Jason still didn’t know how the hell he ended up here.

CEO of Wayne Enterprises.

He, of all people.

Did no one remember that he literally tried to blow Gotham to pieces at one point?

But no.

Bruce handed him the position with that quiet, unreadable look on his face. Like he knew Jason would be good at it. Like he trusted him. And Damian? He hadn’t muttered a single word of protest.

Jason nearly had a damn heart attack.

And as if the universe wasn’t already doing backflips, life just…started making sense. He even went back and begged his ex-girlfriend to take him back.

And to his utter disbelief, you came back. After all the shit he put you through, you came back. (Not before making him grovel at your feet.)

He was finally happy.

So naturally, the peace couldn’t last.

“Jason. We need to go. Now,” Dick said, breathless and wild-eyed, bursting through his office doors with Tim at his heels.

“I’m working,” Jason snapped, glancing up from a WayneTech quarterly report.

Tim didn’t answer. He just marched forward, grabbed one arm. Dick grabbed the other.

“The hell—”

“Shut up,” Tim muttered.

“Is this an intervention? Did Bruce die again? Did Damian finally snap and burn the manor down? Let me get my gun—”

“Shut. Up,” Dick repeated, dragging him through the corridors of Wayne Tower like they owned the place.

Jason fought, because of course he did, but the two of them were stubborn bastards. Before he could process what was happening, they shoved him through a set of double doors. Jason stumbled in, swearing loudly—

And then stopped.

The air. His breath. His brain.

And there, standing at the centre of the hall were you.

His fiancée.

Wearing that dress.

Lace and silk and moonlight, wild dark hair tumbling down your back like poetry, face bare—no makeup, just you.

Jason stood there, completely still.

He should say something. He should move. He should blink.

But all he could do was stare, jaw slack, chest heavy.

The corners of his eyes stung.

Shit.

He never cried.