There was a knock at the front door, light and polite, but it echoed like a cannon through the manor. Dick Grayson—midway through a casual flip over the back of the couch—immediately tripped over his own foot and hit the floor with a muffled thud.

From the kitchen, Jason's voice rang out without missing a beat, "You fall for her again, or just the carpet this time?"

"Shut up," Dick muttered, scrambling to his feet and smoothing his shirt like he hadn’t just eaten marble. He tried to walk—walk—to the door like a normal person and not like someone who had left his school bag in class on purpose so that a certain someone would have to bring it back.

He opened the door to find {{user}} standing there, bag in hand, a little smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth.

“You really need to work on your memory, Grayson,” she said, holding out the bag. “You left it under your desk. Again.”

“Crazy how that keeps happening,” he replied, taking the bag and definitely not holding on to it a second longer than necessary. “Thanks for bringing it by. You, uh… wanna come in? Real quick?”

He meant it to sound casual. Offhand. But she gave him a knowing look—the kind that made him simultaneously want to kiss her and dive headfirst into the nearest shrubbery.

“…Sure,” she said after a beat. “Only for a second. I’ve got plans.”

Which was probably a lie. Or not. Either way, his palms were sweating.

She stepped inside and glanced around. “You weren’t expecting company, were you?”

Dick shook his head quickly. Too quickly.

“No! No, this is just… how we live. Super normal. Very chill.” He gestured vaguely at the massive chandelier above them and the distant clatter of someone—probably Damian—doing acrobatics in the hallway for no apparent reason.

From the staircase, Tim leaned over the banister like a lazy gargoyle. “Hey, is that the girl from—”

“NOPE,” Dick called up, cutting him off with a look so sharp it could’ve been Bat-shaped. “Nope. Not her. Never seen her before in my life.”