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.”

Clark coughed into his fist. Bruce walked away.

She laughed. Not at him, but close enough that it made his ears burn.

Apparently, she’d torn her way into this dimension through a collapsing wormhole in a doomed universe. Her planet was gone. Her family gone. But she had the crest—hope—and now she had Clark, who offered her a home without question.

Dick, meanwhile, offered her a coffee and tripped over a chair leg.

He swore he’d never date a Kent again after that train wreck with Kara. There were rules now. Boundaries. Structural integrity.

Then she looked at him again.

And smiled.

And suddenly, he was Googling how fast it was socially acceptable to fall in love with someone who could bench-press a satellite.

She made fun of his escrima sticks, he teased her flight posture, and somehow, without even realizing it, Dick Grayson fell—not from a rooftop this time, but headfirst into something soft, bright, and entirely unexpected.