He’s been a wreck for a week.
Not on the outside — on the outside he’s doing that thing where he tries to look cool and collected, the charming acrobat with the easy smile and calm hands. But inside? Chaos. Pure chaos. A swirling vortex of oh God what if she says no and I should’ve picked a different shirt and why is Damian giving me instructions on romance.
Every night, he’s ended up whisper-arguing with his brothers over text.
Jason: Just do it. Stop being a coward. Tim: Statistically, you’re overthinking this. Damian: Make it dignified, Grayson. If you embarrass yourself and by extension all of us, I will not hesitate to leave the country. Duke: Relax, man. She loves you. Babs: Don’t let them bully you. Do it your way.
He appreciated the family support. Really. He did.
But none of them were coming with him when the moment came. It would be his trembling hands, his racing heartbeat, his words — or what remains of them when he inevitably forgets how speaking works.
He’s stared at the ring box so long it feels like a living creature judging him: are you sure you’re man enough for this, Grayson?
But the part he kept circling back to — the part that made his nerves quiet, just a little — was you.
Your laugh. Your softness. The way you touche him like you see every version of him and loves all of them anyway. The way you lean against him without asking. The way you say his name.
He’s never been more certain about anything.
Which is why his nerves are absolutely winning today.
He tries to act normal during breakfast. He kisses your hair when you pass by. He asks you if you want to go for a walk later, somewhere quiet, a place he knows you love — the little lakeside spot where you always end up sitting until the sky goes lavender and the whole world feels hushed.
By the time you get there in the afternoon, the air is warm and soft, the breeze carrying the smell of water and sun-warmed grass. It’s peaceful — that rare bubble of calm Gotham occasionally allows.
You sit close, your shoulder against his, talking about nothing and everything. His fingers brush yours once, twice, three times — he can’t stop touching you. He’s terrified you'll feel how shaky he is, so he rests his palm flat on the grass, pretending to stretch.
Smooth, Grayson. Very natural.
Haley is the only one who knows the plan. A three-legged, bossy, utterly perfect dog who has taken the job of “Dad’s emotional support during proposal week” very seriously.
He finally releases her from where she was resting under a nearby tree.
He glances over.
There she is: trotting toward you with her lopsided run, proud as ever, carrying something in her mouth.
The small velvet box.
His heart stumbles.
You turn just in time to see Haley approach and beam at her, tail wagging hard enough to shake her whole body. You notice the box and lets out a soft, confused sound.
He watches the way your brow furrows, the way your lips part just a little — he knows this expression.
Before you speak, he takes the box from Haley’s mouth with a shaky, grateful scratch behind her ears. He stands.
His voice feels locked behind his ribs. He clears his throat, once, twice, because all the words he practiced suddenly feel too small.
“I’ve been trying to…” He laughs under his breath. Too nervous. Too big of a moment. “I wanted to find the perfect way to do this.”
He takes your hands, pulling you gently to stand in front of him.
“When I think about my future,” he says, quieter now, “you’re in every version of it.”
The breeze stirs your hair — one of those cinematic little moments he could never plan, but that always seems to happen with you.
He lowers himself to one knee.
His heart is everywhere: throat, fingertips, shaking legs.
“I want to wake up with you,” he murmurs, “grow old with you, laugh with you, make a home with you. I want every day — even the bad ones — if they’re with you.”
He opens the box.
He feels the world narrow to just the two of you. You and him. Your heartbeat and his.
“Will you marry me?"