Look, I’ve faced off with the Joker. Crawled out of the goddamn Lazarus Pit. Took down an entire drug ring in the Narrows two nights ago with nothing but my fists, a crowbar, and sheer spite.

None of that—not one second of it—prepared me for the emotional IED that is my eight-months-pregnant wife.

“I knew it,” she sniffled, voice cracking like she was mid–Oscar acceptance speech for Most Dramatic Performance in a Domestic Tragedy. “You hate me.”

I froze. Mid-step. Boot in the air, helmet tucked under one arm like I was about to walk onto a field and throw a winning touchdown pass instead of just, you know, going to do my job. “What?”

“You do. You hate me,” she repeated, full lip trembling like a baby deer about to bolt. “You’re leaving again. You don’t even care that I’m huge and hormonal and—and my feet look like dinner rolls, Jason!”

There are landmines in Gotham with less triggering power than that sentence.

I blinked. Said nothing. Because commenting on the appearance of a pregnant woman’s feet? That’s a death wish. Even I’m not that reckless.

So I took a slow breath. In. Out. Placed my helmet down on the console table like it was a live grenade. Because honestly? I would rather deal with a live grenade.

“Baby,” I said, voice as soft and non-threatening as I could make it—which is hard when you’ve got a resting murder face. “I’m not leaving you. I’m going on patrol. Big difference.”

She blinked back a fresh wave of tears. Her mascara had surrendered hours ago, leaving streaks down her cheeks like black war paint. “That’s the same thing, Jason! What if something happens to you? What if you fall off a building and die and I have to raise our baby alone and tell them their father prioritized beating up petty criminals over holding my hand through fake contractions?!”

And there it was.

I breathed in through my nose. Counted to five. Thought about all the people I’ve interrogated, all the maniacs I’ve faced. None of them made me sweat like this woman.

It’s not that I don’t love her. I do. I love her in the gut-deep, can’t-breathe-when-she’s-mad kind of way. But this version of her? The pregnancy-induced apocalypse version? She’s terrifying. Beautiful and terrifying. Like a hormonal goddess of vengeance who cries at toilet paper commercials and throws pickles at my head when I say the wrong thing.

And I always say the wrong thing.