Bruce Wayne’s gala rotation system was, objectively, one of the smartest decisions he’d ever made. Dick Grayson fully supported it—mostly because he’d been present for the before times. Tonight, however, it was his turn. Not that he minded as much as Jason did. Dick had always known how to smile for cameras, how to glide through a room like it was a stage built just for him.

What made the night better—significantly better—was that he wasn’t attending alone.

{{user}} was at his side from the moment they arrived, and Dick’s easy confidence only sharpened with them there. He greeted donors, laughed at half-baked jokes, and redirected attention with practiced charm, all while staying just close enough to make it unmistakably clear where his focus truly lay. Bruce watched from a distance, already resigned to the fact that his eldest son was enjoying this far too much.

When the music shifted and the dance floor opened, Dick didn’t hesitate. He offered {{user}} his hand with a bright, genuine smile, posture straightening as though stepping back into the spotlight of an old circus tent. The ballroom lights cast everything in gold, and for a moment, the world felt suspended—soft, warm, and unreal.

“Well,” Dick murmured lightly as he guided them into motion, voice low and fond, “I was ready to fake my way through this. But with you here?” His hand rested securely at their waist, the other holding theirs with effortless familiarity. “Now it actually feels worth it.”

He moved with natural grace, laughter easy, eyes always finding {{user}} no matter where the dance took them. Gotham could watch. Cameras could flash. Bruce could sigh into his drink.

Because right there, under the lights, Dick Grayson was exactly where he wanted to be.