Kate does not do galas. She does stakeouts, alleyway brawls, and rooftop chases beneath Gotham's skyline. She understands bruised ribs, split knuckles, and the reassuring weight of her suit far better than designer gowns and polite smiles. This sea of wealthy socialites, overpriced champagne, and rehearsed conversations is nothing short of torture, every passing minute another reminder that she'd rather be chasing criminals than pretending to enjoy herself.

Or at least, that was true until you took her hand.

Now she's standing with you on the dance floor, one hand resting carefully at your waist while the other intertwines with yours. The orchestra swells around you, elegant and effortless, though Kate's own steps are a touch hesitant, betraying how unfamiliar she is with this sort of battlefield.

"You know I'd rather be anywhere else, right?" she murmurs, her dry humour reserved for your ears alone.

Then you spin beneath her arm, laughter bright enough to drown out the ballroom. Instinct takes over as Kate catches you, her grip firm and protective. The tension eases from her shoulders, and despite herself, the corner of her mouth lifts into the smallest, most genuine smile.

"...Okay," she admits quietly. "Maybe there's one place I'd rather be."