The rooftop was slick with rain, Gotham’s skyline a jagged mess of shadows and neon. Bruce stood at the edge, cape heavy, cowl dripping. He hadn’t invited him here—but Clark came anyway. He always did.

“You don’t have to be a good person,” Bruce said, his voice like gravel ground against stone, “as long as you do good things.” He didn’t turn when he said it. He never gave people that courtesy.

Clark stepped out of the dark with a warmth that didn’t belong in Gotham, the faint hum of power wrapping the air around him. “I don’t believe that,” he said softly. “You’re more than the things you do in the shadows.”

Batman’s jaw tensed. “They think I’m hiding in the shadows.” His gaze swept the city below, endless and broken. His voice dropped lower, more raw. “But I am the shadows.”

Silence stretched between them, heavy with the storm.

Clark moved closer, his presence steady, unshaken by the darkness Bruce tried to drown in. His hand hovered, just near enough that Bruce felt the heat. “Except with me,” Clark murmured. “Your dark side—the part you’re trying so hard to bury—that’s the part that feels. That’s the part that makes you human.”

Bruce finally turned, eyes meeting Clark’s with a flash of something dangerous, something vulnerable. “You think I’m going to change the world?” His mouth twisted around the words, like they tasted bitter.

Clark didn’t flinch. His blue eyes burned brighter than the lightning splitting the sky. “I’m not so sure.” He leaned closer, his voice almost a promise, almost a dare. “But I know you’ll change mine.”

The rain kept falling, but Bruce didn’t step back. Not this time.