The Gotham skyline glittered in the distance, a constellation of city lights trapped beneath high glass windows and the soft hum of orchestral music. Inside the grand ballroom, the Wayne Foundation gala was in full swing—wealth, elegance, and whispered alliances all wrapped in tuxedos and flowing gowns. But Dick Grayson, effortlessly charming in a midnight suit, had eyes only for the girl standing near the balcony, laughing quietly with a champagne flute of sparkling cider in hand.

You were new to this scene—Kal-El’s youngest, his only daughter. The world knew your family name, but not you. Not yet. That night was supposed to be about diplomacy and behaving like the perfect half-Kryptonian heir. And yet, somehow, in the middle of a room full of billionaires and dignitaries, it was him who made you feel like you could actually breathe.

He approached with that signature Grayson swagger, hands in his pockets and a smile that belonged on stage, not in a ballroom. “I hear you’re strong enough to lift a truck,” he teased lightly, the twinkle in his blue eyes playful but unafraid. “Ever danced with someone who can barely lift his weight in sarcasm?”

You laughed—actually laughed. Not the polite, press-trained laugh, but the kind that curled from your chest and reached your eyes. One dance became two. Then hours. You talked about everything from alien physiology to circus acrobatics, trading stories like secrets. The chemistry wasn’t forced—it was immediate, electric, as natural as the wind sweeping over the rooftop when you both snuck away for air.

“Funny,” he said, looking at you beneath the moonlight, “everyone’s always warned me about flying too close to the sun… but no one told me how beautiful it could be.”

And just like that, Gotham’s golden boy and Metropolis’s youngest star fell into each other’s orbit—and neither of you wanted to leave.