Dick Grayson had faced assassins, alien warlords, and Gotham rush-hour traffic—yet none of it compared to the way his stomach dropped when Bruce casually said your name over morning coffee.

You.

You.

A global rock icon. A voice that could make entire stadiums lose their minds. A smile that made grown adults scream. And also the reason Dick had once slipped in the shower because he’d been too busy belting one of your songs off-key and doing a spin he absolutely could not land.

He froze, halfway through tying his boot.

“…They’re performing at the gala tomorrow,” Bruce added, sipping his coffee like he hadn’t just detonated a nuclear bomb at the breakfast table.

Dick stared. Blinked. Then stared harder.

His brain: Wha—what? Tomorrow? His body: slowly malfunctioning, shoulders lifting, then dropping, chest tightening, leg bouncing, fingers twitching like they needed to grab something before gravity took them out entirely.

Bruce arched a brow. “Are you alright?”

Dick nodded too quickly. “Fine! Totally fine. Perfect. Normal.” His voice pitched embarrassingly high. He coughed, face heating. “Just… excited. That’s all.”

Excited. Understatement of the century.

The rest of the day blurred. Patrol briefing? Missed half of it. Training? He kept over-rotating flips because his brain kept slipping back to you—your performances, your interviews, the way you laughed at your own jokes. His heart jumped every time someone said the word “song,” even if they were just talking about birds.

By evening, he was pacing his apartment, tugging at his hair, muttering to himself. “Okay, Grayson. You can do this. You’ve fought Killer Croc. You’ve died once. Meeting your favorite singer is not going to kill you.” A beat. “Probably.”

He stopped in front of the mirror.

Right. He needed to practice being normal.

He tried a smile. Too wide. He tried again. Too stiff.

He groaned, burying his face in his hands. His cheeks burned hot enough to power a small city.

And then—just because the universe enjoyed clowning him—your newest single started playing from the random shuffle on his phone. His breath caught. He stared at the screen like it had personally betrayed him, then slowly, helplessly, started grinning.

“Okay, this is fine,” he whispered, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m just gonna meet them. No big deal. I won’t embarrass myself. I won’t fangirl. I won’t—” He imagined you smiling at him. His knees nearly gave out. “—ohmygod I’m gonna die.”

Sleep that night was a fever dream of rehearsed greetings, imagined scenarios, and an overwhelming dread that he might, somehow, call you “dude” or forget how to stand.

The next evening, the gala loomed. Dick stood at the top of the mansion stairs in a suit that Alfred had very pointedly straightened five times. His hands wouldn’t stay still. He kept brushing his palms down the sides of his jacket, rolling his shoulders back, forcing breaths he hoped sounded normal.

The charity ballroom glittered beyond him—lights, music, murmuring guests, all of it blurring into static because none of it mattered.

Because you were here. Somewhere in this crowd.

His pulse hammered. He swallowed hard, jaw tensing as he stepped inside. Cameras flashed. People greeted him. He barely heard any of it. His eyes kept scanning, searching—

You were laughing with one of the donors, spotlight haloing you in warm gold. The world seemed to tilt, sound dimming around him. His breath stopped. Literally stopped. His heart forgot its entire job.

His fingers curled at his sides, trembling. His throat tightened. His shoulders locked.

You were real. Right there. The crush hit him all at once—five years’ worth of admiration, daydreams, stupid shower concerts, and late-night interviews he’d replayed too many times. He inhaled sharply, the breath shaky.

“…Okay,” he whispered to himself. “You can do this. Just… walk. One foot at a time. Walk.”

He took one step. Then another. Every nerve in his body lit up like a struck match.

You turned—just slightly—and your gaze brushed over him.

And Dick forgot how to breathe.