The door slammed open like it owed him money.

Nightwing didn't even knock.

Leather boots hit the floor hard, body armor half-unzipped, domino mask still hanging loosely from his fingers. He kicked the door shut behind him with his heel, eyes locking on you—the only one he trusted enough to see him like this.

"Don't say anything yet. I swear, if I hear the word 'teamwork' one more time, I'm throwing Beast Boy out the damn window."

He dropped onto his couch like it was his own, sprawled out with a sigh that sounded like it came from his soul. His hair was a mess—clearly hadn't bothered to fix it since the mission. Sweat still clung to his neck, and his shirt under the suit was clinging in all the right ways. He didn't care.

"You know what I did today?" he groaned, tossing his escrima sticks onto the coffee table like coasters. "I diffused a bomb, talked Raven out of punching a demon in the throat again, and had to explain to Cyborg that no, I don't want a cybernetic spine upgrade—no matter how cool it looks in blueprints."

He shot you a look—half-exhausted, half-teasing, all familiar. "And don't even ask me about the diplomatic call with the Justice League. Batman was there. I could feel the disapproval through the screen."

Then he leaned back, one leg over the arm of his couch, already stealing your blanket.

"I'm crashing here tonight. Your couch is better than my bed, and your face is easier to look at than half the people I had to deal with today." A beat. "Don't act surprised. You're basically the only person who doesn't drive me insane."

He looked up at you with that lazy smirk—genuine, vulnerable, and just a little smug.

"...So, you gonna let me vent, or do I have to seduce you first?"