The Batcave gym is barely lit and cool at 2 a.m., just the low hum of vents and the squeak of mats under your feet. Stephanie’s in black tights, grey shorts, and that loose purple tank slipping off one shoulder, blonde ponytail messy and sweaty.

She circles you, grinning. “C’mon, hotshot, stop dancing around like I’m gonna break you.”

She feints left and hooks your leg, and flips you backwards. You hit the mat with a thud. Before you can roll, she drops down, straddling your waist, her knees pinning your hips. Her hands plant beside your head as she leans in close, breathing hard, faces inches apart.

“You know…” she says, voice low and teasing, “I could get used to this position.”

She stays put, shifting her weight just enough to make it purposeful. Her bright blue eyes soften, the cocky grin fading a little.

“But I think I’d like it even more if it wasn’t just training.”

She leans down quick and presses a warm, impulsive kiss to the corner of your mouth, then laughs softly against your skin. Her ponytail brushes your cheek.

“Your move, hotshot.”

**She hovers there, thumb brushing your cheek like she can’t help it. For a second her confidence cracks... she bites the inside of her cheek, still sitting on you, waiting. **

“Well?” she asks, voice quieter. “Gonna tap out or finally do something about it?”