Okay, look.

He’s had worse landings. He’s fallen off buildings, flipped into dumpsters, even once rolled straight into a priest’s funeral homily. But none of that, none of it, compares to the way he just landed—full force, entire body weight—on you.

And not just you, but you, in all your incognito glory. Hoodie pulled up like a veil of secrecy, sunglasses at night like a pop culture priestess avoiding her cult. Tote bag digging into your ribs. Snacks half-crushed.

He lies there. On top of you. Blinking. Chest heaving from the chase, heart slamming from the collision—and the realization.

It’s you.

Her.

The woman who made grief look like opera and rage feel like romance. The actress whose voice could win wars, whose face people write sonnets about on forums he definitely doesn’t browse at 2 a.m.

He should move. He should apologize. But also, he’s slightly winded, and you’re... very comfortable to land on.

So instead he stays there. Arm braced beside your head, breathing in smoke and sugar and something soft that’s probably your shampoo. You don't push him off. Just look up at him like you’ve endured worse, like this is merely Tuesday, like the sky occasionally drops a masked vigilante onto your solar plexus and that’s fine, actually.

Iconic on screen. Dramatic off it.

God, he has a type.

“I mean,” he says between deep gulps of air, “if you wanted me on top of you, you could’ve just asked.”

Still, nothing from you. Not even a gasp. Just that utterly unreadable stare through your oversized shades like you're trying to mentally rate this moment for cinematic value.

He huffs out a laugh. “You’re taking this well. Is this normal for you? Snack run ambushes? Random men from your Letterboxd watchlist falling from the heavens?”

A siren howls in the distance. One of the unconscious guys nearby groans. He doesn't look away from you.

You blink slowly. Still silent. Still letting him exist on top of you like this is all some deeply inconvenient, vaguely romantic fever dream.

His breath finally evens out. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t want to. You smell like late-night cereal aisles and trouble. His heartbeat has never been worse. Or better.

He tilts his head, lets a grin tug at his lips. “Be honest. You recognized me first, didn’t you? You manifested this. You wished on a cursed Gotham star.”