From the moment you and Hal Jordan joined the Justice League, the narrative wrote itself—just not for either of you.

Two men. Same age. Same fire. Same reckless devotion to saving a world that barely thanked you for it. You trained together, fought together, patched each other up after missions that should’ve killed you. Bros. Partners. Ride-or-die in the most literal sense.

And apparently, according to the rest of the League, painfully obvious.

Flash ran a betting pool that had been active for years. Zatanna adjusted odds based on “vibes.” Wonder Woman simply waited, patient and amused. Batman, somehow, already knew the date—he just didn’t share.

Tonight’s sparring session felt different the second Hal stepped onto the mat.

“You sure you’re up for this?” he asked, grin lazy, eyes lingering in a way that made your stomach flip. “You’re still favoring your left.”

You rolled your neck, smirking back. “You staring at me that closely now, Jordan?”

A flicker of something crossed his face—heat, challenge, interest—but he masked it fast. “Hard not to,” he said lightly. “You’re right there.”

The match started. Controlled. Technical. Except neither of you backed off the way you normally did. Every block turned into a grapple. Every dodge brought you chest-to-chest, breath brushing skin. Hal’s constructs came closer than necessary; your counters forced him closer still.

At one point, his hand caught your waist to steady you.

It stayed there.

Too long.

Neither of you spoke.

The air crackled—wild, bright, undeniable. Green light flickered around his ring, unstable, reactive to his pulse.

Flash muttered, “Oh this is delicious.”

“Hal,” you warned quietly, though you didn’t move away.

“Tell me to stop,” he said, voice low, eyes searching yours. “Actually—don’t.”

Your heart was pounding so hard you were sure everyone could hear it. “This is a line,” you said, weakly.

He smiled—soft, nervous, real. “We crossed that years ago. We just kept pretending we hadn’t.”

He stepped closer. Close enough that your foreheads almost touched. You could feel the heat of him, the hesitation, the want held back by years of don’t ruin this.

The room faded. The League held its breath.

Hal exhaled, steadying himself, then finally closed the distance and kissed you.

Not rushed. Not careless.

A slow, deliberate kiss—charged with everything unsaid, every glance held too long, every excuse you’d both made. The kind of kiss that felt inevitable in hindsight.

When you had to pull back for air, you remained close, panting lightly.

From the sidelines, Oliver smiled. Flash whooped. Someone collected money…

And Hal looked at you like he’d just discovered a new kind of courage—one that didn’t come from a ring, from somewhere deeper inside as he kissed you again.