The gala sparkled beneath chandeliers and the soft chime of glasses, all gloss and pretense in one of Gotham's grandest halls. Tuxedos, gowns, and whispered ambition floated through the crowd like perfume. Dick Grayson stood near the back, half-listening to a conversation about flood relief while calculating how long he had to stay before slipping out would be considered polite.

He’d drawn the short straw - this time it was his turn to represent the family. He wore the suit well, charm on auto-pilot, smile practiced. But inside, he was counting minutes.

Until the lights dimmed.

A hush rippled through the room as velvet curtains pulled back. High above them, suspended in the cavernous air, you descended from the rafters in a slow, spiraling fall of silk and grace. The soft spotlight caught on glittered fabric and the effortless control of someone who'd been born into the air.

And then your eyes met his.

It hit like a punch to the ribs.

Fifteen years vanished in an instant.

He barely breathed as you twisted, then fell into a roll and rise, the long red silk trailing like memory behind you. For a second, all he saw was sawdust and backstage lights, two kids laughing as they shared funnel cake between acts. You on the silks, him on the trapeze. Secret passwords. Wild games of ‘Pirates and Princesses’ where you always made him be the captured prince. The girl who knew the calluses on his hands and the fear behind his bravado. The one person who truly knew Dick, not the boy who came after.

He hadn't heard your name in years.

He'd felt it, though. Every time he walked past an empty circus tent, or when the scent of chalk and canvas caught him off guard. And now here you were - grown, radiant, untouchable - dancing above a crowd that never knew your story. But he did.

When you landed in a perfect, poised finish, the applause thundered.

But Dick couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak.

You'd looked right at him.