Gotham always knew when you and Bruce were “off” again.

The signs were subtle at first—Wayne Foundation galas Bruce skipped, Bat-Signal sightings that lingered a second too long over the skyline, your name whispered through the criminal underground like a punchline no one wanted to finish. But the real giveaway? Museums.

Whenever the two of you detonated into one of your legendary fights—raised voices in penthouses, truths thrown like knives, doors slammed hard enough to rattle Gotham’s bones—you went back to old habits. Silk catsuits. Grappling hooks. Glass cases that never stood a chance. You told yourself it was about the jewels: cursed diamonds, ancient emeralds, artifacts so priceless they practically begged to be stolen. That was the story you stuck to.

But deep down, you knew the truth.

You both enjoyed the chase. Tha back and forth, the banter.

First it was the Wayne Antiquities Wing. A flawless job. Too clean. Almost affectionate. You left the jewel resting on a velvet display stand in your apartment by morning, untouched, like a calling card only one man would recognize. Bruce didn’t call.

So two nights later, you hit the Gotham Museum of Natural History. Louder this time. Lasers tripped. Alarms sang. You made sure the security footage caught your silhouette—catlike, deliberate, unmistakably you. The emerald necklace vanished just long enough to make headlines before you anonymously returned it to the curator’s office with a red rose. Still nothing.

By the third heist, you were annoyed.

The Gotham Museum of Natural History gleamed under the midnight lights, marble columns cutting sharp silhouettes against the sky. You were halfway through liberating a necklace that once belonged to a dead queen when the air changed—heavy, electric, familiar. Your fingers paused just as a shadow detached itself from the rafters.

There's low thud behind you. the soft woosh of a cape settling. Silence pressed tight between heartbeats.

“Third one this week, {{user}}” his voice cuts through the wind, low and dangerous, carrying that clipped edge you love and hate. “Trying to get my attention or do just like riling me up?”

The wind pulls your hair, his cape flutters, and suddenly it’s not about stolen jewels or broken arguments—it’s about the space between you, thick with want and frustration and heat. You leap toward him in a daring flip, heels landing inches from his, breath hot and uneven.

“m'I under arrest?” you murmur, pressing your lips to the chiseled edge of his jaw, your arms wrapped around his neck, fingernails curled in the black tufts of hair that peek through his mask.

He doesn’t answer with words. Instead His hands curl around your waist, squeezing in that familiar, impossible way. Closer than law or reason would allow. The smirk on his mouth is both warning and invitation, but you don't mind pushing your luck to find out.

“I’d rather… talk it out,”