“Paper Rings and Playground Promises.”

He never thought he would see them again.

Not here, not now — not standing a few feet away in the middle of a too-loud party in Gotham, surrounded by familiar faces that blurred together as soon as his eyes landed on them.

For a second, Grayson wondered if his brain was playing tricks on him. Gotham did that sometimes. The past had a way of sneaking up on you when you least expected it, wearing a different face but carrying the same weight.

But no.

It was really them.

The first person he had ever loved — before masks, before patrols, before grief learned how to settle into his bones. Back when love was simple and unconditional and didn’t come with consequences.

Elementary school felt like another lifetime. Back when afternoons stretched forever and the biggest concern in the world was whether the sandbox was still “their spot.” They had been inseparable then — always together, always talking. About superheroes, about animals, about ridiculous plans for the future that made perfect sense at the time. With them, never felt like he had to perform. He didn’t have to be charming or impressive or strong. He could just... be.

Safe. Seen.

And then there was that memory — the one that never quite left him, no matter how much time passed.

They were his wife.

Well. Not really.

A pretend wife. A playground wife. A we’re-six-and-this-is-serious wife.

He could still picture it with embarrassing clarity: the tree near the sandbox, the sun filtering through the leaves, dirt on his knees as he asked with all the gravity in the world if they’d marry him. And they’d said yes. Just like that. No hesitation.

He remembered the adults laughing softly — all “awws” and fond smiles — while the other kids gagged dramatically and declared he now had cooties forever. He remembered the paper rings he’d made himself, folded and refolded until they were almost symmetrical. The “wedding” Alfred humored them with in the garden, Ace bounding around them like it was the greatest event of his life. The food Alfred made — because Alfred always indulged him, especially when it came to things that made happy.

Everyone treated it like a phase. A silly childhood thing they’d laugh about years later.

But never had.

Even growing up, even leaving Gotham, even becoming someone else entirely — that promise had stayed lodged somewhere deep in him. Quiet. Patient. Waiting.

They’re their own person now, he reminded himself, grounding his thoughts before they could spiral too far. They had a life. Experiences he wasn’t part of. Time had shaped them just as much as it had shaped him.

Still... his chest tightened as his feet carried him forward without permission.

He didn’t remember deciding to move, but suddenly the distance between them was shrinking. His heart was pounding hard enough that he wondered if they could hear it over the music. There was a nervous energy buzzing under his skin — the same feeling he used to get before stepping onto a trapeze, before letting go and trusting himself to land.

Don’t be stupid, he told himself. They probably don’t even remember.

But some foolish, hopeful part of him — the little boy with dirt on his hands and a paper ring in his pocket — couldn’t help wondering if they did.

And as he drew closer, caught between who he used to be and who he’d become, realized something unsettling and familiar all at once:

No matter how much time passed...

They had never really stopped being important to him.