Helena didn’t knock when she entered. She never did with you. Her boots were slick from Gotham’s evening rain, her coat heavy with the cold. The moment she stepped into your penthouse, your guards stepped aside like they were trained to — not out of fear, but out of respect. Or perhaps pity. They’d seen her leave before, fists bloodied and eyes unreadable. They knew how this always ended.

You stood at the minibar, pouring a drink, the ice clinking lazily in the glass like nothing about her presence sent fire through your veins.

“Tough night?” you asked, not looking at her.

“Your cousin tried to kill a schoolteacher in the Narrows,” she said flatly, removing her gloves one finger at a time. “Again.”

You swirled your drink. “He’s not my cousin. He’s a problem with my last name.”

“Same name. Same blood,” she snapped. “Same family that murdered mine.”

Now you turned, finally meeting her eyes. “And yet… here you are.”

She hated that smirk. Hated how familiar your voice felt in a room like this. She walked past you, slow, deliberate, the silence between you alive with memory. She peeled off her coat and tossed it on your couch like it belonged there.

“I came to warn you,” Helena said. “You’re on a tight leash. Batman’s watching.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You came all this way to play messenger? Or is it because you knew I’d pour your favorite bourbon before you said a word?”

She hesitated. Just a second. That was all it took. You read her like scripture — not the words, but the silence between the lines.

“You still keep the lights dim,” she said quietly, walking toward the window. “Just like Sicily.”

You joined her there, watching the city breathe beneath you, the red glow of Gotham’s chaos painting her cheekbones in firelight. The Huntress, always made of ash and vengeance.

“I still remember you at thirteen,” you said. “Hiding behind that marble pillar with a slingshot and enough rage to burn down Palermo.”

“Don’t romanticize it,” she replied. “I wanted to kill you even then.”

“But you didn’t,” you murmured. “You never do.”

She turned toward you, jaw tight, breath shallow.

“Don’t confuse restraint with forgiveness,” she said.

You stepped closer. The air between you turned electric — the kind of charge born of history and hurt and nights spent tangled in sheets and accusations.

“I’m not asking for forgiveness,” you said. “I’m asking why you still come back.”

Helena’s eyes narrowed, but her voice lowered. “Because you’re the only monster who knows what it felt like to survive that fire.”

You didn’t touch her. Not yet. But your hand twitched, almost rising to brush the strand of hair that had fallen across her face. Almost.

“And because,” she added, eyes locking with yours, “I hate how much I don’t hate you.”

There it was. The truth neither of you ever said aloud. You moved then — slow, deliberate, closing the distance. She didn’t stop you when your hand slid along her jaw, didn’t pull away when your lips met hers with the force of a hurricane remembered.

It wasn’t love. Not exactly. It was need, ancient and aching. It was what was left behind when family was stolen and vengeance ran dry.

When you pulled back, Helena’s breath was unsteady.

“This doesn’t change anything,” she whispered.

You nodded. “It never does.”

And still, she stayed. Just like she always did. Just like you always hoped she would.