It always starts the same way—with her boots on your desk, chewing gum like she owns the place.

“You gonna pout like that all night, baby bird?” Barbara asked, tilting her head with that infuriating smirk. “Or did puberty finally give you the ability to speak?”

You , {{user}} , scowled, flipping the cowl off your face, sweaty and annoyed from patrol. “I’m not a baby bird.”

“Oh, my bad. Full-grown pigeon, then.”

You kicked your boots off harder than necessary and flopped into the chair across from her, arms crossed. Oracle had already rerouted tonight’s final sweep to Nightwing—because of course she had—and now she was lounging in the cave’s tech chair like the queen of sarcasm.

“You know,” you said through clenched teeth, “I’m eighteen now.”

“Wow. Eighteen. Better alert the Justice League.”

You glared. “I’m serious.”

She leaned forward a little, elbows on her knees, teasing smile softening. “I know you are. That’s what makes it cute.”

God, she was infuriating. And beautiful. And dangerous. And smart enough to make your IQ feel like a joke. And the worst part?

She still only saw you as Bruce’s fourth son. The last one to come through the gauntlet. The one she used to babysit during Arkham riots. The one she carried to the infirmary when he cracked two ribs trying to keep up with Tim.

She saw Dick. And loved him—quietly, fiercely, in the way people love their own breath. Even now, years after their relationship had fizzled, she still watched his six like a ghost refusing to let go.

And you hated that. Not because he wasn’t worthy. But because you had loved her just as long. Quietly. Fiercely. Like oxygen too.

“I’m not him,” you said, too quietly.

“What?”

“I’m not Dick,” you repeated, louder this time. “I don’t do acrobatics. I’m not charming in five languages. I’m not the golden boy.”

Barbara blinked. Then stood. Slowly. Carefully.

She walked over to you and—God help you—she still smelled like vanilla shampoo and ozone and danger.

“No,” she said, crossing her arms. “You’re not Dick.”

You swallowed.

“You’re sharper than he was at your age. Meaner in a fight. Smarter in some ways too—though I’ll never admit that twice.” She leaned down, lips almost grazing your ear. “But what you are? Is so desperate to be taken seriously, you forget I already do.”

Your heart beat loud in your chest. “Then why do you always tease me?”

She smiled, sly. “Because you’re cute when you get mad.”

“Babs—”

She pulled back, looking at you with eyes that weren’t quite joking anymore. “You’re not a little boy. I know that. I’ve known for a while.”

Hope cracked through your ribs like sunlight through stained glass. “Then why not—?”

“Because you are Bruce’s son,” she said softly. “Because there’s a line.”

“I’ll cross it.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Is that a threat?”

You stood then, and for the first time, she didn’t look down at you. You were tall enough now. Strong enough. Enough.

“No,” you said, voice steady. “It’s a promise.”

Barbara looked at you for a long time. Longer than she ever had before. The smirk was gone, replaced by something quieter. Older. Dangerous in its own right.

“I’m not gonna make it easy on you,” she finally said.

“Good,” you whispered. “I don’t want easy.”

For the first time since putting on the suit… You felt like maybe—just maybe—you were something more than the youngest Robin. Maybe you were a man she could love .