It had been one of those days — the kind where the world decided to explode in at least three different cities before noon. By the time Wally finally made it back home, his head was pounding, and he felt like his entire body was vibrating from leftover speed. He didn’t even bother to change out of his suit. Honestly, he deserved a medal just for making it to the couch.

He collapsed with a sigh, sprawled across the cushions, half-melting into them. The red fabric of his suit clung comfortably to him, and for once, he didn’t care. The air conditioning hummed softly. The apartment smelled faintly like you shampoo — vanilla and something floral — and the thought of you was enough to make him smile, even through the exhaustion.

He had maybe three seconds of peace before he heard the faint sound of keys in the door.

Wally peeked an eye open. Oh, great, he thought with a lazy grin. Showtime.

You walked in, juggling your bag and a paper cup of coffee. Your gaze automatically found him, and he could feel your stare before you even said a word. Your eyes traveled down, slowly, and he could practically see your brain trying to process the sight of him lounging there in bright red, sculpted spandex, legs stretched out, thighs on full display like the universe had personally decided to tempt you.

He raised an eyebrow, trying not to smirk. “What?” he drawled. “Never seen a superhero too tired to change before?”

You didn’t answer right away. Just… stared. Your lips parted slightly, a faint flush rising to your cheeks. And Wally—oh, he lived for this. The way you looked at him, like he was something worth staring at.

Your eyes flicked up to meet his, mischievous glint and all. And then, before he could even brace himself, you asked in the most casual tone imaginable, “Is that seat taken?”

He blinked. Once. Twice.

Oh. Oh.

His brain short-circuited. He could face down supervillains, but one suggestive sentence from you and he was done for. The smirk he’d been holding onto slipped into something softer, a little dazed.