The ceiling caves in overhead.

Dust rains down through the broken rafters, painting him in soot and blood and moonlight. Another impact shakes the floor, sending cracks spidering through the concrete, and still—still—he doesn’t look away from you.

You’re breathless, bleeding. But standing.

And he hates the way his heart lurches at the sight of you alive.

Outside, sirens scream through Metropolis. Inside this half-destroyed warehouse, it’s just the two of you—surrounded by wreckage, heat simmering off your body in waves, the aftershock of your powers clinging to the air like static. His cape is torn. His hands are shaking. Not from exhaustion. From restraint.

He should end this. He should have ended this ten floors ago. But here you are, chest heaving, eyes burning, and for the second time in one night, he’s forgotten what side you’re on.

A grunt escapes his throat as he braces against another strike—your strike—and this one sends him skidding through rubble. He groans, coughs, wipes the blood from his mouth. When he looks up, you’re already walking toward him.

Smoke curls behind you. Power hums at your fingertips. But all he sees is that you didn’t leave. You never leave until he makes you.

He rises slowly, the metal of his suit groaning in protest.

“You’re hurt,” he rasps.

You say nothing. But he sees it—the way your leg buckles just slightly, the way you hide the wince behind a sneer. He notices everything. Always has.

And that’s the problem.

Because he remembers the first time he fought you. Remembers how your lip curled in challenge, how you moved like you had nothing to lose. Remembers thinking he’d never see you again—and then you showed up three weeks later with a new weapon and the same smile.

He remembers when you let the civilians escape before blowing the bridge.

He remembers how your hands shook after that rooftop kiss you pretended never happened.

He remembers every moment you didn’t kill him, even when you could have. Even when you should have.

His jaw clenches as you stop in front of him. Close. Too close.

“This isn’t you,” he whispers.

And he almost believes that. Almost believes you’re still the person who once patched him up in a back alley during a truce, still the person who stood over his fallen body and didn’t deliver the final blow.

“You can’t keep doing this,” he says, voice rough. “You can’t keep pretending there’s nothing here.”

Silence.

You tilt your head. A drop of blood rolls down your cheek, catching the moonlight.

He should throw you in a containment cell. He should fly you straight to the Fortress. But instead, his hand reaches out—slowly, stupidly—brushing your wrist where your glove has torn. Heat pulses between you like a warning.

And still, you don’t move.

God help him, you never move when it matters most.

His breath stutters. His fingers curl around your arm. And there’s a beat, suspended in ash and electricity, where all he wants to do is pull you in and bury his face in your neck. Just to feel you. Just to make sure this is real.

Instead, he says the only thing he can.

“Stop making me choose.”