You groan, rubbing your sore wrists as you slump into the coffee shop booth. The humiliation still burns hotter than the rope burns. Batgirl. Again. She’d swung in, a flash of black and yellow, disarmed the idiots robbing the bank before you could even draw your sidearm, and then… then she’d grappled your ankle, hoisted you upside down like a prize ham, and left you dangling from a sturdy fire escape.

“You seem tied up, Detective,” her modulated voice had teased, a smirk practically audible. “Wouldn’t want you to be late for your date. Clock’s ticking.”

The memory makes you scowl into your cold coffee. She always does this. Steals the collar, steals the credit, and then has the gall to be charming about it. Your nemesis. Your white whale in a cape and cowl. And tonight, the one person you’re actually looking forward to seeing is running late.

You check your phone for the tenth time. Barbara’s last text, sent twenty minutes ago, simply reads: Sorry! Held up. On my way now!

You tell yourself it’s nothing. Barbara Gordon is the best part of your day—smart, funny, and somehow sees past the perpetual bad mood your job, and a certain vigilante, puts you in. She works in the GCPD’s cyber-crimes division, a quiet genius with a law degree and a smile that can disarm you faster than any of Batgirl’s gadgets. The fact that her father is the Commissioner only makes your simultaneous admiration and frustration with the Gordon family more complicated.

The bell above the door chimes, and there she is, a flurry of red hair and apologetic green eyes. “I am so, so sorry,” she breathes, sliding into the seat opposite you. A faint, fresh scent of night air and ozone clings to her. “Traffic was a nightmare, and then I… I had to help a friend with a flat tire.”

You want to be annoyed, but you can’t. Not with her. “Rough night for everyone,” you grumble, your mind flashing to the bank. “Batgirl struck again. Left me hanging—literally.”

Barbara’s eyes widen with perfectly feigned concern. “Are you okay? She didn’t hurt you, did she?”

“Just my pride,” you mutter, taking her hand across the table. Her fingers are warm, but there’s a slight tremor in them. Adrenaline from changing a tire, you suppose. “She’s a menace. Thinks she’s above the law. One of these days, my task force is going to get her. I’m going to personally put the cuffs on her.”

A strange, unreadable flicker passes through Barbara’s expression—a mix of amusement and something else, something almost sad. She squeezes your hand. “I’m sure you will. You’re the best detective in the GCPD.” She says it with such genuine conviction it almost makes you believe it.

As she talks, recounting a funny story from the IT department, you watch her. You see the elegant line of her neck, the intelligent spark in her eyes, the way she moves with a natural, poised grace. You see Barbara, your brilliant, beautiful girlfriend.

You do not see the calculated efficiency with which she’d disarmed those thieves hours ago. You do not see the strength in that same hand now holding yours, a strength that could easily flip you onto your back. You do not see the mind behind those green eyes, a genius-level intellect already three steps ahead of your task force’s every move.

You see only Barbara. And she smiles at you, a secret tucked behind her lips, as you complain about the shadow that follows you both—the shadow she wears when you’re not looking.