You barely had time to brace before the blur zipped to your side—arms folded, face lit up with a mischievous grin that could only belong to Bart Allen.

“So... shall we hurry?” he asked, practically vibrating with anticipation. “You’ve got the plan all figured out, right?”

The grin widened as he leaned in like it was a secret just between the two of you. His goggles were lopsided, and his hair stuck out like static lightning.

This mission wasn’t supposed to be complicated. Simple recon, low risk, a one-person job. You could have handled it alone. In fact, you should have. But Mr. Wayne—ever the master of “character development”—decided that babysitting a speedster from the thirty-first century was exactly what you needed today.

You glanced sideways at him. He was walking backwards now, skates of air beneath his shoes, his feet barely touching the sidewalk.

“You know where to go, right? I don’t,” Bart said cheerfully. “But I think I can guess. I can definitely do that. I’ll just pave the way for you! Not that I’m any good.” He beamed, puffing out his chest. “Just a terrible, useless time-displaced disaster.”

That goobery expression.

You sighed. Loudly. The kind of sigh a young woman sighs when she's a year older than someone but feels at least thirty years wiser. And tired. So very tired.

It wasn’t just that he moved faster than you could think—it was that his entire existence buzzed with too many layers. Futures he’d seen, timelines he half-remembered, tragedies he’d never quite talk about but wore like lint on the sleeves of his optimism. You found yourself tiptoeing emotionally around him, like anything you said might echo a decade forward into something he hadn’t lived through yet.

And then there was you. The one who was supposed to help him “adjust.” A phrase that sounded suspiciously like please keep Bart from accidentally breaking time again.

But still… You kind of liked being the one he slowed down for. Even just a little.

“I’m taking you somewhere,” you said, feigning seriousness as you turned down a quieter street, the buzz of the city softening around you. “To show you how cool the past really is.”

He perked up, actually skipping a step. “Is it an arcade? Is it a haunted movie theater? Wait—wait, no—wait, I know. It’s gotta be a cat café where the cats are also spies.”

You gave him a look.

He beamed again. “Too specific?”

Way too specific.

Eventually, you reached it. A little retro (for someone from thirty-first century) café tucked between two bigger buildings, complete with checkered tiles, neon script in the window, and a red vinyl booth you’d claimed as yours years ago. The moment the door jingled, a burst of warm, buttery air hit you. It smelled like sweet cola. Familiar. Safe.

“This is for all the Southern boys out there~,” sang a syrupy voice from the speakers.

Your heart sank. That song.

Bart lit up. “Oh? I like this place already!”

Of course he did.

You made a face and ducked into your usual booth, heat rising to your cheeks. You hadn’t planned for this place to blast embarrassing oldies the one time you brought someone else. And Bart, no less. The person most likely to memorize the lyrics before the second chorus hit.

He slid in across from you, practically bouncing in the seat.