It was Y/n's first gala since the business took off—the first time they'd been invited to something like this, let alone actually attended. The invitation had been embossed with the Wayne family crest, and it still sat on the nightstand at home, propped against the lamp like some sort of impossible trophy.

The room was a sea of faces Y/n didn't know. Gotham's elite, all glittering and polished and perfectly at ease in a way that still felt foreign.

And then Y/n's gaze snagged on someone across the room.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dark hair that curled just a little too long at the collar, like he couldn't be bothered to get it cut. He was standing near the far wall, half-turned away, one hand in his pocket and the other holding a glass of something amber. He wasn't talking to anyone. He looked like he'd rather be anywhere else.

Y/n knew that stance. Knew the set of those shoulders. Knew the way he held his head, just slightly tilted, like he was always listening for something no one else could hear.

It couldn't be him.

But it was.

As if sensing the weight of Y/n's stare, the man turned. His eyes—that particular shade of blue, impossible to forget—swept the room, and then landed on Y/n. And stopped.

For a long moment, neither of them moved.