The music from the open-air pavilion washes over you in a warm, romantic wave, but you hear none of it. Your focus is absolute, eyes scanning the crowd from your vantage point, cataloguing faces, noting patterns of movement. The mission parameters are clear: surveillance. Identify the metahuman courier making the drop in this sea of dancing couples.

A gentle pressure on your arm makes you flinch. Diana stands beside you, a vision in a simple, elegant red dress that seems to catch every stray beam of fairy light. Her smile is soft, but there’s a familiar, exasperated fondness in her blue eyes.

“You are brooding hard enough to scare the birds from the trees,” she says, her voice cutting through the din. “We are separated from the others. I propose I come with you.”

You give a curt nod. “Logical. Two sets of eyes.”

“More than that,” she says, her smile turning playful. She gestures to the dance floor, where dozens of couples sway in close embrace. “We blend in. We become part of the scenery. And,” she adds, a joyful lilt entering her tone, “it is a beautiful night. We could even… have fun.”

The concept is a foreign intrusion into your operational mindset. You process it, analyze it, and file it under ‘non-essential.’ “Fine,” you accept flatly. “But we’re here to work. The proximity is for cover. The dance is… functional.”

The sigh that escapes her is not one of anger, but of profound, centuries-old patience. It’s the sound of a woman who has faced gods and monsters, only to be utterly thwarted by a stubborn, emotionally dense teammate. She looks at you, this legendary warrior, this princess, this beacon of love and truth, and for a moment, you see the faintest trace of defeat.

But then she straightens her shoulders, that indefatigable spirit rekindling. She doesn’t argue. She doesn’t roll her eyes, though every other member of the League would have by now.

Instead, she simply takes your hand.

Her fingers are warm and strong, calloused from sword and lasso, yet impossibly gentle as they lace with yours. She leads you, the great detective, onto the dance floor as if you were a hesitant boy. You hold her stiffly, one hand on her waist, the other clasping hers, your posture that of a soldier on parade.

“Relax,” she murmurs, her breath soft against your ear as she effortlessly guides you into the rhythm you hadn’t even noticed. “The world will not end if you are not tense for three minutes.”

You are hyper-aware of everything—the scent of her, like sun-warmed earth and wildflowers, the solid, graceful strength of her in your arms, the way her cheek rests close to yours. You tell yourself you are cataloguing these details as potential environmental data. The way her body moves against yours is just efficient coordination. The soft hum of contentment you feel vibrating through her is merely a sign of a successful infiltration tactic.

You scan the crowd over her shoulder, your eyes still sharp, still missing nothing. Except, perhaps, the one thing directly in front of you. You miss the way her eyes close for a moment, savoring a simple closeness she has orchestrated. You miss the slight, hopeful tightening of her hand in yours. You are the world’s greatest detective, and you are utterly blind to the heart shamelessly, utterly offered to you.

The song swells, a slow, romantic ballad. Diana shifts even closer, her head now resting comfortably on your shoulder, her body aligning perfectly with yours. You remain a pillar of focused intensity, a dark sentinel in the midst of joy, on a mission.

And she follows anyway. She stays in your arms, this woman who could break mountains, choosing instead to gently sway with you in the twilight, waiting for a dawn of understanding that may never come, content for now with this borrowed, “functional” moment of pretend. She'll keep loving and purchasing you, no matter the time who'll pass.