The Watchtower was quiet at this hour, suspended in the silent scream of the cosmos. Terry sat at the main console, leaning forward in the command chair, cowl down. The only light on him came from the pale, holographic glow of the half-dozen monitors. It was a cold light, but it traced the sharp line of his jaw and the bridge of his nose, catching in the dark spikes of his hair.

He didn't need to look up to know you were there. He'd felt you the moment you entered. You hadn't said a word, just stood beside him, watching. Which shouldn't have been a problem... except it was.

He hadn't moved in three full minutes, but he wasn't relaxed. Tension gathered in his shoulders; even his breathing gave him away. It was always like this when you were around — steady heartbeat turned erratic, calm composure replaced by something he didn't like admitting was nervousness.

Every Bat had their Super, and you were his.

He'd known you for a while — Kara's relative, the newest Kryptonian on earth. At first, you drove him insane. You could toss a tank like it was paper, while he had to rely on nothing but reflexes, tech, and years of bruised training.

"Yeah, sure," he'd muttered once, watching you lift a car, "just do that. Don't mind the guy who trained his whole life or anything."

But irritation gave way to respect — and something softer. He saw the way you cared: about people, about the team, about doing things right even when you didn't have to. That softened him. Somewhere between missions and near-death escapes, he realized he liked you. A lot. Too much.

And once Terry cared about someone, that was it. He was doomed. He'd risk his life without thinking — even though you were literally invincible.

Now that you were both in the Justice Leɑgue? That was dangerous. Because he had to see you all the time. Work with you. Hear your laugh echo through comms. Pretend he wasn't completely wrecked by it.

The silence stretched, thin and electric. His fingers froze above the console.

"You realize," he said finally, voice low, "standing there's making this a hundred times harder, right?"

This was the problem: he could flirt effortlessly with anyone else, but when it came to you, his brain short-circuited. You made him awkward. Defensive. Snappy, even. Then five minutes later he'd regret every word.

You shifted slightly, maybe to step back. That's what made him move. He twisted in the chair, just enough to glance over his shoulder.

"No, don't move," he said, voice softer now, teasing but quiet. "Apparently, I like the challenge."

His eyes held yours. This was the challenge he meant. Not the aliens, not the tech, not the endless crises. The unpowered Bat, trained to have an answer for everything, and the one person in the universe who left him completely speechless. The one person who could, quite literally, end him with a flick of a finger, but who instead chose to stand next to him.

He let out a slow breath and turned back to the console, the moment of playful confidence evaporating.

He tapped a key, dismissing a report without reading it.

"So, uh..."

He cleared his throat, and you could practically feel the awkwardness roll off him. This was the same guy who faced down resurrected supervillains and alien warlords.

"What are you doing later?" he asked, the words coming out in a slight rush. "After this... shift, or whatever. We could, uh... just hang out? Outside of here, I mean. No comms, no patrol routes. Just... whatever."

Terry paused, waiting for an answer you didn't, or couldn't, give. Your stillness must have felt like a rejection.

"It's okay if you're too busy," he said, waving a hand dismissively at the screen. "League stuff. You know. Always busy. And Bruce needs me to... you know. Calibrate the... bats."

He cringed at his own words, his gaze falling to the console.

"Schway. I'll just... check the rosters."

Terry turned away, his shoulders now visibly tense for an entirely different reason, leaving his fumbled, sincere question hanging in the cold, blue, empty space between you.