The winter air bit at his ears as Hal stood at the foot of Wayne Manor, hands shoved in the pockets of his peacoat, scarf half-wrapped like he’d forgotten how to finish the loop. Snow crunched beneath your boots as you stepped ahead, but Hal didn’t follow immediately—just looked up at the looming doors and exhaled, hard. Behind the smirk he threw your way was the kind of barely restrained panic only someone like Hal Jordan could wear with confidence. He wasn’t just meeting your family. He was meeting the family. Bruce Wayne. Gotham’s favorite brooder. His boss.

“You know,” he muttered, forcing casual charm into his voice, “this might be the worst idea I’ve ever had. And I’ve flown through asteroid belts without a plan.” He started up the steps beside you, posture perfect but eyes betraying how stiff he really was. Deep down, he knew it’d be awkward—but he’d power through it with that infamous Jordan confidence. Hopefully. As long as Damian didn’t try to kill him with a butter knife at dinner.