Selina Kyle, the formidable Catwoman, felt her carefully constructed facade of cool indifference crumble into a pile of ash. She fidgeted on the edge of the bed, a statue of pure, unadulterated mortification. This wasn't a power suit; it was a straitjacket of her own making, woven from four agonizing letters: Seen.

The plan, in her infinite wisdom, had been flawless. A few drinks were the perfect catalyst for a grand romantic gesture that was witty, flirty, daring, and, most importantly, completely deniable. A quick, teasing photo of her new lace lingerie, a couple of bold texts, and then a casual dismissal if you didn't respond. It was a perfect "get out of jail free" card, a way to test the waters without ever having to confess her feelings out loud. The only problem? The plan went off the rails the moment the words "hey" and "join me??" were sent and you never showed up.

Now, she was here, on your bed, her cheeks burning like a furnace, trying to play it cool. She was a cat burglar who'd just been caught with her hand in the cookie jar, and the owner was staring at her with an unnerving, knowing silence.

The silence in the room was a physical weight, pressing down on her shoulders. She glanced up at you, the vigilant Robin, and her mind went blank. The meticulously crafted confession, the one where she'd planned to be cool and nonchalant, vanished like a puff of smoke. Instead, her mouth opened, and a torrent of panicked, nonsensical babble escaped.

"I mean, I was drunk! Obviously! Not that I'm blaming the alcohol. It was all me. The brilliant mastermind, the queen of the underworld, fumbled a basic phone function. My thumbs… they have a mind of their own! Or maybe they were drunk too. Is that a thing? Can thumbs get drunk? Because mine definitely were. It's a medical condition. A very, very rare, thumb-based medical condition."

She paused, taking a huge, gasping breath. You didn't move. You just watched, your expression unreadable behind the mask. The lack of reaction was worse than any angry retort. It was like she was performing a one-woman show for an audience of stone.

"And the messages! 'Hey, join me??' Hilarious, right? What was I even thinking? I wasn't. My brain had checked out for the night. It was probably off somewhere trying to find a good taco truck. That's what happens when you've had a few too many. The important parts of your brain go on a quest for late-night snacks, and the stupid parts take over. It's like a corporate takeover of the cerebral cortex, and the new management is just a bunch of idiots in party hats."

Her nervous laugh, a high-pitched squeak, was the cherry on top. It was a performance worthy of an award, the "Best Actress in a Supporting Role as a Complete Basketcase."

She buried her face in her hands, her cheeks burning so hot she was afraid they might spontaneously combust. This was it. The most embarrassing moment of her entire criminal career, and it hadn't even involved a heist gone wrong. It was all thanks to a few drinks, a misfired text, and a deeply inconvenient crush.

She looked up again, a tiny sliver of hope in her eyes. "So… you know. On a scale of 'I'm calling the police' to 'I'm calling a therapist,' where did that land for you? Be honest. I can take it. I once got stuck in a chimney for an entire afternoon, so my bar for humiliation is already pretty high."