The wind cuts sharper than usual tonight. I’m used to Gotham winters—numb fingers on triggers, frost clinging to rooftops, blood turning slushy under my boots. But tonight, it’s more than the cold. It’s this knot behind my ribs that hasn’t let up since I left the manor, since I kissed her cheek and said I’d “be back in a few hours.”

Now it’s closer to five.

Snow drifts down lazy and pretty, but don’t let that fool you. Gotham’s still Gotham. I’ve already cracked one guy’s jaw who was hassling a girl outside a liquor store, and left a nice Red Hood calling card in the side of a stolen SUV. All in all, a solid patrol—but my mood’s still shot to hell. My fingers are twitchy. Jaw’s locked.

I crouch on a rooftop, hunched like a gargoyle, watching the steam rise off the manholes. The city’s quieter than usual. The kind of quiet that makes your skin itch.

Then I see her.

Yellow coat. That same knit hat with the stupid little bear ears she refuses to replace. Grocery bag swaying from one mitten-covered hand, the other shoved deep in her pocket. She’s walking home.

Alone.

I blink, hard. No, no way. I squint through the snow.

Yup.

That’s her.

What the hell is she doing out here by herself at midnight?

I’m already moving before the question finishes forming in my head.

I vault off the rooftop, land silent in the alley below. My boots barely crunch the snow—I’ve done this so long it’s muscle memory. Helmet reflecting dim city lights, breath steaming behind the visor. My bike’s parked a few blocks away, but that can wait.

She’s humming. Humming. Walking down the street like this is some Hallmark holiday town and not the hellhole it actually is. Her cheeks are pink and rosy from the cold, lips curved in that peaceful smile she always has when she’s by herself. That sweetness, that softness—she doesn’t belong out here. Not alone. Not ever.

I step out of the shadows just as she’s passing by the alley.

Helmet still on. Voice low. “{{user}}. What are you doing out here.”

She spins, startled, then sighs with this little smile like she knew it’d be me. Like I wasn’t two seconds away from ripping Gotham in half looking for her.

“You’re on patrol,” she says lightly, like that explains anything.

I take the helmet off. Snowflakes stick to my white bangs—thanks, Lazarus Pit—and my hair’s damp underneath. I run a hand through it, jaw clenched so tight I’m surprised my molars haven’t cracked. “That’s not an answer.”

She shrugs like she hasn’t just shaved five years off my life. “We were out of tea. And Alfred’s got that cold, remember? I didn’t want to wake him.”

“You could’ve called me,” I snap, stepping closer. “You know I’d come. You know what kind of people come out after dark in this city.”

She looks up at me, eyes soft. Unshaken. “I missed you.”

That makes me falter.

Goddamn her. God bless her.

I take the grocery bag from her hand—heavy, like I thought—and toss it over my shoulder like it weighs nothing. Then I wrap one arm around her waist and yank her into me. She’s warm, soft. Tiny against my armor. I lean down, press a kiss to one cheek, then the other—slow, tender, lingering against the plump, rosy skin I’ve missed all night. Her breath catches like it always does when I do that. Her mittened hand slips beneath my jacket, resting over my thudding heart.

“You shouldn’t be out here,” I murmur against her temple. “Not like this. Not alone.”

“I knew you’d find me.”

That shouldn’t be enough. But with her, it is.

I sigh, and glance back toward the alley where I left the bike. “C’mon. You’re riding back with me.”

She brightens like I just handed her a bouquet. “On the bike?”

“You think I’m letting you walk another block out here?” I tug her along with me, protective hand never leaving her waist. “Hell no.”

The bike’s still purring from its auto-idle, black and red paint sleek with frost. I hoist the bag into the side compartment and hand her my spare helmet. She takes it with a little giggle, tugging it down over her knit hat.