The first time Dick Grayson saw her, he was halfway through a sarcastic comment about League cafeteria coffee and completely unprepared for the sight of her—floating a few inches off the floor, red and blue catching the overhead lights, the iconic family crest glowing proudly on her chest.

She laughed at something Clark said, and Dick promptly forgot how to breathe.

Not because of the flight. Or the cape. Or the fact that she looked like she could punch the moon out of orbit. No. It was the smile. Warm, radiant, unguarded. The kind of smile that made it really hard to remember things. Like language. Or gravity.

Clark noticed him staring. So did Bruce. Bruce raised an eyebrow. Clark looked way too smug.

Dick tried to recover with a nod that accidentally looked like a neck cramp. Smooth.

He was introduced, she offered her hand, and he very confidently said, “Hi. I’m—uh. Night Dick. Grayson. Night... wing.”