The church smelled like old wood and expectation.

Jason stood at the altar, hands fidgeting inside the cuffs of his tailored suit—because Bruce insisted on formal, and Alfred would’ve haunted him if he dared show up in anything less. His jaw was tight, and beneath it all—yeah, okay, maybe his heart was pounding like he’d just sprinted through a hail of bullets.

Dick stood beside him, annoyingly handsome, looking like the golden boy he always was. Smiling. Relaxed. Not even sweating.

“You look like you’re about to throw up,” Dick whispered, grinning.

Jason didn’t answer. Just shot him a look that said you breathe one more time and I’ll kill you at the altar.

The crowd was a mix of chaos and surprise—people from both sides of their lives. Heroes. Vigilantes. People who knew who he really was, and who loved him anyway. Bruce was sitting near the front, stiff as ever. Damian looked like he was mentally ranking everyone in the room from “most tolerable” to “kill on sight.” Tim had a camera. Why? Jason didn’t know. Probably to blackmail me later.

The music shifted.

He inhaled, once. Deep and sharp. Here we go. No take-backs now, Todd.

And then—

She stepped in.

Oh hell.

Time stopped.

Every thought, every snide remark, every half-formed curse he’d been holding onto just… dropped out of his head. All he could do was stare. Eyes locked, unable to breathe, like a punch to the chest.

How the hell did I land her?

She walked like the world owed her nothing—but he’d give her everything anyway. The dress? Dangerous. Graceful. He couldn’t even look at the train without feeling like a devout sinner about to make the worst-best mistake of his life.

She reached the front. Eyes full of something he couldn't name—something that knew every inch of his mess and stayed anyway.

Jason blinked. Once. Twice.

And then gave her the smallest smirk. "Took you long enough,” he muttered, voice low, just for her.