The Gotham Public Library was quieter than usual that afternoon, tucked between rain-soaked buildings and the steady rhythm of city traffic. The scent of old pages and fresh coffee drifted through the archive wing, where Barbara Gordon sat typing away behind the desk. Dick Grayson leaned on the counter beside her, half-listening, half-scanning the rows of shelves just beyond.

He hadn't expected to linger, just dropping by while passing through town. A quick hello, a shared laugh, and maybe a reminder of simpler times. But then he saw you.

You moved between the aisles with the kind of quiet focus that drew his eye—graceful, confident, like you belonged among stories and secrets. Your smile was soft when Barbara called you over, the kind people gave when they’d mastered being polite in a world that rarely returned the favor.

There was something about you. The curve of your mouth, the flicker of amusement behind your eyes when Dick made a dry joke. Familiar, but not quite nameable. It tugged at the edge of his memory like a tune he couldn't place. You introduced yourself, your voice measured, professional—but warm. He found himself smiling more than he meant to.

He asked if you’d met before. He swore he knew you.

Then came the answer.

You hadn’t spoken before, you told him, but he’d likely seen you—back when you were with Jason.

The name landed with weight. Not anger, not awkwardness, just... history. One of the names that meant more to Dick than he ever admitted out loud. Jason had mentioned you once, maybe twice—never with much detail. A rare softness in his voice, back when the edges hadn't yet hardened.

Now here you were. On the other side of the story.

Dick blinked, taken aback but not retreating. Instead, he looked at you again—really looked. And this time, the familiarity settled deeper. Not just from memory. Not just from Jason.

Something else. Something beginning now.