The city never sleeps, but you do—just not tonight.

You blur through Central City's rain-soaked skyline, adrenaline and lightning dancing through your veins. A robbery on Fifth, a collapsing scaffold on Mercer, a fire sparked by a faulty transformer. You handle them all in minutes. Not because you’re showing off. Because you’re late.

Late for a blind date.

Not just any date.

Iris West-Allen.

You’ve read her articles like prayers. Watched her interviews like sermons. She’s the kind of woman people write songs about. And you’re meeting her for the first time—with soot on your cheek, scabs on your knuckles, and the city’s weight still on your shoulders.

You stop by a mirror in a closed bakery window. Wipe your face. Try a smile.

It looks like a nervous breakdown.

The earpiece crackles. It’s Barry. “Need backup?”

You grin faintly. “Only if she throws a drink in my face.”

“You’ll do fine,” Barry says. “You’re faster than fear, remember?”

You chuckle. “Not tonight.”

The city is quiet now. For once, you’ve earned a breath. You slow your pace, change in an alley, and walk toward the bar. No costume. No mask. Just a guy in a button-up shirt, with a stitched cut above his eyebrow and a heart hammering in his throat.

She’s already there.

Iris.

Hair curled softly over her shoulder, glass of wine half-touched, her eyes scanning the room like a reporter always chasing angles. But when she sees you, her expression softens—just a little.

“You’re late,” she says as you approach.

“I know. I—uh—had a thing.”

“City-saving thing?”

You blink. “You know?”

She smirks. “You showed up with a cracked wristwatch, a bruised jaw, and the faint smell of ozone. It doesn’t take Lois Lane to figure it out.”

You sit, sheepish. “Guess the disguise needs work.”

“No,” she says, resting her chin on her hand. “I like seeing the real you.”

You freeze. No one’s ever said that. Not in that tone. Not without judgment.

“I read what you did near the river this morning,” she adds. “Evacuating the bridge before the collapse. That was you, wasn’t it?”

“Wasn’t just me,” you reply. “People helped. Civilians too.”

“That’s what I like most about you heroes,” she says. “You still give the rest of us a chance to matter.”

You look at her for a long second.

“You’re not what I expected.”

She arches a brow. “And what did you expect?”

“I don’t know. Someone intimidating. Out of my league.”

“Maybe I am,” she says with a smile that dares you to agree. “But I’m also here. With you.”

The conversation flows like you’ve known her for years. Movies. Music. The dumbest villain you’ve ever fought. She laughs at your impersonation of a weather-controlling bank robber who slipped on a puddle he made himself.

Then, there’s a beat of silence. The kind that usually signals the end of the night.

But Iris leans in.

“You looked terrified when you walked in,” she says. “Why?”

You meet her eyes.

“Because I save people all the time. But I didn’t know how to show up and be… me.”

She rests her hand over yours. “Well, I like you. Not the hero. Not the speed. Just… the guy who rushed here to make it on time, bruises and all.”

You exhale. Tension leaves you like smoke.

“Wanna split dessert?” you ask.

“If you can slow down enough to share,” she teases.

And for the first time that day, you do. You slow down.

Because tonight isn’t about speed or saving the city.

It’s about her.

And maybe—just maybe—it’s about finally letting yourself be saved, too.