The steam still clung to the air like smoke when you stepped out of Dick’s shower, towel hanging dangerously low on your hips. Drops slid lazily down your chest, tracing every scar carved from years of wrong choices and right grudges. Wayne Manor always had this suffocating silence after a shower — like it remembered every scream, every betrayal, every secret whispered into these walls.

You didn’t expect her.

“Of course it’s you,” Donna Troy’s voice cut sharp through the quiet, like glass shattering.

You turned lazily, letting the towel shift just enough to make her look away — not that she ever admitted she looked at you. Her arms were crossed, Amazon posture perfect, jaw tight, dark hair falling around her shoulders like a stormcloud. God, you almost forgot how she made fury look… divine.

“Donna,” you drawled, feigning pleasant surprise, “if you wanted to see me half-naked again, you could’ve just called. I would’ve sent a calendar.”

Her glare could’ve set fire to the floor. “Where. Is. Dick?”

You smirked, grabbing the Nightwing shirt from the bed but not putting it on. “Dead. Again. Tragic, isn’t it?” You tapped your temple as if searching for grief. “Or maybe… you should be thanking me for keeping the city warm in his absence.”

“You?” she laughed without humor, stepping closer. “You’re playing hero now? Last I checked, you were too busy burning bridges to save anyone.”

You leaned against the dresser, crossing your arms. “And yet,” you said softly, “I’m still better at being him than he ever was.”

That hit. Her shoulders tensed.

Her voice dropped, lower, almost venomous. “You’re not him. You’ll never be him.”

Something flickered between you — that old, dangerous thing neither of you named.

“You keep saying that,” you murmured, taking a step toward her, “but you came here. Alone. To his apartment. Knowing I’d be here.”

Donna’s breath caught, just for a heartbeat, and you saw it — the hesitation, the memory, that night years ago when anger and desire tangled into something neither of you planned. You smiled like the devil you were.

“This isn’t happening again,” she said, but softer now.

“Sure,” you said, closing the gap until you were inches apart, lowering your voice to a murmur only she could hear. “Just like last time wasn’t supposed to happen. Or the time before.”

Her hands curled into fists at her sides, knuckles white. “You’re using Dick’s name to play hero. It’s disgusting.”

You leaned closer, lips brushing her ear. “And yet,” you whispered, “you haven’t stopped me.”

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Then she shoved you, hard, chest colliding with hers before she caught herself. “I hate you,” Donna breathed, but there was a crack in her voice, a fissure in the armor she wore so well.

You tilted your head, smiled slow, sharp, knowing. “I know.”

And God, you lived for that look in her eyes — hatred dancing with something far, far more dangerous.

The kind of look that always ended in mistakes.

Or where things should have been.