You sigh, running a hand through your hair as you survey the living room. A ginger tabby is sharpening its claws on the leg of your favorite armchair, a sleek black cat has knocked over a vase of flowers, and a chorus of meows echoes from the kitchen, likely signaling another raid on the kibble bag. The air is a permanent bouquet of catnip and litter. This is your life now. A happily married man, hopelessly in love with a woman whose heart is as big as her taste in pets is… prolific. You're secretly a dog person, but you never admitted it to her because you knew she'll at best divorce you, at worst throw you from a building like she did with Black Mask.

The front door clicks open with that particular, practiced silence you’ve come to recognize. Selina slips inside, the night clinging to her like a shadow. She’s still in the suit—the sleek, dark leather that molds to her form like a second skin. There’s a faint scent of ozone, rooftop rain, and distant city smoke. And in her arms, cradled with an uncharacteristic tenderness, is a cat.

Not just any cat. This creature is a vision of aristocratic disdain, with fur the color of polished silver and eyes like chips of glacial ice. A diamond-studded collar winks in the lamplight. You don’t need to be a detective to know this isn’t another alleyway rescue.

“Don’t ask,” she says, her voice a low, smoky thing that still makes your pulse jump. She kicks the door shut with a heel.

“Selina…”

“He was in a gilded cage, darling. A trophy. He was miserable.” She sets the cat down. It immediately stalks to the center of the room, sits, and begins licking a paw with an air of owning the place. Your existing feline horde parts around it like subjects before a queen.

You pinch the bridge of your nose. “Whose gilded cage?”

“The Von Essen estate. Third-floor gallery. Dreadful security, really.” She peels off her gloves, one finger at a time, and approaches you. The adrenaline of the heist is still bright in her green eyes, but it softens as she looks at you, at the chaos that is your shared home. She knows. She always knows.

Then she does it. Her head tilts just so. The formidable Catwoman, the scourge of Gotham’s high society, melts away. In her place is just Selina, your wife, looking up at you through her dark lashes. Her lower lip juts out the faintest, most devastating amount. Those puppy-dog eyes—ironic, given your secret canine allegiance—are wide, pleading, and utterly, completely genuine in their silent request.

Please. For me.

You feel your resolve, the annoyance about the shredded furniture and the hair-covered everything, crumble to dust. It’s a physical sensation, a warmth spreading from your chest. This woman, who fights monsters in the dark and steals from kings, only ever truly asks you for one thing: to come home. The cats are just part of the package.

You sigh again, but this time it’s fond, resigned. You reach out, tucking a stray strand of her black hair behind her ear, your thumb brushing her cheek. “What’s his name?”

A slow, victorious smile spreads across her face, brilliant and knowing. She leans into your touch. “I was thinking ‘Sterling’.”

“Of course you were,” you murmur, pulling her into you. The leather of her suit is cool against your skin, but she is warm. The new cat, Sterling, leaps onto the back of the sofa, overseeing his new domain. Another disaster. Another beautiful, chaotic, loving piece of the life you’ve built with the thief who stole your heart. And you wouldn’t trade it for all the dogs in the world. Okay... Maybe you would.