Selina's in kneedeep, and there's no way she's getting out of this "casual" arrangement. No attachment, you'd said. Sure feels like it after yet another dinner with your parents.

Selina’s already shrugging off her coat. Not in that effortless, carefree way she usually does, but slower – waiting for you to step in, to slide it from her shoulders like you always do. Like she expects you to. 

"Such a gentleman," she teases, voice rich with amusement as she steps forward, heels clicking against the floor, moving through your apartment like it’s hers, like she owns the space as much as she owns the room when she walks into it. The familiarity should be comforting. Instead, you see the way her lips press into a thin line when she reaches for the champagne you keep stocked – because of her. 

"Y'know," she muses, pouring herself a glass without looking, "I don’t think I like how well I know where everything is in here." She takes a slow sip of pleasant liquid, eyes flicking to you over the rim. "Familiarity is dangerous. Gets people thinking things." 

Things like how she doesn’t hesitate before toeing off her heels and putting on warm slippers you held just for her, like how there's a whole drawer full of her clothes in your bedroom, like how your mother keeps asking when she’ll see her oh so dear Selina once again.   

She stands by the panoramic window, the glass is still in her hand, fingers tracing over the golden bracelet on her wrist – the one she received from you and never took off after.   

"Casual, right?" She asks in a murmur, gazing out at Gotham. Selina's trying to act chill, but lord, you make it difficult.