By the time you realized Dean Heyward-Di Laurentis was flirting with you, it was already too late to do anything about it.

Not because he was subtle, because he absolutely was not, but because Dean flirted with everyone in a way that made him difficult to read at first. He smiled too easily, leaned too close during conversations, carried this effortless warmth around with him that made people naturally gravitate toward him without even realizing they were doing it. Most girls at Briar noticed him immediately, and most of them reacted exactly the same way whenever he walked into a room.

You hadn’t.

That alone seemed to fascinate him more than it should have.

The first time you met him had been at a party during your sophomore year, one of those overcrowded hockey house parties where the music was too loud and the floors were sticky from spilled alcohol, where bodies moved shoulder to shoulder through dim lighting while somebody shouted along terribly to music in the kitchen.

You’d been standing near the back porch trying to escape the heat inside when Dean stepped out beside you holding two beers.

At the time, you only knew of him as one of Briar’s hockey players, though that was nearly impossible not to know considering how often everyone at this damn school talked about that team.

“You look miserable,” he’d said casually, offering you one of the beers.

You glanced at it before looking back at him. “You offer drinks to unhappy strangers at all of your parties?”

“Only the pretty ones.”

You had laughed then despite yourself, mostly because he’d said it so naturally that it didn’t even sound rehearsed.

“That line probably works on a lot of people.”

“It works better when they don’t immediately insult me after.”

“You survived.”

“Barely.”

There was something unfairly likable about him up close. Maybe it was the confidence that was accented by dimples, or maybe it was the fact that unlike some of the other hockey players, Dean actually listened when people spoke to him. Conversations with him felt easy in a dangerous sort of way, the kind that slipped by too quickly without you noticing.

You ended up talking with him for nearly an hour that night.

Then somehow he started appearing everywhere afterward.

Sometimes it was accidental. Other times it very obviously was not.

You’d find him outside one of your lecture halls leaning against the wall waiting for Garrett or Logan only for him to fall into step beside you afterward, like it was the most natural thing in the world. He’d steal the seat next to yours in class despite it being a lecture hall with plenty of open seats.

He'd distract you while you studied, complain dramatically whenever you refused to help him with assignments he definitely could have done himself if he tried hard enough.

And slowly, without either of you acknowledging it outright, he became part of your life.

It happened in pieces so small you barely noticed them.

Dean texting you first whenever something funny happened.

Dean showing up at your apartment with coffee because you mentioned once that you hated mornings.

Dean touching the small of your back absentmindedly when he moved around you in crowded rooms.

Your friends noticing the shift long before you did.

“He likes you,” your roommate had told you one night while you got ready for bed.

You rolled your eyes immediately. “Dean likes everyone.”

“No,” she drawled carefully, “I think he really likes you.”

At the time, you brushed it off.. mostly because the idea felt ridiculous.

Dean Heyward-Di Laurentis was charming in a way that belonged to everyone around him. He laughed with everybody, flirted with everybody, made people feel wanted so effortlessly that it was hard to imagine any of it meaning something deeper.

And maybe that was the problem.

Because you never realized how serious it had become for him.

Not until much later.

Not until the night everything finally cracked open between you.

It happened in late November after one of Briar’s home games, when the campus had already started settling into winter, and the air outside the arena carried that sharp cold that made your lungs ache when you breathed too deeply.

You waited near the parking lot while students poured out around you in loud groups, bundled in jackets and scarves while snow flurries drifted lazily through the streetlights overhead.

You had almost decided to leave by the time Dean finally emerged from the arena.

The parking lot outside Briar’s hockey rink had thinned considerably over the last fifteen minutes, the loud clusters of students slowly disappearing into the snowy dark while the cold deepened around you in sharp, biting waves.

The game had ended almost half an hour ago, but postgame celebrations always dragged on longer after a win, especially when the team played the way they had tonight. They were fast and aggressive and good enough to keep the crowd screaming well into the third period.

You stood near the edge of the sidewalk with your hands shoved deep into your coat pockets, shifting your weight occasionally to keep warm while snowflakes drifted steadily from the sky overhead. They gathered in the sleeves of your coat and melted against your skin, dampening pieces of hair near your face while your breath curled visibly in the freezing air.

Your phone screen lit briefly in your hand.

11:42 PM.

You should probably go home at this point. Plus, why stick around anyway? The only people who stuck around this long were family, significant others, and girls who were hoping to get lucky with a player. You were none of the above.

That thought had crossed your mind at least four times already, especially considering Dean had no idea you were even waiting for him out here in the first place. You could still leave now before he came outside and preserve at least some of your dignity, because standing alone in a freezing parking lot after nearly midnight waiting for a boy who smiled at you a little too nicely was not behavior you were particularly proud of.

Still, your feet stayed planted where they were.

Which was embarrassing to unpack if you thought about it too hard.

The arena doors finally swung open again a few seconds later, releasing another burst of noise and warmth into the cold night air as several players filtered out alongside a few students lingering near the entrance. You looked up automatically, more out of instinct than intention.

Then you saw him.

Dean Heyward-Di Laurentis, himself, walked out laughing at something one of his teammates said, hockey bag slung over one shoulder while exhaustion visibly weighed through the line of his posture. His damp hair curled slightly from sweat beneath the harsh overhead lights, and even from a distance, you could see the fatigue sitting heavily across his face after the game.

Then his eyes landed on you.

And his entire expression changed.

It was subtle enough that most people probably would not have noticed it unless they were looking carefully, but you did.

The exhaustion softened first.

Then his shoulders loosened slightly beneath the weight of his bag, tension easing from him in real time as warmth spread slowly across his features. The tiredness didn't disappear entirely, but something gentler replaced it now, something so immediate and instinctive that it sent an annoying little flip through your stomach before you could stop it.

“There you are,” Dean said once he reached you, his voice roughened slightly from yelling over the game and the freezing night air.

Something about the familiarity of it settled strangely in your chest.

Not the words themselves, but the way he said them, easy and certain, like he had expected to find you waiting for him outside the arena all along. Like your presence beside the rink after every home game had become something reliable to him, something normal.

You tried not to think too hard about why that affected you as much as it did.

Instead, you shoved your hands deeper into your coat pockets and forced yourself to sound casual when you said, “You played decent tonight, Di Laurentis.”

Dean immediately looked offended.

“Decent?” he repeated, adjusting the strap of his hockey bag higher onto his shoulder while he stared at you in disbelief. “That’s what I get after scoring twice? And defending my goalie after he got knocked? And pointing to you after I scored? And cheering G up in the locker room?”

You shrugged, though his grin was already making it annoyingly difficult to hold onto your composure for very long. “You want me to lie and say you were amazing?”

“Yes, actually, that would be nice.”

The laugh that slipped out of you came easier than you intended, soft and visible in the cold air between you.

For a second, Dean just looked at you.

Not in the careless, charming way he usually looked at people, but openly because your amusement was something worth paying attention to. Snow caught lightly in his light hair and along the shoulders of his jacket, while the harsh lights from the parking lot reflected faintly across his face. Despite the exhaustion still lingering around him after the game, there was some playful warmth creeping back into his eyes.

The look on his face made your chest tighten in a way you were trying very hard not to examine too closely.

Without really discussing it, the two of you started walking toward Malone's together.

The arena noise slowly faded behind you with every step, swallowed by the quiet stillness settling over Briar this late at night. Snow crunched softly beneath your boots as you moved side by side down the sidewalk, your shoulders brushing occasionally whenever one of you drifted too close. The roads nearby had mostly emptied by now, leaving only the occasional headlights cutting through the dark or the distant sound of voices carrying across campus.

The snow had started sticking properly sometime during the third period.

Now it dusted across the ground in thin white layers and gathered along Dean’s hair in uneven flakes, catching briefly in his lashes whenever he glanced over at you. The cold had turned the tip of his nose pink, though somehow it only made him look more unfairly attractive.

“You waiting long?” he asked after a moment.

“Not really.”

“Bullshit. That's a total lie.”

You glanced sideways at him despite yourself. “Fine, maybe a little.”

His mouth twitched immediately, like he was trying not to smile too hard at that answer.

Then something in his expression shifted. The teasing faded first.Then the easy confidence.

What replaced it was quieter somehow, more focused, and the sudden intensity of his attention made your stomach tighten unexpectedly.

“You came to every game this month,” he said.

The observation landed softly between you, but your pulse reacted instantly anyway.

You forced yourself to shrug. “I support Briar athletics, I love that my tuition money goes towards the team throwing free shirts into the stands and paying for your overpriced locker room. I figured I should get my money's worth.”

“Bullshit, again.”

You looked away too quickly, trying to hide the smile already pulling at your mouth, but Dean noticed anyway. Of course he did.

“That smile means I’m right.”

“You’re so annoying after wins.”

“I’m annoying all the time.”

“That’s... Actually, yeah, that's true.”

His laugh came low and warm beside you before he nudged his shoulder lightly against yours.

The contact lasted barely a second.

Still, warmth spread slowly through your chest anyway, familiar now in the worst possible way.

Because that had become the real problem with Dean lately.

Not the flirting.

Not the confidence.

Not even the fact that nearly every girl at Briar looked at him like he personally hung the moon.

The problem was that he made everything feel like more than it was. Truthfully, that could have been because, in your heart, you didn't want to believe you'd fall for an athlete's charm so easily. But based on what everyone around you said, you weren't delusional in thinking that it was more than it seemed.

Every glance lingered slightly too long. Every touch carried enough softness behind it to leave you thinking about it afterward. Even his attention felt different from other people’s somehow, steady and deliberate in a way that slowly worked its way beneath your skin before you even realized it was happening.

Being around Dean felt dangerously similar to standing too close to a fire in the middle of winter.

Comforting at first.

Then overwhelming before you noticed yourself getting burned.

And lately, whatever existed between the two of you had started drifting dangerously close to becoming something real.

Neither of you talked about it.

Maybe because acknowledging it aloud would ruin the fragile balance you’d fallen into together.

Or maybe because both of you were too afraid the other person didn’t feel it too.

“You know,” Dean said eventually, quieter now, his gaze fixed ahead on the snowy sidewalk instead of on you, “Tuck thinks I’m in love with you.”

Your entire body nearly short-circuited.

You missed a step slightly before catching yourself again, your head swiveling in a double-take. “Sorry.. what?”

Dean let out a huff of a laugh under his breath, though this time there was tension underneath it that hadn’t been there before.

“That reaction’s making this just a little harder for me.”

You stopped walking for half a second before hurrying to catch up beside him again. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not.”

The simplicity of the answer made your stomach twist sharply.

Snow continued drifting lazily around the two of you while silence settled heavily between your footsteps. Your pulse suddenly felt uneven beneath your ribs, loud enough that you were half convinced Dean could hear it if he stood any closer.

For several long seconds, neither of you spoke.

Then finally, carefully, you looked over at him. “And what did you say?”

Den exhaled slowly through his nose.

The faint smile that touched his mouth this time looked different from his usual ones somehow, smaller and quieter, almost disbelieving.

“I told Tuck he was an idiot.”

“That sounds more believable.”

“Yeah,” he murmured softly. “Except I think he might’ve been right.”

Everything inside you seemed to still at once.

Not dramatically.

Not like movies where music swelled and the entire world stopped turning.

Just enough that suddenly every detail around you became painfully sharp all at once.

The sound of snow beneath your boots. The cold wind brushing against your face. The uneven rhythm of your breathing. The way Dean was looking at you now.

And maybe the strangest part of all was realizing he looked nervous.

Dean Heyward-Di Laurentis, who could walk into any room and immediately own it without trying, who flirted effortlessly and smiled without hesitation, looked genuinely nervous standing beside you on a dark, snowy sidewalk.

Like you had the ability to hurt him.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he added quickly after the silence stretched too long, his voice quieter now, rough around the edges in a way you had never heard from him before. “Seriously, I just…” He broke off briefly, glancing away before laughing once under his breath. “I got tired of pretending this feels casual to me when it doesn’t. And trust me, it's just as crazy for me to say that as it is for you to hear that.”

Your chest tightened painfully at the honesty in that.

Because suddenly the last few months rearranged themselves inside your head into something entirely different.

Dean waiting outside your classes even when his own were across campus.

Dean memorizing your coffee order after hearing it once.

Dean always finding you first in crowded rooms.

Dean texting you every night before playing an away game.

None of it had been accidental.

None of it had ever been casual.

And maybe the worst part was realizing yours hadn’t been either.

“You fall hard, huh?” you asked quietly.

A surprised laugh escaped him then, softer than before, carrying something almost embarrassed underneath it.

“You got no idea.” He drawled, his hands pushing his hair back in more of a 'I-Don't-Know-What-To-Do-With-My-Hands' way than anything else.

The honesty of it hit you harder than anything else had tonight.

Because Dean wasn’t teasing now. Wasn’t flirting. Wasn’t charming his way through another conversation with that easy confidence everyone associated with him.

He meant it.

And standing there beside him while snow gathered slowly across the shoulders of his jacket and melted into your hair, you realized with sudden, terrifying clarity that somewhere along the way, without meaning to, you had fallen hard too.

← MLIST. ᝰ.ᐟ edawgz 2025.

The rink smelled like cold air, sweat, and freshly resurfaced ice, the familiar combination settling heavily into your lungs every time you pushed off the bench and stepped back onto the surface.

Your legs already ached.

The game had turned aggressive halfway through the second period after one shitty call spiraled into another, and now every shift felt sharper around the edges. Faster. Meaner. The kind of game where players stopped caring about penalties and started caring about pride instead.

You preferred games like that, if you had to be honest.

Your ponytail stuck damply to the back of your neck beneath your helmet while you skated toward center ice, adjusting your grip against your stick as the referee dropped the puck between you and the opposing center.

The collision happened almost immediately after that.

Sticks clashed. Skates carved violently against the ice. Somebody shouted from the bench behind you while bodies slammed together hard enough to rattle the boards, but your focus narrowed the way it always did during games until the rest of the rink became background noise.

You stole the puck cleanly and pushed forward.

A defender cut toward you from the left.

You dipped your shoulder, trying to slip around her.

Instead, she drove straight into your side.

The impact sent you hard against the glass with a crack loud enough to echo through the arena, pain blooming sharply along your ribs as the boards shook beneath you.

The crowd reacted instantly, and so did your teammates.

But you barely had time to register any of it before irritation outweighed the pain completely.

You shoved off the glass immediately, stealing the puck back before the defender could recover properly, and skated straight down the ice with enough force behind your strides to make your thighs burn.

Somewhere behind the opposing bench, somebody yelled, “Holy shit.”

The puck left your stick seconds later, and the goal light flashed red.

You barely had time to breathe before gloves slammed against your helmet and arms wrapped around your shoulders, the team crowding around you near the bench while the arena noise swelled louder overhead.

“You’re insane,” your captain laughed breathlessly against the side of your helmet.

You grinned despite yourself, adrenaline still racing violently through your system.

The celebration around you lasted only a few seconds before the line changed again and everybody scattered back into position, skates carving sharply across the ice while the energy in the rink climbed even higher after the goal.

You pushed a hand briefly against your ribs while skating backward toward center, testing the ache already beginning to settle beneath your padding.

It hurt.. not enough to matter, yet.

Across the arena, Logan still had not looked away from you.

He sat forward in his seat slowly, forearms resting against his knees while the rest of the crowd blurred into noise around him. The game continued moving at full speed beneath the arena lights, players shouting over one another while the referees reset the faceoff, but his attention stayed fixed entirely on you.

Dean noticed first, because of course he did.

“You good, bro?” he asked, glancing sideways from his seat beside him.

Logan barely blinked. “Who is that?”

Dean followed his line of sight toward the ice where you were circling near center.

“The defenseman?”

“The one that just got launched into the glass.”

Tucker snorted from Logan’s other side. “That doesn't narrow it down at all. They've been nasty tonight.”

Logan ignored him completely.

You pushed your helmet back slightly while talking to one of your teammates, visibly unfazed by the hit you had taken less than a minute earlier, and something about that seemed to irritate Logan further.

He wasn't irritated with you.

At the fact that nobody else on the ice appeared nearly as bothered by it as he was.

“She’s fine,” Dean said casually, mid bite of his overpriced arena pretzel. “Women’s team plays mean as hell.”

“That wasn’t a casual hit.”

Dean shrugged. “She got back up.”

“Not the point.” Logan groaned, leaning back in his seat and letting his legs spread a bit.

Tucker looked over slowly then, eyebrows lifting slightly as realization started creeping into his expression.

“Oh my God,” he muttered. “You’re obsessed with her.”

Logan finally tore his eyes away from the ice long enough to glare at him.

“I’m not obsessed.”

“You looked ready to fight somebody for checking her.”

“She hit the glass hard.”

“She also scored immediately after.” Dean piped up with a shrug and a wink.

Logan’s jaw tightened slightly.

The game resumed again before Dean could say anything else, but Logan’s attention kept drifting back toward you no matter how hard he tried to focus elsewhere. Every shift you played seemed sharper than everyone else’s. Faster. More aggressive.

You didn’t hesitate.

Most players slowed right before impact without even realizing they were doing it, bodies instinctively bracing against pain before collisions happened.

You didn’t.

You kept driving forward like fear genuinely never occurred to you.

Halfway through the third period, you slammed another player into the boards hard enough that Tucker actually winced.

“Jesus Christ,” he laughed. “She’s terrifying.”

Logan said nothing.

Your helmet turned slightly while backing away from the boards afterward, and for a brief second the arena lights caught the side of your jersey clearly enough for him to see the number stretched across your back.

Twelve.

Before he could make out the name above it, you skated off toward the bench again.

Logan leaned forward immediately.

“Twelve,” he repeated.

Dean stared at him. “What?”

“Her number.”

Dean burst out laughing. “You’re actually trying to identify her right now?”

Logan reached into the pocket of his hoodie and pulled his phone out without answering.

“Oh, this is bad,” Tucker said, grinning openly now. “He’s gone.”

Dean leaned over slightly while Logan opened the Briar women’s hockey roster, scrolling quickly with his thumb while the game continued in the background.

“Twelve,” Logan muttered quietly to himself.

The roster loaded slowly.

Tucker watched him with open amusement. “You don’t even know this girl.”

Logan’s eyes stayed fixed on his phone. “Working on it.”

Dean laughed under his breath. “You got all this from one hit into the boards?”

Logan finally looked back toward the ice.

You were standing near the bench listening to your coach, one glove hanging loosely from your hand while you nodded along absently, cheeks flushed from exertion and baby hairs sticking damply to your forehead beneath your helmet.

Then you smiled at something one of your teammates said.

Five minutes ago you had looked vicious enough to start a fight in the middle of the rink. Now you looked warm and relaxed. The contrast was something that Logan understood and admired.. something that was also making him constantly reconnect his wifi in the hopes that it would load faster.

Logan looked back down at the roster immediately.

“There,” Dean pointed suddenly, leaning closer. “Number twelve.”

Logan’s thumb stopped scrolling.

Your name sat there on the screen beneath your player photo.

Defense. Junior. The same number stitched across your jersey.

For some reason, finally knowing your name only made the strange tight feeling in his chest worse.

Tucker looked between Logan and the phone before laughing again.

“You’re done for, bro.”

Logan barely heard him.

Down on the ice, you stepped back into play again, completely unaware that a man several rows above the rink had just memorized your name like it was something important.

By the final stretch of the third period, Boston College had stopped looking organized and started looking frustrated.

Every pass they attempted felt rushed, every hit carried just a little too much irritation behind it, and Briar only seemed to feed off the shift in energy. The game had become brutal in the way rivalry games always did once pride got involved, fast and physical and loud enough that the sound of skates carving into the ice blended together with the roar of the crowd overhead.

Your lungs burned every time you pushed off into another sprint, exhaustion settling heavily into your legs beneath the adrenaline, but it barely registered anymore. The ache in your ribs from earlier pulsed every time you twisted too sharply, yet even that felt distant compared to the rush of momentum building around your team.

The scoreboard hanging above the rink read 5–1.

Boston looked furious about it.

You stole another pass near center ice before one of their forwards could recover properly, intercepting it so cleanly that she nearly lost her footing trying to turn around after you. The crowd reacted immediately, noise erupting through the arena while you accelerated down the ice with one of your teammates racing alongside you.

A defender moved toward you.

You waited until the very last second before sliding the puck across the ice.

Your teammate buried it immediately.

The red goal light flashed, and before you fully registered it, the arena exploded.

By the time you reached the boards again, your teammates were already swarming you, gloves smacking against your helmet and shoulders while somebody nearly crashed hard enough into your back to knock you forward.

You were laughing before you realized it, adrenaline making everything feel sharp and electric beneath your skin while the Boston goalie snapped her stick against the post in frustration somewhere behind you.

Several rows above the glass, Tucker stood abruptly from his seat with the kind of dramatic excitement only hockey players seemed capable of.

His hands coming together with immense force as his claps echoed alongside the rest of the cheers in the arena.

Dean laughed immediately beside him, though his attention shifted toward Logan a second later once he realized there had been absolutely no reaction.

Logan had not looked away from the ice.

Not once.

His forearms rested against his knees while his eyes tracked you, a small grin tugging at his lips despite the intent behind his eyes.

Dean noticed it first.

Or maybe he had noticed earlier and only now found it entertaining enough to comment on.

“Y'know,” he said slowly, “most people blink occasionally.”

Logan barely reacted.

“You’re staring at her like you’re scouting for the NHL,” Tucker added, dropping back into his seat.

“She’s good,” Logan answered simply.

It came out quieter than either of them expected.

Not dismissive. Not casual. He was just certain.

Dean glanced sideways at him then before looking back toward the ice again where you were circling near the bench waiting for the next line change.

“That is not a normal amount of interest for someone you’ve watched exactly one game of.”

Logan didn’t answer immediately.

The truth was he had stopped paying attention to the rest of the game almost twenty minutes ago. Every time you stepped onto the ice, his focus shifted toward you without thinking. The speed, the aggression, the complete lack of hesitation every time another player came near you. You played like somebody who trusted herself completely, and there was something about that confidence that had rooted itself beneath his skin almost instantly.

The final buzzer sounded not long after.

Briar won 7–1.

The entire team spilled onto the ice immediately afterward while music blasted through the arena speakers and students crowded harder against the glass cheering. Your helmet disappeared during the celebration at some point, leaving your hair flattened messily around your face while one of your teammates jumped against your side hard enough to throw both of you off balance.

You caught her automatically, laughing hard enough that Logan could see it even from the stands.

Dean leaned back in his seat slowly.

“Oh, you are fucked,” he muttered.

Logan finally dragged his attention away from the rink long enough to frown at him slightly. “Fuck off." He shoved Dean's shoulder while the two of them laughed as Logan's eyes wandered back to the ice.

You were standing near the bench now talking to your coach, your gloves tucked beneath one arm while you nodded along absently. The arena lights reflected faintly against the sweat still shining along your forehead, and even exhausted, you still looked completely awake somehow. Alive in a way that made it difficult to stop looking at you once he started.

After a short victory lap, the team slowly started disappearing through the tunnel beneath the stands while the energy in the arena softened into postgame noise. You lingered near the ice longer than most of your teammates, still talking to someone through the glass while tossing a puck over for a kid with a little Briar hockey jersey on.

Then your head turned slightly toward the stands.

Toward him.

Logan went still.

Even from this far away, he could see the brief flicker of awareness cross your expression as your eyes passed over the crowd and paused for half a second too long in his direction.

It wasn't recognition, despite the fact that he wanted it to be. It was really just awareness.. like you had felt someone watching you.

Before either of you could hold the moment long enough for it to become anything real, one of your teammates grabbed your arm and dragged your attention away again, pulling you toward the tunnel with the rest of the team.

Logan kept looking toward the empty space you had left behind long after you disappeared from sight.

The next morning felt painfully slow after the energy of the game the night before.

Campus had settled back into its usual rhythm by the time Logan crossed the quad toward his lecture hall, students moving in uneven streams through the cold while coffee cups steamed between gloved hands and backpacks bumped against shoulders in crowded walkways.

He barely noticed any of it, all he could think about was crawling back into his bed after his classes wrapped up.

Not because anything was wrong, which honestly only irritated him more, but because every time he closed his eyes he kept replaying flashes from the game in frustratingly vivid detail. The sound of skates against the ice. Your laugh during the postgame celebration. The way you kept getting back up after every hit like it genuinely offended you to stay down.

Dean had called him pathetic three separate times already that morning.

Logan still wasn’t entirely convinced he was wrong.

He pushed open the door to the lecture hall a few minutes before class started, stepping into the familiar low buzz of conversation and keyboards tapping. The room smelled faintly like coffee and winter air dragged in from outside, students already settling into seats while the projector glowed dimly against the front wall.

Logan started down the steps automatically, his hands settled in his pockets while he made his way towards the usual row he sat in.

Then, his steps came to a screeching halt.

Three rows from the front sat a navy blue Briar athlete backpack slouched beside one of the seats.

Women’s hockey was embroidered, and small along the top of the front pocket.

His eyes caught on the small keychain hanging from the zipper almost instantly.

#12.

For a second, he just stared at it. Then his gaze lifted higher.

You sat half turned in your seat talking quietly to the girl beside you, one sleeve pulled over your hand while you absentmindedly highlighted something in your notebook with the other. Your hair was perfect, and despite being beneath a helmet earlier that morning for practice, he was sure it smelled like vanilla.

Without all the gear and arena lights around you, you looked softer somehow. Still pretty enough to make his chest tighten annoyingly hard. Just… real now. Close enough to touch.

Logan stood there long enough that somebody behind him had to awkwardly step around him to get down the stairs.

He moved automatically after that, though his attention stayed fixed on you the entire way down the aisle.

You still had not noticed him.

Part of him almost preferred it that way, because now that he was actually standing in the same room as you instead of watching from the stands, he realized he had absolutely no idea what to say.

Which was new.

Logan was not usually nervous around women. Confident, relaxed, occasionally arrogant if Dean was being honest, but never nervous.

Yet suddenly he was hyperaware of everything. The sound of his shoes against the lecture hall floor. The fact that his heartbeat felt stupidly loud. The way your fingers tapped absently against your pen while reading over your notes.

He passed your row. Kept walking. Then, immediately regretted it and pretended to take a phone call to abort back up a few rows.

By the time he dropped into a seat a few rows higher, Dean — who had walked in behind him at some point — looked close to losing his mind laughing.

“Holy shit,” he whispered while sitting beside him. “You panicked.”

“I didn’t fucking panic.”

“You literally walked past her like a Victorian dude seeing an ankle.”

Logan stared straight ahead. “Shut up.”

Dean leaned back in his chair, visibly delighted. “You’re down horrendous.”

Logan ignored him, though not very successfully considering his attention had already drifted back toward you again.

You were still focused on your notebook completely unaware of the crisis currently happening several rows behind you.

Then, as if sensing it somehow, you glanced over your shoulder.

Your eyes landed on him immediately with a flicker of recognition swiping across your face almost instantly.

Logan watched the exact second you noticed him noticing you. You looked away first, and that was enough to make warmth crawl unexpectedly up the back of his neck.

Dean saw the entire interaction and looked ready to combust.

“You made eye contact,” he whispered dramatically, his eyelashes batting in a playful fashion.

“Please be quiet.”

“Are you in love?”

Logan rubbed a hand slowly over his face.

Class started before Dean could keep talking, though that honestly did not help much, considering Logan spent the first twenty minutes hearing absolutely none of the lecture.

His focus kept drifting. He noticed how you chewed lightly on the end of your pen while reading. The way you fidgeted with your necklace while listening to the professor. You wrote quickly, confidently, barely ever crossing things out or hesitating before moving onto the next line.

At one point, you stretched slightly in your seat and winced.

Subtle and quick. But Logan noticed immediately, of course he did, he was noticing everything you had done for the past 30 minutes.

Your ribs.

The hit from yesterday had clearly bruised you worse than you’d acted like it did. The thought of that was enough to bother him for the rest of class.

When the lecture finally ended, students started gathering their things immediately, backpacks zipping loudly while conversations picked up around the room.

Logan watched you zip your backpack shut carefully before standing. Then he watched two different guys notice you at exactly the same time.

One of them moved before he was able to finish fumbling to put his laptop away.

Of course he did.

Tall, confident-looking business major type. The kind of guy that was probably in a frat with a snap score of at least 2 million.

Logan felt irritation spark instantly.

The guy smiled at you while adjusting the strap of his backpack. “Hey, you’re on the hockey team, right? You played last night?”

You looked up politely. “Oh-.. uh, Yeah.”

“You were really good.”

Logan hated how genuine the compliment sounded, he was expecting this douche to be superficial and just ask for your snap to add to his roster.

You smiled softly anyway. “Thank you.”

The guy opened his mouth again, clearly gearing up to continue the conversation.

Then Logan stood.

Dean looked up immediately with the kind of excitement usually reserved for live sporting events.

“Ho-ly shit,” he muttered.

Logan ignored him completely before heading down the stairs.

He wasn’t entirely sure what his plan was, only that the idea of walking out of this room without talking to you suddenly felt impossible.

The guy was still talking by the time Logan reached the bottom of the stairs.

Something about study groups, or maybe coffee. Logan honestly was not listening closely enough to tell the difference.

Your attention stayed politely fixed on him while you adjusted the strap of your backpack higher onto your shoulder, though there was something slightly distracted about your expression, like your mind was already somewhere else entirely. Exhaustion lingered faintly beneath your eyes from the game the night before, softened only slightly by the fact that you still looked unfairly pretty standing there in your Briar hockey sweatshirt and sweatpants.

The small keychain hanging from your backpack zipper knocked lightly against the fabric every time you moved.

#12.

Logan’s eyes caught on it again before he could stop himself.

“You play unbelievable, by the way,” the guy continued. “That goal in the third period was insane.”

You smiled politely, surprised that this guy actually had gone to the game, and wasn't just using it as an excuse to hit on you. “Thanks, Boston's never an easy opponent.”

The conversation should have ended there.

You clearly wanted to end it there.

But the guy kept standing in front of you anyway, lingering just enough that Logan recognized the strategy immediately. Stretch the interaction out long enough and eventually it becomes something else.

Normally he wouldn’t have cared.

Except now he did, annoyingly so, at that.

Before he could overthink it, he stepped closer.

“You should probably ice your ribs.” The words came out naturally, low and calm, though the moment they left his mouth, you turned toward him immediately.

Recognition crossed your face faster, and it wasn't just vague familiarity, but rather memory this time.

You had seen him in the stands last night, and Logan got to watch the exact second it clicked for you.

“The guy from the game,” you smiled before seeming to realize you had spoken out loud.

Your voice sounded rougher than he expected, slightly worn at the edges from yelling over rink noise the night before.

Something about it settled heavily in his chest.

“Yeah,” Logan answered quietly.

For a brief second, the other guy still standing beside you looked deeply confused by the interaction happening in front of him.

“You know each other?” he asked.

“No,” both of you answered at the exact same time.

That seemed to catch you off guard a little because your mouth twitched faintly afterward, like you were trying not to laugh.

Logan felt warmth spread unexpectedly through his chest at the sight of it.

The other guy looked between the two of you again before apparently deciding he was suddenly no longer part of the conversation.

“Well,” he said awkwardly, adjusting his backpack strap, “I’ll see you around.”

You smiled politely again. “See you.”

The second he disappeared into the crowd of students leaving the lecture hall, silence settled briefly between you and Logan.

Up close, he noticed details he hadn’t been able to see clearly from the stands. A faint bruise near your jaw partially hidden beneath your hair. The exhaustion lingering beneath your eyes. The slight stiffness in your posture every time you shifted your weight too quickly.

You were definitely hurting more than you wanted people to notice.

“You really should ice those ribs,” he repeated more quietly this time.

Your eyebrows lifted slightly. “You could tell?”

“You flinched during class.” The answer seemed to surprise you, no one besides your roommate paid enough attention to notice when you had an injury you were insistent on downplaying.

Heat crawled faintly into your expression before you looked away for half a second, adjusting the sleeve pulled over your hand.

“It’s fine,” you murmured. “Just bruised, at least nothing's broken. ”

Logan frowned slightly. “That hit looked bad.”

“It was bad.”

“Yet, you got right back up. Scoring after nearly breaking the glass is some insane shit.”

Something softer flickered briefly across your face then.

“Kind of have to in hockey.” You shrugged in amusement, a smile tugging at your lips that was much more genuine than with the frat guy from a few moments ago.

And Logan was taking that as a win.

Students continued filtering loudly around the two of you while the lecture hall slowly emptied, but Logan barely registered any of it anymore. His attention stayed fixed entirely on you, on the way you shifted your backpack higher against your shoulder or how your fingers tapped absently against the strap while thinking.

“So, you came to the game? There was more turnout than usual for our game's last night, it was fun.” you asked after a second.

The question sounded casual, though curiosity lingered beneath it.

Logan nodded once. “Yeah, I went with some of my roommates, we decided last minute because one of them wanted a fucking pretzel.”

“And now you’re giving medical advice to strangers?”

A smile tugged unexpectedly at his mouth. “You don’t really feel like a stranger.” The sentence slipped out before he could stop it, and immediately his eyes squinted a bit in regret, and his brows furrowed.

Your eyes lifted back to his immediately.

For one horrible second, Logan considered the possibility that he had just sounded insane, but your expression softened instead in a very subtle way.

“Well,” you hummed quietly, “you still don’t know me.”

“I know your name.”

The moment he said it, your eyebrows lifted again.

“I-... uh, looked up the roster.” Logan had the decency to look slightly guilty as the words left his mouth.

You stared at him for half a second longer before laughing softly under your breath, and the sound hit him with the same force it had the night before in the arena.

It was soft and warm, to anyone else it would be like music to their ears, but to Logan? It was dangerous.

“That’s a little insane,” you told him, playfully putting on a disapproving face that quickly dissolved into a smile.

“Yeah, no, for sure.”

The honesty of the answer seemed to catch you off guard enough that you laughed again, shaking your head while starting toward the aisle leading out of the lecture hall.

Logan naturally fell into step beside you without thinking about it. From across the aisle, Dean held up two thumbs-ups and mouthed 'Fuck yeah,' which Logan was happy to drown out with the conversation that was slowly building between the two of you.

← MLIST. ᝰ.ᐟ edawgz 2026.

taglist form!!

The apartment was never quiet anymore.

Not in the hollow, echoing way it used to be when Jason lived alone and the only sound was the refrigerator humming at three in the morning. Now it breathed. It hummed. It existed in layers of noise that felt alive. Soft rattles of toys against hardwood. The gentle rustle of a baby monitor. And, most consistently, the steady, animated rhythm of your voice.

Jason had learned the different cadences of it.

There was your distracted voice, the one you used when you were half-reading something on your phone while stirring pasta. There was your annoyed voice, quick and sharp and muttering under your breath about people who didn’t use turn signals. There was your sleepy voice, soft and syrupy in the early hours.

And then there was your baby voice.

He heard it from the hallway before he even stepped into the living room.

It was bright and theatrical and impossibly expressive, rising and falling like you were performing on a stage for a sold-out crowd of one very small, very drooly audience member.

Jason leaned his shoulder against the wall for a moment before rounding the corner, letting himself watch.

You were on the floor again, sprawled on your stomach across the rug with your hair falling around your face. Your daughter sat propped up in front of you, surrounded by plush animals and soft blocks, her tiny socks already half-kicked off.

“And another thing,” you were saying, holding up a stuffed rabbit like it was making a legal statement, “if Mr. Bunny expects to live in this house, he needs to contribute to the emotional well-being of the family. We cannot have freeloaders.”

Your daughter stared at you with enormous eyes.

Jason bit back a smile.

You continued without taking a breath. “Because in this economy? Absolutely not. We are a one-income baby. You need to start pulling your weight. Do you hear me? Pull. Your. Weight.”

The rabbit flopped dramatically as you emphasized each word, causing your daughter to squeal.

You gasped, delighted. “Oh! Oh, so you agree? You think Mr. Bunny should get a job? That’s very progressive of you, peanut.”

Jason finally stepped fully into the room, boots heavy against the floor. You didn’t even glance up.

“And while we’re on the subject,” you kept going, rolling onto your side so you were face-to-face with her, “we need to talk about your sleep schedule, little miss. I was under the impression we had an agreement. A signed contract, very official.. it was notarized by the teddy bear.”

Your daughter let out a string of babbles, hands smacking together with ferocious enthusiasm.

You sat up straighter, nodding as if she’d made a compelling counterpoint. “I see. I see. So you’re saying the 3 a.m. wake-up was necessary for character development. That’s a god argument.”

Jason dragged a hand down his face, fighting laughter while you were still going.

“And then,” you gasped, picking up a block and waving it around like a visual aid, “you threw the pacifier! Which, frankly, felt personal. I offered it to you out of love, out of kindness. And what did you do? You launched it.”

Your daughter shrieked, thrilled by the intensity of your delivery. And you couldn't help the smile that came to your lips at the sight of her excitement.

Jason stepped closer, towering over both of you, and finally you glanced up when the light was suddenly blocked.

“Oh, hey Jay,” you said casually, as if you hadn’t just been giving a forty-five minute lecture to a six-month-old. “We’re in a big big business conference right now.”

“I can tell,” he muttered, his eyes filled with amusement while flicking between you and your daughter.

He crouched down beside you, one knee on the rug, arms resting loosely over it.. meanwhile, you barely slowed down.

“Babe, tell her,” you insisted, pointing at him. “Tell her we do not negotiate with pacifier-throwers.”

Jason looked at his daughter, who blinked up at him like she had no idea what you were talking about.. because she didn't.

“She’s innocent,” he shook his head and shrugged, a cheeky and boyish grin pressed into his cheeks wen his eyes landed on you.

Your jaw dropped. “You are enabling this behavior! Unbelievable!”

He reached out and scooped your daughter up in one smooth motion, settling her against his chest. She immediately grabbed onto the collar of his shirt and began enthusiastically babbling at his chin.

“Ba! Da! Mamamama!”

Jason stilled, his hands sturdy on her small, squishy body while his eyebrows shot up.

You gasped, hands flying to your mouth. “Oh my God. Did you hear that? That was clearly mama.”

“Sounded like ‘da’ to me,” he replied calmly, glancing at you sideways while biting back a smirk. He knew that would get on your nerves, so he couldn't help himself.

Your daughter let out another stream of nonsense syllables, louder now, as if mimicking the way she hears you talk.

And that was when it happened, you started talking again. Fast. Animated. Overlapping her sounds.

“Okay but listen, peanut, pronunciation matters, because if you’re going to credit someone for nine months of back pain and literally creating organs, I just think-...”

“Ba Bababa!”

“...-that we need to enunciate and be very very clear-..”

“DaDADA!”

Jason sat there in the middle of the living room, holding a giggling baby who was now yelling directly into his face, while you spoke in rapid-fire bursts beside him, words tumbling into each other without pause.

You were gesturing, the baby was flailing... both of you were making noise at the same time.

He looked from you to her, then you to her.

Two girls. Two constant, unstoppable sources of sound.

And somehow, instead of feeling overwhelmed, he felt… surrounded. In life, warmth, just something that was loud and real.

Your daughter smacked a hand against his jaw, babbling triumphantly.

You poked his arm. “You’re outnumbered, y'know.”

He huffed a laugh. “Yeah. I noticed.”

You leaned your head briefly against his shoulder, still talking, still narrating your daughter’s imaginary defense strategy while she contributed her own very passionate, very incomprehensible argument.

Jason just sat there and let it wash over him. The noise. Your voice. Her voice... it filled every quiet space he used to carry inside him.

While he absolutely loved coming home from a rough day to be with you both.. and listen to you both.. truthfully, mornings were his favorite.

Not the early ones when he slipped out of bed before sunrise, waking you and having to leave after kissing you once, twice, and a third time before whispering a promise that he'd be back.

He loved the slow and lazy ones. The ones where the light crept through the blinds in thin golden lines and no one had anywhere urgent to be.

He was half-asleep when you stirred beside him, sheets rustling softly.

“You awake?” you whispered.

“Mm,” he grunted, not opening his eyes.

“That’s not a real answer.”

“It’s the only one you’re gettin’.”

You laughed quietly, pressed a kiss to his shoulder, his jaw, then his lips.. and while he followed the feeling of your kiss, you pulled back and slipped out of bed.

He heard the soft shuffle of your steps down the hall, the faint creak of the nursery door, and then the gentle murmur of your voice.

“Oh good morning, my favorite human. Yes, oh, I know, I missed you too. It’s been at least seven hours, which is basically a lifetime.”

A small, sleepy babble responded causing Jason to crack one eye open. His one arm slung over his forehead, his shirt discarded off by his nightstand and the sun warming his bare arm.

You reappeared a moment later with your daughter tucked against your chest, her hair sticking up in dark, soft tufts from sleep.

You climbed back into bed carefully and set her between you both. Immediately, you settled on your side, facing her and your husband, watching the both of them in a sleepy lovey-dovey way.

All the while, your daughter blinked at the ceiling fan like it was the most fascinating invention in the world.

“Family meeting,” you announced softly, settling against the pillows with a lazy laugh.

Jason rolled onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow. Your daughter turned her head toward him slowly, recognition dawning, and then she smiled. It was wide, gummy, and radiating love.

Jason felt his chest tighten, as his worn hands came up to gently brush against her cheek, as if ensuring she was still there.

“Well,” you said, already starting, “today’s agenda includes breakfast negotiations, potential park attendance, and a discussion about why socks are apparently optional in this household.”

Your daughter kicked her bare feet in response.

“See?” you continued immediately. “This is what I’m talking about. There’s no consistency.”

“Baby doesn’t care about socks,” Jason murmured.

“Hmmm... you know, once she doesn't have these cute little feet, she better. .”

Your daughter let out a delighted babble and smacked her hand against your cheek.

You gasped dramatically. “Assault at a board meeting.”

Jason laughed, low and warm, reaching out to gently grab her tiny hand before she could do it again. "Be nice to your ma."

And then you started really talking.

About the dream you had. About the grocery list. About how you thought maybe you should try that new coffee place down the street because the reviews were suspiciously enthusiastic. About how your daughter’s hair was starting to curl at the ends and how that was unfair because you had spent years trying to get your own to cooperate.

You didn’t pause. You talked to the baby. You talked to him. You talked to both of them at once.

“And then,” you continued, brushing a finger over your daughter’s round cheek, “when you’re older, we’re going to tell you how your dad pretended he didn’t want pink onesies but then he folded them like they were sacred.”

“I did not-..”

“You did. It was cute.” You smiled and winked, your hand coming around from your daughter's back to poke his chest

Your daughter began babbling again, long strings of syllables that rose and fell like she was telling her own story.

You immediately turned to her, nodding seriously. “You’re right. He did cry at the first ultrasound.”

Jason froze. “You promised you wouldn’t tell people that.”

“She’s not people yet,” you teased gently, "And, to be honest, that was the hottest thing I had ever seen. I like when you're emotional."

“BA BA DA!”

You gasped softly. “Oh my goodness, she’s backing me up.”

Jason dropped back onto the pillow with a groan, staring at the ceiling as both of you continued.

You talking, her babbling. The words blending together in a warm, chaotic melody.

He turned his head to look at you.

Your hair was messy, your eyes were bright. You were smiling down at your daughter like she’d just solved world hunger with that string of nonsense syllables.

And he felt it again.

That overwhelming, steady sense of being exactly where he was meant to be.

Your daughter rolled onto her side, pressing her tiny body against his chest while still making soft, insistent sounds.

You leaned across her to kiss his cheek.

“Good morning, handsome,” you murmured in a playful tone.

He wrapped one arm around both of you, pulling you closer, letting the noise continue without trying to quiet it.

Two talkative girls.

One very large, very soft man in the middle of it.

Jason closed his eyes, listening to you both.

And for the first time in his life, the sound of constant noise felt like peace.

← MLIST. ᝰ.ᐟ edawgz 2026.

Jason had told you it would be “low-key.”

In hindsight, that should have been your first warning.

Low-key, apparently, meant a private room at a restaurant in Gotham City that had white tablecloths and candlelight and waiters who moved like ghosts. Low-key meant one brother.

“Two brothers,” Jason had said, tugging on his jacket while you stood in his apartment trying to decide if your outfit was too much or not enough. “Just Grayson and the short asshole. They’ll behave.”

You had nodded because you trusted him. Or at least, you trusted the way his hand lingered at your waist when he said it, grounding and warm and solid, like he would physically shield you from any discomfort.

Now you were standing just outside the private dining room while he adjusted his sleeves, jaw tight in a way that meant he was already mildly irritated.

“You don’t have to do this,” he said quietly, glancing at you. “I can tell them to screw off.”

You shook your head immediately. “No, I want to. I just… I don’t know what to say.”

Jason’s expression softened in an instant, the sharpness dissolving.

“You don’t gotta perform,” he assured, brushing his knuckles lightly against yours. “Just be you.”

“That’s what I’m worried about.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Trust me, sweetheart. You being you is the part that’s gonna mess with them.”

Before you could ask what that meant, he pushed the door open.

Dick Grayson was already inside, leaning back in his chair like he owned the place, bright smile snapping into place the second he saw you.

“There she is,” Dick practically cheered, standing up immediately. “Hi. I’m Dick.”

“I know,” you replied softly, because it was impossible not to, considering he had been on magazine covers and charity galas and occasionally the news.

Jason shot him a look. “Chill, dickhead.”

“I’m being charming,” Dick protested.

“You’re being obnoxious.”

Damian sat at the far end of the table, arms crossed, eyes sharp and assessing. He didn’t stand. He just studied you like you were a variable in an equation he hadn’t solved yet.

“You are smaller than I expected,” Damian said bluntly.

Jason blinked. “The hell does that mean?”

Damian shrugged slightly. “Drake’s file suggested you preferred… intensity.”

You felt your face burn.

“Damian,” Dick warned, though he looked like he was fighting a grin.

Jason’s hand slid to the small of your back instinctively. “You guys made a file?”

“I make files on everyone,” Damian shrugged calmly. “It is responsible.”

You weren’t sure whether to laugh or apologize.

Dinner started out manageable. Dick asked you about your job in a genuinely curious way, leaning forward with his chin in his hand while you answered in short, careful sentences. Damian listened in silence, occasionally interjecting with a surprisingly thoughtful question that forced you to elaborate.

Jason stayed close the entire time, knee pressed against yours under the table, his thumb occasionally brushing your wrist like a silent check-in.

You were just starting to relax, speaking with Damian while Dick tapped out a quick message before setting his phone down.

Then his phone buzzed. He glanced down, then he looked up at Jason with an expression that was far too innocent.

“What?” Jason questioned immediately.

“Nothing.”

“You’re smiling.”

“I’m always smiling.”

Jason narrowed his eyes at that, his grip on your knee under the table tightening out of frustration. He knew this was a bad idea.

Across the table, Damian’s phone buzzed next, and as his eyes scanned the screen, his brow lifted slightly.

“Grayson,” he said coolly. “Did you inform Father?”

Dick sipped his water, eyes flicking to Damian over the rim of his glass, “Define inform.”

Jason’s head snapped up. “You did not.”

And as if on cue, somehow Jason's damn father appeared in the door that had just swung open.

And in walked Bruce Wayne.

Behind him was Tim Drake, already looking far too entertained for someone who had just crashed a dinner.

Jason stared at Dick in horror. “You texted the group chat?”

“I might have said,” Dick began casually, “‘Emergency. Jason brought a girl, and she seems nice.’”

“You are unbelievable.”

"In my defense! Damian replied with, 'I believe he may be holding her against her will, she is far too kind.'" To which Damian simply shrugged.

Bruce’s gaze found you almost instantly, assessing but not rude . He offered a polite nod and extended his hand.

“I hope we’re not intruding,” Bruce said smoothly, which would have been more convincing if Tim wasn’t visibly trying not to laugh behind him.

Your eyes flicked to your boyfriend before returning to his powerhouse of a father. You had mentally prepared to meet his brothers... that was terrifying enough. But Bruce Wayne??? You glanced from his worn face to his hand then to his face again, your hands frantically wiping against the fabric of your dress before meeting Bruce's in a gentle handshake, a smile coming to your face to accompany the greeting.

“You are,” Jason groaned flatly.

Tim slid into the empty chair between Damian and yourself. “Hi. I’m Tim. I just really needed to see this with my own eyes.”

“See.. what?” you asked before you could stop yourself.

All three brothers looked at you, then they looked at Jason, then back at you.

Dick clasped his hands together dramatically. “No offense, seriously, you seem like an amazing girl... but how the hell did you end up agreeing to date him? You guys seem like... literal opposites.”

Jason made a noise of pure betrayal. “You’re dead.”

“I’m serious!” Dick insisted. “You’re—” he gestured vaguely at you, “—sweet. And he’s—”

“A delight?” Jason suggested darkly.

“A menace,” Damian corrected.

Tim nodded thoughtfully. “Statistically speaking, this is a strange pairing.”

You stared down at your water glass, overwhelmed and embarrassed and wishing you could disappear into the floor. Your stomach dropping as you thought through what the hell you could say. You didn't want to embarrass Jason, but you didn't want to seem unfit to be his girlfriend. This dinner was suddenly becoming something you weren't sure you should've agreed to..

Jason noticed immediately, he always did.

His chair scraped loudly against the floor as he leaned forward, forearms on the table, eyes sharp.

“Okay,” he said evenly. “That’s enough.”

The room went quiet.

“You do not get to interrogate her like she’s a mystery,” he continued, voice low and controlled in a way that meant he was holding himself back. “She’s here because she wants to be. And if any of you scare her off, I swear-..”

“You swear what?” Bruce asked mildly, as if testing to see how much Jason truly cared about you.

Jason’s jaw tightened. “I’ll make it your problem.”

Tim blinked. “Wow. He’s protective.”

Damian tilted his head slightly. “You care for her deeply.”

Jason glanced sideways at you, and didn’t look away when he answered.

“Yeah,” he agreed simply. The blunt honesty of it made your chest tighten, and caused Dick’s teasing expression to fade into something softer.

“Huh,” he breathed quietly, a grin tugging at his lips as he leaned back in his chair.

Bruce’s posture shifted almost imperceptibly, something approving flickering in his eyes.

Tim leaned forward a bit again, studying you once more, but this time it wasn’t analytical. It was curious.

“So...” Tim said gently, “what’s your favorite thing about him?”

Jason groaned. “Seriously-..”

You hesitated, five pairs of eyes were on you now. Five pairs of very powerful eyes, all powerful in more ways than one.

You swallowed thickly, before your hand rested on Jason's under the table.

“He’s… patient,” you hummed softly and thoughtfully. “With me, at least. He doesn’t rush me.. and he remembers things, like, small things.”

Jason’s ears turned red.

“And,” you added, gaining a tiny bit of courage, “he makes me feel safe.”

The table went very still. Dick looked like someone had just handed him emotional blackmail ammunition for life. Damian’s expression shifted into something almost respectful. Bruce studied Jason in a way that was far too knowing.

Tim blinked slowly, echoing the word you just said under his breath. “Safe.”

Jason cleared his throat roughly. “Okay. We’re done sharing now, it's not fucking show and tell.”

Dick leaned back in his chair, grinning again but softer now.

“I get it,” he admitted. “She sees the good stuff.”

“There is no good stuff,” Jason muttered.

Damian scoffed. “There is. You seem to simply hide it poorly when it comes to your girlfriend.”

Bruce finally sat down at the head of the table. “I’m glad you came,” he told you sincerely. “Anyone willing to put up with him deserves dinner.”

Jason's eyebrows shot up, and before he could stop himself he practically slingshotted his napkin towards Bruce and Dick.

You couldn’t help it at that, you laughed, your hand coming to shield your smile a bit. It slipped out unexpectedly, light and bright and unguarded.

All of them froze for a second, surprised. Jason looked at you like you had just handed him the world.

Dick pointed dramatically. “See? She’s adorable. This is an insane match.”

Tim nodded. “I give it three months before she’s running the family.”

Damian considered that. “Unlikely. But she will improve Todd’s temperament.”

“Hey! I do not need improving,” Jason snapped.

“You absolutely do,” Dick and Tim said in unison.

Bruce just watched the entire exchange with the faintest hint of a smile, like this chaotic dinner was exactly what he had hoped for.

Under the table, Jason found your hand and squeezed it gently.

“You okay?” he murmured.

You nodded. Yes, it was loud, and overwhelming, and chaotic.But every time it tipped too far, his thumb traced that steady line across your knuckles, anchoring you.

And when Dick leaned over again with a grin and said, “Seriously, though, what’s your secret? He used to bite people,”

Jason rolled his eyes and leaned back in his chair.

“She likes me,” he shrugged simply.

You glanced at him at that, your eyes were soft as they studied the way his eyes looked at his brother, the way his shoulders were relaxed but his jaw was set in confidence. He looked so certain, so unshakably sure.

And for a moment, that alone boosted your confidence, you squeezed his hand back.

“I do,” you agreed, a smile coming to your glossy lips.

The table fell silent again while Dick stared at you both like he had just witnessed a rare celestial event.

Tim pulled out his phone. “I’m updating the file.” He muttered under his breath.

Damian nodded once, decisive. “Please do.”

Jason leaned closer to you, voice low enough that only you could hear.

“Told you,” he murmured. “You being you would mess with them.”

And judging by the way his brothers were still staring at you like you had performed an impossible magic trick, he wasn’t wrong

← MLIST. ᝰ.ᐟ edawgz 2026.

The manor was quiet in the way it only ever was right before trouble.

You stood in the middle of the sitting room with your arms crossed, trying very hard to look like a united parental front while the small, stubborn hurricane you both loved very much sat on the edge of the couch, chin tilted up in defiance.

Across from him stood your husband, the formidable, terrifying, brooding legend of Bruce Wayne.

At the moment, however, he looked less like Gotham’s Dark Knight, and more like a man who had just been given news about his son at school and didn't know what the hell to do with it.

“Do you want to explain,” you began calmly, “why your teacher called to inform us that you refused to participate in group work because — and I quote — ‘I work better alone’?”

The small boy crossed his arms. “Because it’s true.”

Bruce nodded at that, his arms crossed as he flicked his gaze from his son to you, as if waiting to see how you would respond to such a factual statement. Instead, you just slowly turned your head toward your husband.

He cleared his throat. “It is… sometimes true.”

Smack.

Your palm landed lightly against the back of his head.

Bruce blinked in stunned betrayal.

“Not helping,” you said sweetly through a tight lipped smile.

Damian’s eyes widened. “Mother, did you just hit Batman?”

You pointed at him, your eyes slowly leaving your husband's to meet your son's. “I hit your father. Don’t get ideas.”

Bruce straightened, rubbing the back of his head with a wounded expression that made Alfred close his eyes to compose himself. “I was simply suggesting that independence is an.. admirable trait.”

“Independence is admirable,” you agreed. “Being uncooperative and telling your teacher that ‘authority is a suggestion’ is not.”

There was a beat of silence, one that was only broken by Bruce's cough. You had been expecting some sort of back up from him, but you should've known better considering all of the behavioral issues Damian's teacher mentioned... were ones Bruce still exhibited.

Smack.

“I did not say that,” Bruce defended quickly, his eyes narrowing in a lighthearted way.

“You didn’t have to. It’s written all over your DNA.”

Damian looked between you both, clearly weighing his options. “She said I had to apologize.”

“And?” you prompted, hoping to god he didn't say what the brooding man besides you always did.

“I don’t think I was wrong.”

God damnit. Bruce opened his mouth, but you didn't even have to look at him this time.

Smack.

“I didn’t say anything!” He defended, his hand coming to try and catch yours but you quickly turned it into a sharply pointed finger that was jutting in his direction.

“You were about to.”

He pressed his lips together to hold back a smile, eyes narrowing slightly, but he wisely chose to stay silent.

You crouched in front of your son so you were eye level. His little jaw was set in the exact same stubborn angle you saw every time Bruce argued with Lucius about safety protocols.

“Sweetheart,” you uttered gently, brushing a piece of hair off his forehead, “being right isn’t the only thing that matters. Sometimes we apologize because we were disrespectful, not because we were incorrect.”

He frowned. “But she was wrong.”

“Maybe,” you allowed. “But you still can’t roll your eyes and say you’ll ‘handle it yourself.’”

Bruce shifted behind you, taking a deep and audible breath through his nose. You knew what that meant. You shot your hand back without turning.

Smack.

“That one was preemptive,” you informed him.

He stared at you. “I'm being disciplined in my own home.”

“Yes,” you agreed calmly. “You are.”

Damian’s defiance started to crack, mostly because watching his father get smacked repeatedly was far more entertaining than the lecture.

“But Dad works alone,” he tried.

Bruce looked hopeful at that, because he did work alone. Surely you couldn't find a way to turn that into a lecture directed at him! But then, you stood up slowly, and he knew it was coming.

“Oh, I’m so glad you brought that up,” you said, smiling in a way that made both of them tense. “Tell me, my darling husband, how many times has working alone ended with you injured, unconscious, or brooding dramatically on a rooftop instead of asking for help?”

Bruce folded his arms. “That is not relevant.”

“It’s extremely relevant.”

You turned back to your son. “Your father is brilliant. Brave. Capable. And a man that is absolutely worth looking up to.”

Bruce’s chest puffed slightly with pride, this was a statement he could wholeheartedly agree with.

“But, he's also,” you continued, and Bruce's eyebrow shot up, “so stubborn he once tried to reset his own dislocated shoulder because he ‘had it handled.’”

The boy's eyes widened and shot to his father. He was conflicted, that sounded impressive, made him respect his father's resilience even more... but your tone suggested he shouldn't feel that way

Bruce looked offended. “It was handled.”

“You passed out.”

“That was momentary.”

You didn’t even need to look this time.

Smack.

Alfred’s faint, traitorous chuckle echoed from the hallway all the while your son tried very hard not to smile.

You softened your voice. “We don’t punish you because you’re strong-willed. We love that about you. We just want you to learn when to bend a little.”

He looked down at his shoes. “I don’t like when people tell me what to do.”

Bruce nodded very solemnly.

Smack.

“I was agreeing with you.”

“I know.” You shrugged, shooting him a wink over your shoulder.

You crouched to sit besides your son, pulling him gently into your side. After a moment of resistance, he melted into you, small arms wrapping around your waist.

Bruce’s expression softened immediately, no longer did he have a playful irritation creased into his brow, he now was simply admiring the gentle sight in front of him.

“Your dad,” you practically whispered, glancing at Bruce with fond exasperation, “has made a whole career out of not liking being told what to do.”

“That’s not entirely-...”

Kick.

He huffed.

“But,” you continued, stroking your son’s hair, “he also learned that he can’t do everything alone. He has people. Family. A team.”

Bruce looked at you then, something warm replacing the mock irritation.

“And that’s not weakness,” you shook your head, tilting Damian's round face so he would look at you. “It’s strength.”

Your son peeked up at Bruce. “So I still have to apologize?”

Bruce hesitated, his eyes flicking towards you briefly. All he needed to see was your raised eyebrow and he was nodding sternly.

“I think that apologizing would demonstrate maturity,” Your husband agreed all too quickly.

You smiled approvingly.

“No smacking?” he mumbled cautiously.

“Not if you keep that up.”

Damian groaned dramatically but nodded. “Fine. I will apologize.”

“Good,” you hummed, pressing a kiss to his temple. “And maybe next time, try saying ‘I disagree’ instead of ‘I’ll handle it.’”

He considered. “May I still handle it?”

“In your head? Absolutely.”

Bruce gave him a subtle thumbs-up behind your back, which you caught in the reflection of the window.

Smack.

“Unbelievable,” Bruce grumbled, rubbing the back of his head and his arm where he had been brutally assaulted by your flurry of smacks.

Your son let out a small laugh, finally dissolving the last of the tension.

You stood and offered him your hand. “Go wash up for dinner.”

He slid off the couch and ran toward the hall, calling, “I fear you are in trouble, father.”

“I am not in trouble,” Bruce called after him, yet, when you turned slowly once your son was our of earshot, he immediately straightened. “Hypothetically.”

You stepped closer, lowering your voice. “You realize he learned half of that from watching you.”

Bruce tilted his head. “He learned confidence.”

“He learned dramatic silence and brooding eye contact.”

“That's an intimidation strategy.”

“It is not useful in second grade.”

Bruce tried not to smile at that, which was too obvious to a well trained eye like yours.

You poked his chest. “You are supposed to back me up.”

“I was backing you up.”

“You were validating him.”

Bruce leaned down slightly, lowering his voice to that gravelly murmur that had once terrified criminals and now mostly annoyed you when he used it for comedic effect. “I happen to admire stubbornness.”

“I know,” you said. “You married it.”

There was a pause, then his lips pulled into a boyish smile. You tried to keep up the frustrated look, but at the sight of his grin you couldn't help but smile yourself.

He reached for your waist. “You hit me six times.”

“Eight, if we're counting the kick,” you corrected.

He huffed a quiet laugh. “I face down supervillains regularly.”

“And yet,” you said sweetly, tapping his forehead lightly, “this is what keeps you in line.”

He caught your hand before you could pull it away, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. “You enjoy this.”

“Oh hell yeah I do.”

From the hallway came a small voice. “I can still hear you.”

Bruce cleared his throat, instantly shifting into overly serious father mode. “Wash your hands properly!”

“Yes, Father.”

You shook your head, smiling as you leaned into your husband’s side.

“He’s just like you,” you murmured.

Bruce wrapped an arm around you, resting his chin briefly against your hair. “He’s better.”

You looked up at him, one eyebrow quirked in curiosity. You knew Bruce wasn't the egotistical maniac that the public made him out to be, but you also knew he wasn't necessarily this humble.

“He has you,” Bruce added simply. That was all it took for your expression to completely soften, the teasing melting into something warmer.

“Don’t get sentimental,” you warned gently, your arms coming to wrap around him.

He smirked. “Would you hit me again?”

“Without hesitation.”

He laughed quietly, the sound low and rare and entirely yours.

Down the hall, little footsteps pounded again.

“Mother, Father... do I have to apologize tomorrow or can I email?”

You and Bruce answered at the same time. “Tomorrow.” The boy groaned and you both could hear his little footsteps fade off down the hallway.

Bruce glanced at you. “See? Unified.”

You narrowed your eyes playfully. “Keep talking.”

He held up his hands in surrender.

And somewhere in the manor, Alfred allowed himself a small, satisfied smile, because Gotham’s most stubborn vigilante had finally met the only force strong enough to keep him — and his equally stubborn children — in check.

← MLIST. ᝰ.ᐟ edawgz 2026.

The Watchtower's briefing room hummed with its usual low energy as you settled into your seat, the metallic chair cool even through your suit. Another successful mission wrapped up, another debriefing complete. You'd been a member of the Justice League for years now — long enough that these post mission wind downs felt routine. Comfortable, even.

As a hero, you commanded the very essence of storms themselves. Lightning that danced at your fingertips, winds that bent to your will, rain that fell at your command. Your suit had become a symbol of hope in several cities. The tabloids that followed your civilian life so religiously would never recognize you here, masked and powerful, sitting among Earth's greatest heroes.

Batman stood near the console, cowl firmly in place, posture rigid as always. To anyone else, he looked exactly as he always did — stoic, unmovable, focused. But you'd been married to Bruce Wayne for two years. You knew the microscopic tells like the slight relaxation in his shoulders that meant he was content with how the mission went, the barely-there tilt of his head that indicated he was listening more carefully than his stance suggested.

"Great work today, everyone," Clark said, his bright smile a stark contrast to the dark space visible through the Watchtower's windows. "That could have gone much worse."

"Could have gone better if someone hadn't tried to punch a robot made of literal electricity," Barry quipped, grinning at Green Lantern.

"I was testing its defenses," Hal shot back, but he was smiling too.

You felt yourself relaxing further. These moments when the team wasn't facing down world-ending threats were your favorites. Just heroes being people.

"So," Wonder Woman said, and something in her tone made you glance over. She had that mischievous look that Diana sometimes got, the one that suggested she'd been spending too much time around the Flash. "I was on monitor duty last week, and I may have overheard some of the staff discussing something called 'FMK.'"

Your stomach dropped.

"Oh no," Hal groaned, but he was laughing. "Did you really just bring that up?"

"I'm curious about human games," Diana said innocently. Too innocently. "They were quite passionate about their choices."

Superman looked confused. "What's FMK?"

"Fuck, Marry, Kill," Flash supplied helpfully with a dutiful nod. "It's a game where you pick three people and decide which you'd... well, the name's pretty self explanatory."

You felt Bruce's attention sharpen beside you, though he didn't move. You kept your own posture carefully neutral, grateful for the mask that hid your expression.

"That seems rather crude," Superman said, frowning slightly.

"It's just a game, Boy Scout," Hal said. "Usually people play it with celebrities, or like, a fictional character. Totally hypothetical."

"The staff members were discussing three women," Diana continued, and you realized with growing horror exactly where this was going. "One was that actress... Margot Robbie? The second was the singer, Beyoncé. And the third..." She paused, and you could have sworn she was enjoying this. "Was Mrs. Wayne. Bruce Wayne's wife."

The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees, though that might have been your imagination. Or possibly your powers responding to your emotional state. You very carefully did not look at Bruce.

"Oh, I remember when that wedding happened," Flash said, leaning back in his chair. "It was everywhere. Every magazine, every news site. The tabloids went absolutely insane."

"She's very beautiful," Diana nodded matter-of-factly. "I've seen her photographs."

"Beautiful is an understatement," Hal said, and you felt rather than saw Bruce's infinitesimal stiffening. "I mean, have you seen her at those galas? Wayne's a lucky bastard."

You studied your gloves with intense focus, trying to keep your breathing steady. This was fine. This was totally fine. You'd known that marrying Bruce would put you in the public eye, had accepted that your face would be on magazine covers and gossip sites. You just hadn't expected to be sitting in the Watchtower while your colleagues—while your husband's colleagues—discussed whether they'd hypothetically sleep with you.

"So what did the staff members decide?" Superman asked, sounding reluctant but curious.

"The consensus seemed to be marry Mrs. Wayne, fuck Margot Robbie, and kill Beyoncé... though they felt very guilty about that last one," Diana reported. "There was quite a heated debate."

"Killing Beyoncé is a crime," Barry gasped oh so seriously. "That's the wrong choice."

"You can't kill any of them, it's hypothetical," Hal pointed out.

"I'd marry Beyoncé," Flash continued, ignoring him. "Fuck Mrs. Wayne, I mean, obviously.. and sorry Margot, but you're getting killed in this scenario."

You were going to die. You were going to spontaneously combust right here in the Watchtower, and they'd never know why. You could feel heat creeping up your neck, and you were grateful — so incredibly grateful — for the high collar of your suit.

"I don't think I want to play this game," Superman said uncomfortably.

"Batman, you're being quiet," Hal said, and you nearly choked on nothing. "What's your take?"

There was a pause. A long pause. You still didn't look at him, but you could feel his presence like a physical thing beside you.

"I don't engage in speculation about civilians," Bruce said finally, his voice flat and controlled. The perfect Batman response. But you caught it.. the slight edge to his words, the quiet possessiveness that no one else would notice.

"Of course you don't," Barry grinned. "You don't engage in anything fun."

"Mrs. Wayne seems like a lovely person," Diana said. "From what I've read, she does considerable charity work. The Wayne Foundation's programs for underprivileged children have expanded significantly since their marriage."

"She's also apparently really down to earth," Hal added. "My brother met her at some charity thing in Coast City last year. Said she was genuinely nice, not fake nice like some celebrities. Actually talked to people like they were people."

Something warm bloomed in your chest despite the awkwardness of the situation. You worked hard at those events, tried to use your unwanted celebrity status for good. It meant something that people noticed.

"Wayne definitely married up," Flash said. "I mean, the guy's rich and all, but she could have had anyone."

"Speaking of Wayne," Hal started, and oh no. Oh no. "Did you guys see that article last week? About him supposedly dating three different models at once before he got married?"

You pressed your lips together hard. You'd seen that article. You and Bruce had laughed about it over breakfast because all three "models" were actually undercover intelligence agents he'd been coordinating with on a case.

"The man has a reputation," Diana spoke, in that sort of vague diplomatic way that only she could pull off.

"Had a reputation," Barry corrected. "From what I hear, he's been completely faithful since the wedding. No scandals, no rumors, nothing. It's actually kind of weird."

"Maybe he actually loves his wife," Clark suggested, and you could have thrown yourself into his arms.

"Or maybe he's just better at hiding it now," Hal raised an eyebrow skeptically. "Guys like that don't just change."

You felt Bruce shift slightly beside you. His hand, resting on the table, curled almost imperceptibly into a fist.

"I met him once," Diana said thoughtfully. "At a museum fundraiser in Gotham. He was... charming. Very smooth. But there was something else there. An intelligence he kept hidden behind the playboy smile."

That was more accurate than she knew. You'd been at that fundraiser too, and you had watched Bruce play the billionaire fool while mentally cataloging security weaknesses and potential threats.

"I still can't believe people find him that interesting," Clark said, a bit too honestly to the point you almost laughed. "He's a rich guy who throws parties."

"A rich guy who's married to a woman way out of his league," Barry groaned and rubbed a hand down his face in jealousy. "Seriously, what does she see in him? Besides the obvious money and looks and charm and-... okay, I'm answering my own question."

"Maybe she sees something the tabloids don't," Bruce said quietly, and you bit the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling.

"Deep," Hal deadpanned sarcastically. "Very philosophical, Batman."

"I think it's romantic," Diana smiled, her arms folded over her chest in finality. "A powerful man brought to his knees by love. It's very classical."

"It's very something," Flash muttered, his eyes flicking to you then doing a double take as if he had entirely forgotten you were there. "You've always got opinions." He prompted, hoping you'd give some insight that would prove his point over the others'.

Every eye in the room turned to you. You felt Bruce's attention sharpen, though he still didn't look directly at you.

You cleared your throat. "I think," you started carefully, "that celebrities are still people entitled to their privacy. And that speculating about their personal lives is exactly what the tabloids want us to do."

"Wow, okay, shutting down the fun," Flash booed, but he was smiling. "You sound like Batman."

If only he knew.

"She's right," Superman sighed in relief, his head tilting and the curl bouncing perfectly into position on his forehead. "We should focus on actual important matters."

The conversation shifted then, moving to scheduling and upcoming missions and the usual logistics. You felt the tension slowly drain from your shoulders, and Bruce's hand uncurled on the table.

The meeting wrapped up twenty minutes later. You filed out with the others, maintaining careful distance from Batman as always. No one could know. No one could ever know that you and Batman went home to the same house, shared the same bed, knew every inch of each other's bodies and souls.

The secret was what kept you both safe. It was also, occasionally, absolutely hilarious.

By the time you had arrived home, you found Bruce already in the Cave, cowl pushed back, sitting at the computer. He'd beaten you by minutes, which meant he'd driven fast even by his standards.

"So," you drawled, the amusement in your voice echoing slightly in the vast space as you descended the stairs. "That was fun."

He turned in his chair, and the look on his face made you burst out laughing. Bruce Wayne — Batman, the Dark Knight, terror of Gotham's underworld — looked utterly exhausted.

"I'm never going to unhear that conversation," he spoke flatly.

"Which part?" You were grinning now, pulling off your mask as you reached him. "The part where Green Lantern said I was beautiful? Or the part where Flash said he'd hypothetically fuck me?"

Bruce's jaw tightened. "All of it."

"You're jealous," you teased delightedly. "The Batman is jealous of a hypothetical game."

"I'm not jealous." He caught your wrist as you moved past him, pulling you down into his lap. His arms wrapped around your waist, solid and possessive. "I'm... irritated."

"Uh-huh." You ran your fingers through his hair, still damp from the cowl. "Is this the same irritation that made your hand curl into a fist when they suggested you were still sleeping around?"

"He called me 'guys like that,'" Bruce muttered against your shoulder. "As if I'd ever-..."

"I know." You cut him off and kissed his temple. "I know you wouldn't. Although I have to say, I enjoyed Diana's assessment of you. 'Charming. Very smooth. But there was something else there.'"

He pulled back to look at you, one eyebrow raised. "You enjoyed being discussed like a piece of meat?"

"Oh, absolutely not," you corrected without missing a beat. "That was horrifying. I thought I was going to have to blow one of them out of the room." You paused. "Although Hal's brother apparently thinks I'm genuinely nice, so that was good to hear."

"You are genuinely nice," Bruce's eyes set on yours with an intense truth and love behind them. "You're also brilliant, brave, powerful, and far too good for me, which is what I wanted to say when Flash suggested you'd married me for my money and looks."

"You do have very good looks," you teased. "And the money doesn't hurt."

He squeezed your sides, making you squirm and let out a small laugh. "I'm serious. Sitting there, listening to them talk about you like they had any right to..." The frustration was seeping through his voice.

"They didn't know," you reminded him gently. "They were just talking. People talk about celebrities. It's what people do."

"I don't like it."

"I know, me neither." You cupped his face in your hands. "But you know what I do like? Coming home to you. Being the only one who knows that Batman, the great stoic detective, gets possessive when his teammates play fuck, marry, kill with his wife."

"I'm not possessive," he grumbled, but his arms tightened around you.

"Sure you're not." You kissed him softly. "For the record, I'd marry you every time, in every hypothetical game, and definitely in every universe."

His expression softened in that way it only did for you, the hard edges of Batman melting away to reveal Bruce underneath. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." You smiled. "Even if you are a rich guy who throws parties."

His head dropped onto his shoulder again and you saw his shoulders shake gently, and the chuckle that came from him rumbled against your neck. "He has no idea."

"None of them do." You rested your cheek against the top of his head. "That's what makes it perfect."

"And terrifying," he added. "If they ever found out, it would be everywhere."

"They won't," you assured firmly. "We're too good at this. We've been doing it for years."

"You almost lost it when Flash said he'd fuck you."

"You almost lost it when they said you'd married up."

"Because it's true," Bruce said seriously. "I did marry up. Significantly."

You kissed him again, longer this time, pouring three years of partnership and two years of marriage and a lifetime of love into it. When you pulled back, you were both smiling.

"We should probably get out of these suits," your voice was quiet enough that only he could hear, even though there was no one else around. "Alfred will have dinner ready soon."

"In a minute." Bruce's thumb rubbed gentle circles on your hip bone, his hands splayed firmly against you to make sure you stayed put with him. "I just need a minute to remember that you're mine. That I get to come home to you."

Your heart melted. This was the Bruce that no one else got to see — vulnerable, open, deeply in love. This was worth every awkward conversation, every secret kept, every careful distance maintained in public.

"I chose you," you confirmed softly. "I choose you every day, every mission, every ridiculous conversation about celebrity gossip. It's always you, Bruce."

He kissed you again, and for a moment, there was no Justice League, no secret identities, no tabloids or paparazzi or hypothetical games. There was just you and him, wife and husband, partners in every sense of the word.

"Come on," you whispered eventually, standing and pulling him up with you. "Let's go be normal people for a few hours."

"We're never going to be normal people," Bruce pointed out, but he had a smile tugging at his lips as he followed you toward the stairs.

"Fine. Let's go be our version of normal people. The kind who eat Alfred's pot roast and pretend we didn't spend the evening listening to our coworkers debate our fuckability."

And if Bruce was a little more possessive than usual when you made it upstairs, well.... that was between you, him, and the soundproofed walls of Wayne Manor.

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