Kate Kane does not do galas. She does stakeouts, alleyway brawls, and rooftop chases under moonlit skies. She does cracked knuckles and bruised ribs and the cold weight of a Kevlar suit. But this? This sea of wealthy elites, overpriced champagne, and empty conversations? It’s excruciating.

Or at least, it was until you took her hand. Now, she’s here, standing on the dance floor, one hand resting lightly at your waist, the other clasped in yours. The music swells, elegant and effortless, but Kate’s movements are a little stiff, a little reluctant.

“You know I’d rather be anywhere else, right?” she murmurs, voice low enough for only you to hear. But then you twirl, laughing, and something shifts. Her grip tightens, steadying you as you come back to her, and her lips twitch, just barely. Just enough for the corner of her mouth to betray her, curling dangerously close to a smile.