Also observant.”
That should have been the end of it.
It wasn’t.
Dick Grayson was many things, but deterred was not one of them.
He started small.
A comment here. A question there. Sliding into conversations you weren’t technically having, leaning against the desk beside yours like he’d always been there. You gave him nothing. All you gave was short answers, minimal eye contact, and zero encouragement.
It didn’t matter.
“You always read during lunch?” he asked one day, dropping into the seat across from you without permission.
“Yes.”
“Same book?”
“No.”
“What’s this one about?”
You looked up slowly, fixing him with a flat stare. “Do you ever stop talking?”
He grinned, completely unbothered. “Not really, no.”
You went back to your book.
He stayed.
At first, you assumed it was boredom. Or ego. Or the kind of casual interest people developed when faced with something they couldn’t immediately have. Most likely the third option…
You figured he’d get tired eventually.
He didn’t.
If anything, he got worse.
“Hey,” he said one afternoon, falling into step beside you as you left class. “You’re avoiding me.”
“I’m walking to my next class.”
“Without me.”
You sighed. “We don’t have the same schedule.”
“That’s never stopped me before.”
You stopped walking.
He stopped too, watching you with that infuriatingly open expression. Like he genuinely wanted to know what you were thinking.
“You need something?” you asked.
“Yeah,” he said easily. “Five minutes of your time.”
“No.”
“Three?”
“No.”
“One?”
You stared at him.
He smiled, softer this time. “Thirty seconds?”
You hesitated.
He noticed.
That was his first win.
And he knows it from the wide smile that splits his face.
“Why don’t you date?”
You blinked at him across the library table. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“I heard you,” you said slowly. “I’m choosing to believe you didn’t actually ask that.”
“I did.”
“Why?”
He shrugged, but his eyes stayed on you, sharp and curious beneath the casual tone. “Because everyone says you don’t.”
“Who says?”
He smiles, head falling slightly back as he looks at the ceiling.
“Answer my question, and I’ll answer yours.”
“Dick, why?”
“I don’t believe things just because everyone says them.”
You closed your book. “I don’t date because I don’t want to.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“No bad experiences? No tragic, almost-love story? No secret vow?”
You raised an eyebrow. “You watch too many movies.”
He laughed, quiet but genuine. “Yeah, maybe.”
There was a pause.
He leaned back slightly, studying you. “So you’re just not interested.”
“Correct.”
“In anyone.”
“Sure.”
Another pause.
Then, thoughtfully, “That’s kind of impressive.”
You frowned. “It’s not a skill.”
“It kind of is,” he said. “Most people are terrible at knowing what they actually want.”
“I know what I don’t want, and that’s enough.”
His mouth curved, slow and deliberate. “Close enough.”
You should have ended the conversation there.
You didn’t.
It became a thing.
You didn’t acknowledge it as one, but it was there, threading through your days.
Dick Grayson, showing up.
Dick Grayson, talking to you like you were worth the effort.
Dick Grayson, not leaving when you gave him every reason to.
It’s horrible. (Sort of).
“You’re doing it again,” you said one afternoon.
“Doing what?”
“Following me.”
“I prefer ‘walking in the same direction with enthusiasm.’”
“You changed directions twice.”
“Coincidence.”
You stopped. “Go away.”
He tilted his head. “Make me.”
You stared at him.
He held your gaze, steady, not challenging, just… there. Annoyingly so.
Something in your chest shifted, sharp and unexpected.
You looked away first, color filling your cheeks.
“Why?” you asked.
“Why what?”
“Why me?”
It came out more direct than you intended. Less like you were trying to push him away.
He didn’t answer right away.
For once, Dick Grayson looked like he was actually thinking.
Then, quietly, “Because you don’t need anything from me.”
You blinked.
“That’s rare,” he added.
“I don’t need anything from anyone,” you said.
“I know.”
“And that’s… appealing to you?”
“Yeah,” he said simply.
You shook your head, starting to walk again. “You’re weird.”
“Only a little.”
“You’re persistent.”
“That too.”
You exhaled, somewhere between annoyed and something else you didn’t want to name.
“You’re not going to date me,” you said.
“I know.”
“Then what’s the point?”
He matched your pace easily. “Who said I need a point?”
You glanced at him. “People usually do.”
“Maybe I just like talking to you.”
“That’s a questionable decision.”
He grinned. “I’ve made worse.”
It should have stayed harmless.
Annoying, maybe. Intrusive, definitely. But harmless.
And for a while, it was.
Until it wasn’t.
It happened on a day that wasn’t supposed to matter.
Not some important day, just a normal afternoon.
You were sitting outside, back against the cool brick wall, headphones in but no music playing. You weren’t reading. You weren’t doing anything, really. Just existing in the nice weather.
He found you anyway.
“Hey.”
You didn’t look at him. “Hi.”
He sat down beside you, closer than usual but not touching.
“You okay?” he asked.
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t sound fine.”
You almost brushed it off.
Almost.
Then, without really planning to, you said, “I’m just tired.”
“Of?”
You huffed a quiet laugh. “People, mostly.”
“Valid.”
You turned your head, studying him. “You don’t count?”
“I like to think I’m an acquired taste.”
“That’s one way to put it.”
He smiled faintly, then spoke more seriously. “You can tell me to leave.”
“I know.”
You didn’t, for once, find a reason to.
Silence settled between you, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It wasn’t heavy.
It was… easy.
That was new.
You didn’t like it.
You liked it too much.
“I’m not going to change my mind,” you said a few days later.
“About?”
“This.” You gestured vaguely between the two of you. “Whatever you think this is.”
He leaned against the railing, watching you with that same steady focus. “I don’t think it’s anything.”
“Good.”
“I just think you’re interesting.”
“I’m not.”
“You are to me.”
You looked away, jaw tightening. “That’s your problem.”
“Maybe,” he said.
A beat.
Then, softer, “But it’s not your responsibility to fix.”
You swallowed, caught off guard by the lack of pressure in his voice.
No expectation. No demand.
Just… honesty.
It made something in your chest twist.
“I don’t want a boyfriend,” you said again, quieter this time.
“I know.”
“And I’m not going to wake up one day and magically decide I do.”
“I know.”
“So you’re wasting your time.”
He shrugged. “I don’t feel like I am.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m not trying to get anything out of you.”
You frowned. “Then what are you doing?”
He smiled, small and real. “Spending time with someone I like.”
You stared at him.
That word again.
Like.
Simple. Dangerous.
You exhaled slowly. “You’re frustrating.”
“I’ve been told.”
It shifted after that.
You stopped telling him to go away every time he showed up.
You started answering his questions with more than one word.
You let conversations linger.
And somewhere along the line, you realized something you hadn’t planned on.
You didn’t dread his presence anymore.
You expected it.
And that was the worst part.
“You’re smiling.”
“I am not.”
“You are,” he insisted, leaning closer to try and catch it again.
You turned your face away. “Shut up.”
“That’s twice this week.”
“That’s not a real statistic.”
“It is in my heart.”
You rolled your eyes, but your lips betrayed you, curving despite yourself.
He noticed.
Of course he did.
His expression softened, quietly pleased.
Like it mattered.
Like you mattered.
It hit you then, sharp and sudden.
This wasn’t about wearing you down.
It wasn’t about winning.
He wasn’t trying to change you.
He just cared.
And somehow, that was worse.
“You’re thinking too hard again.”
You blinked, dragged back to the present by his voice. “What?”
“You get this look,” he said, tapping his temple lightly. “Like you’re arguing with yourself.”
“I am.”
“Who’s winning?”
You hesitated.
“No one yet.”
He nodded, like that made perfect sense. “Sounds about right.”
You studied him, something uneasy and unfamiliar settling in your chest.
“You’re not giving up,” you said.
It wasn’t a question.
“No.”
“Even though you know—”
“I know,” he cut in gently.
You searched his face for frustration. For impatience. For anything that looked like he expected more than you could give.
There was nothing.
Just that same steady presence.
That same quiet certainty.
“You’re impossible,” you said.
He smiled. “You keep saying that.”
“And you keep proving it.”
“Yeah,” he admitted. “I guess I do.”
You exhaled, shaking your head.
Then, after a moment, you nudged his shoulder lightly.
It was small. Barely anything.
But it was the first time you touched him first.
He went still.
Not pulling away. Not making a big deal out of it.
Just oh-so-carefully absorbing your touch.
Like you were a cat who never gave any affection, and now you have, and he wants to just sit in it.
Like it meant something.
Like you did.
You still didn’t date.
That hadn’t changed.
You still didn’t want a boyfriend.
That hadn’t changed either.
But now, when Dick Grayson showed up—smiling, persistent, entirely himself—you didn’t push him away.
You didn’t have to.
Because somewhere along the way, without even realizing it, you’d stopped seeing him as something to resist.
And started seeing him as something you chose.
Now, he’s there when you need, no questions asked.
Not a relationship.
Not a label.
And by god, you are happy.
a/n: first time writing in the shorter writing style! If you like this more than the paragraph style let me know!
requests are OPEN!
