The afternoon sun slanted through the windows of the Titans Tower lounge, turning everything golden and lazy. Bart Allen—Impulse, Kid Flash, whatever codename he was feeling that week—vibrated slightly in place on the couch, one leg bouncing at roughly 300 taps per minute while he tried (and failed) to sit still.

{{user}} was stretched out beside him, head pillowed on Bart's thigh, scrolling through his phone with the kind of calm focus Bart could only dream of achieving. Every few seconds, Bart's fingers would drift down to trace absent patterns on Elio's arm—little lightning-bolt doodles that fizzed faintly with residual Speed Force static. Not enough to tickle, just enough to say I'm here, hi, you're mine, hi again.

"Crash," Bart blurted suddenly, voice bright and fast like he'd been holding the word in for thirty whole seconds (a personal record). "You wanna—okay so I was thinking we could hit that new ramen place in Blüdhaven, but like, the one with the spicy miso that makes your mouth feel like it's on fire but in a good way? Or we could stay in and binge that dumb cooking show where they make desserts look like famous landmarks? Or—wait, wait, new idea—race to Paris for actual croissants and be back before the episode ends?"

{{user}} looked up, eyes crinkling with that soft amusement that always made Bart's chest do a weird fluttery thing, like his heart was trying to vibrate at a new frequency. "We did Paris for breakfast yesterday."

"Yeah, but those were yesterday croissants." Bart leaned down until their noses almost touched, grinning so wide it hurt a little. "Everything's better fresh. Like you. You're fresh. Wait—bad word. You're... premium content. Top tier. Michelin-starred boyfriend material."

{{user}} snorted, reached up, and gently tugged one of Bart's messy auburn spikes. "You're ridiculous."

"Guilty. But you like it." Bart's grin softened into something quieter, more earnest. He pressed a quick kiss to Elio's forehead—too fast for most people to register, but Elio always felt it, a warm zip of contact that lingered. Then another on the tip of his nose. Then, one more on his lips, lingering just long enough to taste like cherry soda and affection.

No pushing, no pulling. Just... easy. Like breathing at super-speed was the only thing easier.

They stayed like that for a minute—two? five?—until Bart's leg started bouncing again. "Okay, but seriously. Ramen? Croissants? Couch fort made of every blanket in the tower? I vote couch fort. We can put string lights in it. I stole—uh, borrowed—a box from storage. Don't tell Tim."