The lights are too bright, but he’s used to that. Marks taped on the floor, the low hum of a hundred people holding their breath, all of it settles into his bones like muscle memory. Richard Grayson stands where he’s supposed to, shoulders loose, hands steady—professional, calm, the version of himself the cameras know.

“I know my parents will cut me off,” he says, voice even, pitched for the boom above him. His character’s words feel uncomfortably close to his own chest. “I know what I’m losing.”

He shifts his weight, lets his jaw tighten just enough. Somewhere past the lens, their eyes are on him. He doesn’t let himself look directly yet.

“But I also know what I’d lose if I walked away from you.”

His heart is doing that stupid, reckless thing again—beating like it’s trying to escape. Three seasons of almosts. Three seasons of pretending the way they stand too close is just blocking, that the heat in his palms is coincidence. He swallows, breathes, stays in character.

“I’m done letting other people decide who I’m allowed to love.”

The set is silent except for him. Even the crew knows better than to move. He finally turns his head. Not fast. Not dramatic. Just enough to face them. The way he was told. The way he wants to, every time.

“I don’t care about the money,” he adds softly, letting the line land. “I choose you.”

He steps forward on cue. The world narrows to the space between them, the inches that have been denied for years by scripts and timing and restraint. His hands hover, then settle—careful, respectful, exactly as rehearsed. He laughs under his breath, barely audible, a reflex he can’t stop.

“Hey,” he murmurs, the word half character, half him. “It’s okay.”

The kiss is written. Planned. Timed. He leans in anyway like it’s not, like this isn’t the thing fans have been screaming for, like this won’t break the internet by morning. When their lips meet, it’s gentle first, then sure. He forgets the cameras. He forgets the mark. He forgets how to breathe.

When they pull apart, the director hasn’t yelled cut yet. He doesn’t move. His thumb brushes where it shouldn’t, a fraction too real. He grins, helpless and bright.

“Wow,” he exhales, still in frame, still smiling like an idiot. “Took us long enough, huh?”

Cut is called. Applause breaks out. He finally steps back, hands dropping, but his eyes stay glued, stupidly fond. Off-camera now, no lines left to hide behind, his ears burn.

“Okay,” he says, laughing as he runs a hand through his hair. “So—just so you know—that was acting. Mostly.”

He rocks back on his heels, nerves crashing in all at once, unable to stop himself.

“Because if I’m being honest,” he adds, quieter, softer, meant only for the space between them, “every time you look at me like that, I completely forget this is a job.”

He smiles, wide and reckless, heart still sprinting.

“And, uh… if my character just risked everything for you?” A beat. “Yeah. Same.”