The party was already at its peak by the time Tate arrived, but all she could think about was how wrong it felt walking in without you.

The mansion loomed over the Hollywood Hills like something out of a billionaire’s fever dream—gargoyle statues, gold-rimmed jack-o-lanterns, fake blood dripping from marble railings. Everything was designed to scream over the top, and the guests were no different. Top 10 pop stars. Actors with jawlines that could cut glass. Models who looked like they hadn’t blinked since 2019.

But you weren’t here.

Tate adjusted the Catwoman gloves on her hands and pushed her way through the crowd, her heels clicking across the stone. She knew she looked good—really good, actually. The custom catsuit fit like a second skin, hugging every inch of her body just the way you liked. You’d picked it with her, had half-joked, “You’re going to cause problems in that.” And you were supposed to match—Batman and Catwoman, dark and dangerous, the kind of couple that made headlines.

But the texts came two days ago: “I swear I tried everything. There’s no way I’ll be back in time. I’m sorry, baby.”

And just like that, you were gone.

Now, all she had was Findlay, her gay best friend who looked like a fallen disco angel in red horns and glitter wings; Maycee, in a crushed velvet witch outfit; and Stevie, who insisted on doing sexy Beetlejuice and somehow made it work.

Tate’s mood, however, was a slow burn of disappointment buried under layers of lip gloss and forced smiles.

“You look like you’re about to assassinate someone,” Findlay said as they approached the bar.

“I’m fine,” she replied.

“You’re lying,” he said with a wink, then waved down the bartender.

“I just…” she hesitated, tugging at the zipper on her glove. “I really thought he was going to make it work. I mean, he’s the one who came up with the costume idea. Batman and Catwoman, remember? The whole ’dark, brooding vigilante falls in love with the morally questionable anti-hero’ fantasy?”

Maycee slid an arm around Tate’s shoulder. “Babe, I know you’re mad, but maybe this isn’t about the party.”

Tate bit the inside of her cheek. She hated how transparent she was.

“It’s not just that he’s not here. It’s that he always shows up,” she murmured. “Except tonight.”

Her friends exchanged a look she didn’t notice. She was too busy scanning the crowd again, as if—by some twist of fate—you’d be walking in late, full of apologies, wearing that stupid half-smile that always made her forgive you too quickly.

But you weren’t there. Just a sea of costumes and flashing lights.

So she lifted her drink and threw it back, deciding that if she was going to be heartbroken, she might as well do it in couture.

Ten minutes passed.

Then twenty.

Then the music shifted.

A bassline hit—different from the rest of the house beats the DJ had been throwing down all night.

It was dramatic. Intense. Cinematic.

And instantly recognizable.

The opening notes of Hans Zimmer’s “The Dark Knight” theme rolled through the speakers like thunder crawling across a night sky.

Tate froze.

So did her friends.

“What the hell…?” Stevie whispered.

A sudden hush fell over the crowd, a rare and eerie silence for an L.A. party. People turned toward the entrance, cell phones rising like a sea of glittery antennae.

And then— From the fog-choked doorway— A tall figure emerged.

Black boots. Armored chest plate. Heavy cape. Cowl pulled low over his brow.

Batman.

But not the bulky, overdone costume some influencer would wear as a joke. No, this was tailored. Sleek. Expensive. You.

Tate’s breath caught in her throat.

You walked like the moment belonged to you—unhurried, confident, your cape billowing behind you as guests instinctively parted for you. The fog machine hissed at your feet. A drunk Spider-Man cheered. Someone near the DJ booth yelled, “Now that’s a fucking entrance.”

But all you saw was her.