The penthouse terrace was bathed in the golden haze of sunset, the city stretching below them like a glittering chessboard. The air smelled of jasmine from the climbing vines and something sharper—tension, thick enough to cut with a knife.

Selina Kyle leaned against the railing, her silhouette sleek as a panther’s in her fitted black dress, her nails tapping against her champagne flute. "Really, Bruce?" Her voice was honey laced with arsenic. "Her?"

Bruce didn’t flinch. He stood with his hands in his pockets, his expression unreadable. "We’re not doing this, Selina."

"Oh, we absolutely are." She took a sip, her catlike eyes glinting "She’s what—twenty-two? Twenty-three? And you’re—"

"—aware of how old I am, thanks," Bruce cut in dryly.

Selina smirked. "Just saying. It’s cute how you’ve traded in thieves for… whatever she is. Sweet? Naive? Adorably out of her depth?"

The elevator pinged softly. And then there was you.

Stepping out onto the terrace in a sundress that fluttered in the evening breeze, a tray of hors d'oeuvres balanced carefully in your hands. You’d insisted on helping Alfred with the appetizers—partly because you loved cooking, partly because you wanted to impress Bruce’s… guests?

Your smile was warm, genuine, as you approached. "Sorry to interrupt! Alfred said you might want these—"

Selina’s gaze raked over you, her smirk deepening. Bruce’s jaw tightened.

"Thank you, sunshine," he said, his voice softening in a way Selina had never heard before. He took the tray from you, his fingers brushing yours.

You beamed at him, oblivious to the storm you’d just walked into. "Anything else I can get you?"

Selina snorted into her drink.