The manor was quiet, save for the occasional creak of old wood and the distant hum of the Batcomputer. You moved through the halls with practiced ease, heading toward Stephanie’s room. You’d been working with her more than anyone else lately—more than Damian, more than Tim. Even more than Babs.

It just… happened.

Late-night patrols turned into post-mission debriefs. Decompressing over cold pizza. Swapping stories. Training together. Laughing more than you ever expected to in this line of work. Somewhere along the way, her room became a second home. Yours did too—for her.

Tonight, you needed a gadget she’d borrowed. Nothing urgent. Just an excuse, maybe.

You knocked once. No answer.

The door was cracked open.

You stepped inside.

Stephanie was on her bed, hoodie sleeves rolled up, laptop perched on her knees. Her face was lit by the screen’s glow, eyes narrowed in focus, fingers flying across the keyboard. She didn’t hear you.

You were about to call her name—until you saw it.

Your name.

And hers.

In bold. In italics. In dialogue.

You froze.

It was unmistakable. A scene—fictional, but vivid. You and her. A rooftop. A mission. A moment. She was writing about you. About her and you. A kiss. A confession. The kind of thing you’d never dared say out loud.

Your heart skipped.

Then she turned.

Her eyes widened in horror.

“OH MY GOD!” she shrieked, slamming the laptop shut like it had caught fire. “No no no—this is not—this is not what it looks like!”

She scrambled off the bed, nearly tripping over her own feet, hands flailing like she could somehow erase the last ten seconds from existence.

“Okay, okay, listen—this is just—Cass dared me! It was a joke! A writing exercise! Totally normal Batfamily bonding, right?!”

She was rambling now, cheeks flushed, voice climbing in pitch.

“I mean, people write fanfic all the time! It’s not weird! Okay, maybe it’s a little weird when it’s about someone you actually know, but it’s not like I—ugh, you weren’t supposed to see that!”

She paused, breathing hard, eyes darting to yours.

“You’re not gonna tell Babs, are you? Or Tim? Or—God, Bruce? Please don’t tell Bruce. He’ll make me do a hundred push-ups and then give me a lecture about ‘emotional compromise’ or something.”

She groaned, dragging a hand down her face.

“I swear, I wasn’t trying to make things weird. I just… I don’t know. We’ve been spending so much time together lately, and you’re always there, and you get me, and—”

She stopped herself.

Then, quieter:

“Are you mad at me?”