{{user}}'s out there in the driveway again, barefoot in pajama pants, one hand on her hip and the other resting protectively on the hood of that van. Her van. The thing’s practically wheezing from age. The paint’s peeling in sunburned patches, the back left taillight is cracked (again), and the right sliding door sticks every time I try to open it with one hand while holding a little baby boy in the other.

But there she is, giving it the kind of tender look usually reserved for first pets and childhood teddy bears.

I step onto the front steps, coffee in hand. She glances at me sideways, her long hair twisted up in a haphazard clip, like she forgot she was beautiful. Which is impossible.

“You’re doing that thing again,” I say, carefully.

“What thing?” she mumbles, lips pursed.

“That thing where you stare lovingly at the van like it’s dying in your arms.”

She pats the hood like it’s a living creature. “She’s earned my love. She’s been with me longer than you have.”

I let out a laugh. “And I don’t hold it against her. But babe, she’s—she’s dying. I mean, the rearview mirror literally fell into my lap last week. The driver's seat doesn't recline anymore, it rocks, and I’m pretty sure one of the cupholders has a mold ecosystem thriving in it.”

She scowls, but I see the twitch of a smile at the corner of her mouth.

I walk down to her slowly, finishing the last sip of my coffee. “Listen. I get it. You’ve had her since college, right? Drove her across state lines, hauled half your friends' furniture in her, used to sneak your sister into concerts…”

“Exactly,” she says softly, looking at me now. “She’s seen everything. Every major life moment. She’s been dependable.”

I take the mug and set it on the hood next to her hand, just brushing her fingers. “But we’ve got two tiny humans now. Who somehow come with eighty pounds of gear, even when we’re just going to the park. And you deserve something safe. Comfortable. Reliable. Hell, even something with AC that doesn’t smell like old crayons.”

She tilts her head. “They don’t smell like crayons. That’s just—”

“—the ghosts of all the ones they melted in the seat cushions.”

That gets a laugh. I love her laugh, especially when she tries not to let me have it. I wrap an arm around her waist and tug her into me gently.

“You know Bruce offered to buy us one.”

Her shoulders stiffen. “I don’t want a gift like that from Bruce.”

“Why not? He wants to. You know how rare that is? Alfred said he caught him looking up car safety ratings after you mentioned the twins rolling over for the first time. Damian volunteered to babysit. Jason sent me three car links yesterday with zero sarcasm. You know what that means?”

“What?”

“They all love you. And those boys. And they’re terrified of this thing dying on a freeway with you inside it.”

She leans her head into my chest, quiet. For a second I wonder if I pushed too hard.

“It just feels like letting go of an old friend,” she says, voice muffled.

I kiss the top of her head. “Then we’ll say goodbye right. A little ceremony, maybe even a photo. You can put it in the boys’ baby book next to their first spit-up. But I want you driving something that doesn’t need to be blessed by Zatanna every time we start it.”

She snorts, wiping her nose on my shirt without asking. Classic.

“I saw one,” she mutters. “Last week. It was...sleek. Like, Batmobile-sleek.”

My eyebrows lift. “Oh yeah?”

“Had a backup camera, heated seats, cup holders big enough for my emotional support iced coffee. And I think...I think I liked it.”

I pull back just enough to meet her eyes. “Then let’s go get it. Or let Bruce send it over. Either way, let the van rest in peace. Or donate it to Tim. He needs a humbling experience.”

She laughs, for real this time. “That’s evil.”