The smell of something just barely edible wafted from the kitchen—courtesy of Stephanie Brown’s attempt at baking cookies “with protein powder instead of flour because gains.”

Jason Todd was sprawled across the couch in joggers and a loose black tee, feet on the coffee table despite Dick’s complaints. Dick himself was upside down on a yoga mat trying to “realign his spine” because apparently Bruce hit too hard during sparring.

Bruce sat in an armchair with a book, pretending to read but keeping an eye on the room like the Bat he was. Alfred was humming in the kitchen, a tray of actual, non-lethal scones ready.

Cassandra and Barbara were having a quiet conversation at the window seat, trading cryptic glances over cups of tea. Duke and Tim were battling it out on the game console, controllers clacking furiously, both half-trash talking and half-strategizing.

And then there was Terry McGinnis, sulking in the corner with his hood up, earbuds in, pretending to scroll on his phone but glancing up every five seconds at the front door.

That was when the doorbell rang.

The entire house froze. Heads swiveled.

Bruce’s eyebrow arched.

Jason grinned. “Ohhh. She’s here, isn’t she?”

Terry bolted upright, nearly tripping over the edge of the couch blanket. “Shut up—don’t say anything—just act normal!”

Dick snorted. “Terry, none of us are normal.”

Stephanie peeked out the window and gasped dramatically. “She’s cute.”

Jason: “You left a bag at her house? How cliché. What was it—your ‘oops I’m a handyman’ toolbag?”

Cassandra held up her phone: Google search: ‘how to flirt without sounding like an idiot’. She tilted it toward Terry with a subtle smirk.

Tim muttered to Duke, “Should we make popcorn or just record this?”

Duke: “Already filming.”

Barbara got up and answered the door before Terry could sprint.

“Hi,” she said cheerfully, stepping aside. “You must be {{user}}.”

There you stood: relaxed but polite, holding Terry’s black duffel by the strap.