The plane ride was a blur, but the moment your boots hit American ground, everything sharpens like a sudden intake of breath.

The terminal is bright and loud, bathed in artificial light and movement. Fluorescent bulbs hum faintly above, while announcements echo from crackling speakers in an indifferent monotone. People rush past you with rolling luggage and paper cups of coffee, voices overlapping in a language that, for a while, had stopped feeling native. You’re home—and yet, your stomach twists with the kind of nerves that have nothing to do with jet lag.

You’re not just returning to the States.

You’re walking back toward her.

Every step through the terminal feels weighted with memory. Your bag hangs heavy off one shoulder, but what presses down on you more is the ghost of her voice, her laugh, her fingers threaded through yours in the glow of a Gotham skyline. You remember rooftop takeout and late-night missions that ended in breathless adrenaline and quiet smiles. You remember the way she looked in the flickering light of the Batcomputer—brilliant, relentless, beautiful.

And you remember the way you left. The hard goodbye. The way your heart ached before the door even closed. You had your reasons—family, obligation, the kind of future that demanded sacrifice—but none of them made it easier to stay away from Barbara.

Now you’re walking through the city again, heart pounding louder with every step. The cold air outside bites at your skin, but it’s grounding. Gotham’s chill is different—sharper somehow, like everything here carries more edge. You find the café where you used to meet between missions, on rare mornings when the city was still quiet. It hasn’t changed. The windows are fogged with warmth, and the smell of roasted beans hits you like a wave of memory.

You step inside and time stutters.

She’s there.

By the window, sunlight catching on her red hair, which is different than she used to wear. Her head is tilted, reading something thick and academic—probably criminal psychology or digital forensics, knowing her. The curve of her cheek, the subtle arch of her brow, even the way her lips press into a line as she reads—it’s all achingly familiar.

Then your eyes fall to the chair.

You knew—of course you knew. Bruce called you. You followed her work even from across the ocean, saw the headlines, tracked the transition from Batgirl to Oracle. But knowing isn’t the same as seeing. And yet, she holds herself with the same quiet command she always had, like her body obeys her not because it must, but because she wills it so. There is strength in her stillness. That spark you fell for? It never left.

You take a breath and walk toward her. Your voice is quieter than you expect when it comes.

“Hey.”

She looks up.

For a moment, her eyes widen—not in surprise, but in recognition. Like she’d already felt you coming. A long beat passes between you, suspended in the hum of coffee machines and quiet music.

Then she smiles.

It starts small, cautious, but spreads with that warmth that used to unravel you. It’s older now—her smile. There’s weight behind it. Wisdom. Maybe even pain. But also forgiveness.

“Wow,” she says softly, closing her book. “I didn’t expect to see you back so soon.”