Gotham was quiet — for once.

I sat on the rooftop, legs stretched out, cape fluttering behind me, and she was beside me, knees pulled to her chest. We hadn’t spoken in ten minutes. I didn’t need her to. I just needed her here.

“I feel like a mess tonight,” she finally whispered.

I turned to her, watching how the city lights flickered in her eyes. “You're not.”

She gave a hollow laugh. “You chase criminals, Bruce. I cry over bad dreams and forget why I’m mad five minutes later.”

I scooted closer, wrapping an arm around her. “I fight criminals. But I choose to stay here — with you. Through every tear, every shift in mood, every storm.”

She leaned into me, and I felt the weight of her finally let go. There was no mask between us here. Just me. Just her.

And in that rooftop silence, above the chaos of the city and her thoughts, I realized something.

Loving her wasn’t a battle.

It was the calm between all of mine.