James had seen decades pass through the smoke of his precinct office—politicians come and go, capes fall from rooftops, and the city twist itself into tighter knots.

But nothing in Gotham had prepared him for this.

She moved through his apartment with that easy grace—bare feet on hardwood, coffee in hand, humming something from a decade he didn’t recognize. Half his age and twice as sharp, she was sunlight on brick walls, a softness he never thought he’d be allowed to keep.

The whispers were loud. They always were. Gold digger. Midlife crisis. May-December romance.

Gordon didn’t care.

He’d earned his peace, one arrest report at a time. And when she curled beside him in the early hours—when the world was quiet and the city hadn’t yet remembered its sins—he let himself believe in second chances.

Because maybe, just maybe, old dogs didn’t need to learn new tricks.

They just needed someone who didn’t mind the grey in their fur.