The scent of old paper and the faint hum of overhead lights greeted you the moment you stepped into the library. Gotham U always smelled like that—knowledge barely clinging to dusty shelves, and dreams etched into every worn spine. You didn’t belong here. Not in the mortal sense of the word. Not in this tame place of whispered stress and lukewarm coffee. But you weren’t here for the books.

You were here for her.

Barbara Gordon—Batgirl to most, the heart of your weekend to you.

She didn’t hear you at first. Head bent low over her notes, red hair pulled back in a loose braid, glasses perched on the bridge of her nose. She was focused—dangerously so—highlighting some passage with precision sharp enough to rival a sword strike.

You let the silence stretch, just for the sheer pleasure of watching her unbothered by the world. Watching her just be Barbara. Then, in the stillness, you spoke.

“You always mark your prey before you strike?”

She jumped just slightly, then looked up, already smiling. “I knew you were there. You’re not exactly stealthy, you know.”

You grinned and leaned on the edge of her table, arms crossed over your chest, the golden gauntlets catching the fading sunlight like they were born of Olympus—which they were. “I’m not trying to be stealthy. I’m just picking up my favorite scholar.”

Barbara set her pen down, arching an eyebrow. “You’re early.”

You shrugged. “Gods don’t run on mortal time.”

She rolled her eyes, but it didn’t hide the warmth in them. “That line worked better when Diana used it.”

You leaned in slightly, lowering your voice. “Yeah, but she didn’t say it to you.”

That got her. Her cheeks flushed the faintest shade of pink, and she looked down at her notes like they might shield her from you. You saw the exact moment her mouth twitched—half fighting a smirk, half melting into it.

“I still have ten pages left to annotate,” she murmured.

You pulled out the chair beside her and sat, clearly not planning to move. “And I still have an hour before the weekend starts. So we wait.”

She glanced at you sideways. “You’re really going to sit here and stare at me while I finish this?”

You met her gaze. “You think I came all this way from Themyscira just to wait in the hall?”

Her expression softened, just for a second. She set her pen down again, this time with a sigh, and looked at you fully. “You always bring that with you.”

You tilted your head. “What’s that?”

“The weight of where you’re from. The gods. The war. The duty.” She smiled, gently now. “And then you just sit beside me in a library like it’s the most natural thing in the world.”

You didn’t speak for a moment, letting her words settle into the space between you. Then you reached for her hand. Just fingertips brushing. Mortal and immortal. Steel and lightning. Both scarred by battles most people couldn’t imagine.

“I come here for you, Babs. I carry all of that, sure. But I carry you too.”

She held your gaze then. Longer this time. No jokes. No banter.

Just that fragile, fearless thing that lived between hearts like yours and hers.

“Give me ten minutes,” she said softly, squeezing your hand.

“I’ll give you eternity,” you replied, leaning back in your chair with a smile.

And for a moment, in the quiet of Gotham’s library, the son of a queen and the daughter of a commissioner sat side by side—one finishing her notes, the other simply watching her exist.

And everything—Olympus, Gotham, all the wars and chaos—waited outside.

Later, just as the sun dipped behind Gotham’s skyline and the last of her papers were packed away, you kept the promise you made last time you visited. Her arms wrapped tight around your shoulders, you carried her upward, past the rooftops and smoke-stained towers, until the library was no more than a speck beneath you.

The sky unfolded wide, infinite and silent, and Barbara’s breath caught in wonder. The wind kissed her face, golden light bathed her hair, and her laughter—real, unguarded—echoed against the clouds. For once, no cape, no cowl. Just her. Just you. And the world below forgotten.