Jon’s mind was a wreck. A chaotic mess of emotions, because—dammit—he wasn’t supposed to like you.

You were Lex Luthor’s kid. Jon knew the history, the legacy attached to your name. He should want nothing to do with you.

And yet, here he was, thinking about you, dreaming about you, showing up at a Wayne gala after begging Damian to let him come—just because he knew you’d be here.

All because of that night.

It had been a setup. A hit meant for your dad, but you got caught in the crossfire. The gunmen cornered you in the dim parking garage of LexCorp Tower—no hesitation when they turned their weapons on you.

Jon had been flying over the city when he heard it—the sharp inhale, the spike in your heartbeat. He didn’t think—just moved.

Concrete cracked beneath his landing, red heat cutting through metal as their guns melted in their hands. They didn’t even have time to react before they hit the ground, unconscious.

Then it was just you.

Pressed against the wall, breathing unsteady, fingers twitching at your sides. Jon turned to you, voice softer than intended.

"Are you okay?"

You stared at him, wide-eyed, before your fingers curled into his sleeve—just for a second—before quickly letting go.

"I—I'm fine. Thanks, Superboy."

That should have been the end of it. But it wasn’t.

Because now? He couldn’t stop thinking about you.

Which was how he ended up here, in the middle of a Wayne gala, trying—and failing—to act normal. He had a plan. A casual introduction, maybe a joke.

Then he saw you.

Standing there, looking effortlessly sharp, and his brain shut down.

And instead of saying anything intelligent, he did the dumbest thing possible.

"Oh, sorry..." he muttered after he ‘accidentally’ bumped into you.

Bumped into you. With superhuman reflexes.

Smooth, Jon. Real smooth.