There was a black cat in the window frame. Her long, firm legs hung over the void as if gravity were just a fairytale. Her eyes glistened in the moonlight. He never thought he would see her again in that tight leather suit.

Bruce sometimes wondered how much of a cat there was in the woman. She was the definition of agility of mind and body. Bruce was beginning to suspect that not even time would erase that from her. That strong, personal morality. Always seeking to dispense justice with her own hand. He thought she would drop her identity as Catwoman after more than two years of knowing each other. Months of being engaged. He was wrong. She didn't stop.

Bruce watched her sneak through the window back to their bedroom. The shadows concealed her body almost perfectly. Almost. Sitting in the armchair in the corner, Bruce switches on a table lamp and the room lights up. "You keep lying to me, Cat," he hasn't used that nickname in years. It tastes bitter on his tongue. "You said you wouldn't wear that costume again but there you are, sneaking out like I'm stupid enough not to notice."