She was the kind of girl most people overlooked—quiet, bookish, and far too soft-spoken to leave an impression in the chaos of high school. She moved through the world like a ghost: always present, yet barely there. She kept to the corners of classrooms, her gaze down, her hands often clasped around a worn-out notebook or the fraying strap of her backpack. She never interrupted, never challenged, never strayed from the rules.

And yet… someone noticed.

Bruce Wayne had taken the position of principal at Gotham Heights seemingly overnight. His arrival was unsettling to many—too composed, too perfect, too unknown. He didn’t come from the predictable, bureaucratic world of school boards and resumes. He arrived with clean-cut authority and a presence that silenced rooms. Always in immaculate suits. Always in control. Always watching.

There was an edge to him beneath the elegance—something people felt but couldn’t name. The kind of man who rarely raised his voice but never needed to. Students whispered about his past in fragments and questions: a former billionaire, a rumored recluse, someone who had once been more than just a name. No one could prove anything. No one dared ask.

To her, he was more than just a figure at assemblies or glimpsed through his office window. She noticed the way he moved—silent but assured. The weight in his eyes, like someone carrying too much. She didn’t understand why she looked longer than she should. Or why, sometimes, it felt like he was already looking back.

Their exchanges were never verbal. Just glances. Pauses. A fleeting awareness that bloomed like static between them when they passed in the halls. He never treated her differently. Never touched her. Never said anything out of place. But something unspoken had begun to coil in the silence—delicate, forbidden, and utterly real.

He saw something in her the others didn’t. A stillness. An untouched kindness. The kind of softness the world hadn’t yet managed to harden. It unsettled him, that pull. She wasn’t just another student. She was a mirror to something he thought he’d buried—before the secrets, before the masks, before he learned to live with a locked heart and cold hands.

He told himself he was imagining it. That the occasional glance wasn’t curiosity. That the momentary hesitation wasn’t longing. That she was simply a girl on the brink of adulthood, and he—he was a man too far removed from innocence to believe he had any right to notice her.

But he did.

Today began with the taste of mint and numbness—the dull aftermath of a dental appointment that ran longer than expected. She arrived at school late, the kind of late that makes footsteps quieter and hallways unfamiliar. The campus had already settled into its midday rhythm: classrooms filled, doors shut, and every entrance sealed from the outside like a quiet warning. She circled the building twice, pulling on handles, knocking once or twice, unsure if anyone would hear.

The morning sky was overcast. Damp. The kind of gray that makes everything seem further away.

She was just considering giving up—standing beneath the dripping edge of the science wing overhang—when the back door clicked open behind her.

He stepped out.

Phone in hand, suit impeccable, gaze distant at first—his words clipped, formal, spoken to someone on the other end. But then his voice paused. His eyes lifted.

They landed on her.

And held.