He thought he was seeing things at first. The shape, the suit, the stance—no. Couldn’t be. Not you.

But then you turned. And it was.

Of course it was. Because the universe loved jokes almost as much as he did.

Why would you appear when he’d finally gotten over you? When he’d finally stopped checking the rooftops out of habit. When your name had finally stopped echoing every time he patched himself up.

You were looking down, to a building, focused on some mission probably, unreadable as always. The kind of calm he never managed to have.

He froze mid-step. The noise, the cars, the chaos—none of it mattered for a second. All he could hear was that tiny voice in his head saying don’t look at them. Don’t look too long.

But of course he did.

His throat tightened under the mask. His fingers itched to say something stupid, break the tension with a joke, but for once, even he couldn’t find the words.

He hated that you could still do that to him.

So instead, he just muttered under his breath, “Perfect. Just perfect,” and holstered his gun. He didn’t even look your way when he added, “Just the cherry on top to finish my night.”

The city lights glinted off his suit as he walked past you.