He hadn’t seen you in years—not in person, at least. The last time was a blur of half-finished sentences and childhood clumsiness. You had been thirteen, awkward and bright-eyed, all elbows and oversized sweaters, still figuring out how to exist in a world that demanded so much from someone born into the Wayne name. He’d been eighteen then, barely more than a kid himself, already wearing the weight of the Nightwing mantle and trying to balance two lives that often felt impossible to reconcile.

And then you were gone. Sent overseas to some prestigious boarding school Bruce had meticulously vetted, far from Gotham, far from the chaos. He’d seen pictures, of course—updates from Alfred tucked into emails, glimpses on the mantle when he visited the manor. And while the photos were always striking, they didn’t prepare him for this.

You walked into the manor that Christmas like you had never left, poised and radiant in a way that knocked the breath right out of him. The little girl he remembered was long gone—replaced by a young woman with grace in her posture and fire behind her eyes. You had Bruce’s presence, but none of his emotional walls. Your smile was easier, warmer. There was something about you that made the room tilt just slightly when you entered. And Dick… wasn’t ready for that.

He played it cool. Had to. Bruce was standing right there, eyes unreadable as always, and the rest of the family too—laughing, teasing, unaware that he was suddenly ten times more aware of everything. He cracked jokes, filled space with charm, but part of him couldn’t stop stealing glances. You had grown into yourself in the most remarkable way, and he wasn’t sure how to process that.

Every once in a while, you’d meet his eyes. Just briefly. And there was something in your gaze that made him wonder if you remembered him too—not just the old version, but the real one. The one who used to sneak you extra cookies when Alfred wasn’t looking. The one who promised you, with all the sincerity of youth, that Gotham would be safer by the time you came home.

Now, here you were—home again. And he was having difficulty trying to process your change, your maturity, and the fact that he now had to separate you from the little girl who used to dangle off Bruce’s arm when he flexed his bicep to the young woman you who was standing just a few feet away.