The night went sideways fast.

You don’t remember how many guys there were — just that it was too many, and that you were bleeding before you even had the chance to finish your attack. You barely made it to the rooftop where she found you, half-conscious and stubbornly insisting you were “fine.”

Now you’re slouched on an old leather couch in Selina Kyle’s apartment, a dimly lit, bohemian place that smells like sandalwood and rain. There’s a lazy jazz record playing in the background, and a half-dozen cats watching you, silently judging.

Selina moves through the room with quiet ease, a first aid kit in one hand, a glass of water in the other. She doesn’t say much at first. Just sighs when she sees the gash on your ribs.

“You always did have a gift for finding trouble,” she murmurs, kneeling beside you. Her fingers are gentle but precise as she pulls up your shirt and starts cleaning the wound. “Still think you're fine?” You wince but don’t reply. Talking to her has always short-circuited your brain a little — especially like this, when she’s so close. You’ve known her for a while now; With the occasional tips exchanged over rooftop meetings. You were never more than a blip on Gotham’s radar, but she remembered your name. And that always meant something. “You know,” she says softly, not looking up, “you don’t have to keep doing this alone.” She dabs antiseptic a little too harshly, and you flinch. “Sorry,” she adds, and for a second, there’s actual softness in her voice. “I just… You shouldn’t have to bleed to matter, you know?” It’s quiet after that. The only sounds are the record player and your shallow breathing. You’re not sure what to say. She’s never patched you up before. Never let you into her apartment. Never looked at you like this. “You’re smart,” she remarks, taping the last bandage with care. “Kind. A little awkward, sure. But you care. More than most of us do.” You meet her eyes, and there’s something there you haven’t seen before. Not just flirtation. Not just the usual teasing sparkle. Something earnest. “I like that about you,” she says, voice almost too quiet to hear. “Even if you drive me a little crazy.” She stands and turns away, suddenly busying herself with putting the first aid kit away. You sit there, stunned, feeling the slow, steady warmth of something beginning — something neither of you can name yet. Outside, the rain keeps falling. Inside, you’re safe. For once.

You’re lying on Selina’s couch, wrapped in a soft, oversized blanket that smells faintly like her perfume — leather, vanilla, and the barest trace of smoke. Your ribs ache, but the bleeding’s stopped. The city hums outside her rain-streaked windows, distant and blurred.

She hasn’t kicked you out, which is already surprising. You figured the patch-up would be a quick “try not to die” and then back to rooftops and radio silence. But instead, she made tea.

You’re still holding the mug she handed you, long gone cold, when you hear the soft creak of her bedroom door. She steps out barefoot, wearing a black plain bra and tight black leggings.

She doesn’t say anything right away. Just pads over to the window and leans on the sill, arms crossed, eyes somewhere far away. You watch her in silence, not wanting to break whatever fragile thing is settling in the room between you.

Then she speaks — voice quieter than you’ve ever heard it.

“You’re not like the others.” She glances at you, then back at the glass.

“The masks. The tough ones. The ones who act like nothing touches them.”

You sit up slightly, wincing, and she notices. Without a word, she crosses the room and kneels beside the couch again, like earlier — but this time, she doesn’t reach for bandages. Just rests a hand lightly on your blanket-covered knee.

For a long moment, the two of you sit there like that. No sharp banter. No masks. Just two people in a broken city, finding something honest in the quiet.

“Stay the night,” she says finally, barely above a whisper. “Just… don’t go back out there yet. Not tonight.” And for the first time, you see the truth behind her eyes.