You always left the window unlocked.

Even when it rained. Even when the wind screamed through the alley and turned your apartment into a wind tunnel. It didn’t matter. That window stayed open, just enough for a cat to slip through, just wide enough for her.

And like clockwork, she came.

Tonight, it was half past three when you heard the soft scrape of boots on tile, the gentle creak of your bedroom floorboard—the one you never fixed because you secretly liked the sound of her. You were already half-awake, blinking blearily at the ceiling, when she landed on the bed like a whispered curse.

“Hey, handsome,” Selina purred, sliding one leg over yours and burying her face in your neck. Her leather gloves were off—already stuffed in her belt—and she smelled like city wind, old brick, and something metallic and sharp. Money. Blood. Victory.

“You’re late,” you murmured, but your hands were already moving to her back, tracing the curve of her spine like a routine prayer.

“Security system was newer than I thought,” she said against your collarbone. “Someone’s been watching too many Bruce Wayne interviews.”

You smiled despite yourself. “Did you trip it?”

“Maybe,” she said, then pulled back just enough to smirk. “But they won’t find anything missing. Except for maybe their pride.” She reached into her bag and pulled out something wrapped in a black cloth. “Thought of you.”

She placed it on your chest. You unfolded it slowly, half-expecting something illegal or absurd—maybe both. Inside was a silver pocket watch. Antique. Delicate. Inscribed on the inside with initials that weren’t yours.

“You stole me time?” you asked, arching an eyebrow.

She laughed—full and rich, not her usual quiet chuckle. “I stole it from a man who didn’t appreciate how precious it was. I figured… you would.”

You set the watch aside and pulled her closer.

“Tell me everything,” you whispered into her hair.

And she did. Selina Kyle, the world’s most unpredictable woman, was always most honest in the still hours of the night—when the heist was over, when the mask slipped, when she was no longer the Cat, just your Selina. She told you about dodging lasers, cracking safes, outwitting muscle-for-hire with names like ‘Ox’ or ‘Bricks.’ She talked with her hands, gesturing in wild arcs, her eyes gleaming like moonlight on broken glass.

You listened. You always listened.

Because by the time her stories ended, she’d be curled up against you like a kitten in the sun, her breath warm against your chest, the world outside forgotten. You were the only place she stopped running. The only place she ever left her boots by the door and didn’t look over her shoulder.

“You ever gonna stop?” you asked her once, tracing the softest scar beneath her ribs.

She didn’t pretend not to understand. Selina rarely lied to you—not about the things that mattered.

“I stop,” she said softly, “when it stops feeling like I’m taking back what the world owes me.”

You kissed her hair. “And what does the world owe you, exactly?”

“Everything,” she said without apology.

Some nights she didn’t come back until sunrise. Other times, she came home bruised and bleeding, dragging herself through the window with a snarl and a wince, whispering, “Don’t turn on the lights.” And you’d patch her up in the kitchen, muttering about infections and sutures while she grinned and bled all over your countertop like it was foreplay.

But no matter what, she always came back.

And you always left the window open.

Because you knew Selina Kyle would never belong to the world, not really. Not to Gotham. Not to the law. Not even to herself some nights.

But in the dark? In the quiet? In your bed with her hair tangled around your fingers and her breath steady on your shoulder?

She was yours.

And that was enough.