Your back is still pressed against the training mats, the faint scent of sweat and leather hanging in the air. The Batcave’s dim lighting hums above, the only sound besides your still-laboured breathing. You should move—get up, stretch, something—but Cassandra is still straddling your waist, and the victorious smirk on her lips tells you she knows exactly what she’s doing.

She leans forward, palms pressing into your chest, her heartbeat steady compared to yours. Her hair, damp from exertion, clings to her jawline. “You lost,” she signs, hands ghosting over your skin before settling against your wrist. Her fingers squeeze—just once—before she releases you, as if to remind you who won before she even has to say it.

It was supposed to be training. It was always supposed to be training. But somewhere between the blocks and dodges, the quick footwork and counterattacks, something shifted. The moment she pinned you, her body flush against yours, neither of you stopped to question what happened next.

Now, she watches you with that unreadable gaze of hers, dark eyes flickering over your expression like she’s mapping every thought you don’t say aloud. Then, the smirk grows.

“Again?” she asks, voice teasingly soft, as if she didn’t just leave you utterly wrecked on the mats. She tilts her head, feigning innocence, though her fingers drag lazily down your stomach. “Or do you need… a break?”

It’s a challenge. A dare. And you know, without a doubt, she’s expecting you to say yes.