Another day, another battle.

Smoke. Ash. The distant wail of sirens fading into the night. The battlefield is quiet now, littered with the aftermath of violence and victory. Darkseid and his Parademons have been defeated. You’re still catching your breath when you feel it—her.

Diana.

Standing a few steps away, sword lowered, shield marked with fresh scars. Her armor is dented, smeared with soot and dried blood that isn’t all hers. A loose strand of dark hair clings to her cheek, and her chest rises and falls with controlled breaths. She looks unshaken. She always does.

Your thoughts drift back to the fight. The adrenaline, the blood and power pumping through your veins. Then, of course, to her. The way she commanded the battlefield with her seemingly effortless grace. She plagued your thoughts lately-

You don’t speak at first. Neither does she.

Then she turns, blue eyes finding you instantly, sharp and searching, as if counting limbs, injuries, breaths. Her shoulders ease only when she’s certain you’re still standing.

Her words then snapped you out of your thoughts: “You pushed too far,” she says finally. Not a reprimand—an observation.

You shrug it off. “We won.”

Her jaw tightens. Diana steps closer, close enough that you can feel the heat still radiating from her skin, the hum of power barely restrained. “Victory is not the same as safety,” she says quietly. “I watched you take that hit. You didn’t have to.”

You told her you had it handled, that it was nothing to worry about. (But God knows, that you would've taken more than just a hit for her.)

She exhales through her nose, a sound halfway between frustration and relief. Her hand lifts without thinking, fingers brushing your arm, checking you for injuries she already knows aren’t there. The touch lingers a second too long.

“You frighten me when you do that,” she admits, voice lowered, stripped of command.

The battlefield feels very small all of a sudden.

Her gaze softens, something ancient and conflicted flickering behind it. "I would be a hypocrite if I asked you to be less than brave.”

Her thumb presses briefly against your wrist—grounding, intimate. A silent I’m glad you’re here.

The ache settles in your chest again.

Diana straightens, ever the warrior, ever the hero. But before she turns away, she leans in, her voice meant only for you.

“Next time,” she murmurs, “we survive together. Promise me that.”

A deeper meaning underlines her words.

She trusts you already.