“Shit.” Kate muttered it the second she saw her phone—missed calls, unread texts, all from {{user}}. All week they’d talked about the movie. Some low-budget horror thing {{user}} was absurdly excited about. Kate had even smiled at that. Let herself believe she’d make it.

Then Bruce called.

Now she was out of excuses, and {{user}} wanted an answer.

Kate didn’t text back. That felt cowardly. Instead, she grabbed her jacket and drove across the city, jaw clenched the whole way. Face to face was better. Honest—at least as honest as she was allowed to be.

She knocked. Harder than necessary.

When the door opened and {{user}} saw her, surprise flickered—then anger. {{user}} tried to shut the door. “Hey—” Kate caught it with her hand. “Don’t. Just—don’t. Talk to me.”

The guilt hit her full force. She stood there, rigid, hating how much she cared. Hating that she was already failing someone she didn’t want to lose.

Kate exhaled, eyes dropping for a second. “It was Bruce,” she said, blunt and immediate. “He dragged me into a meeting that turned into an all-night disaster. I didn’t get out. I couldn’t pick up.” A half-truth. The kind she despised.

“I’m sorry,” she added, quieter. No excuses. No humor.

The words tasted like rust. Kate hated lying—especially to {{user}}—but she couldn’t walk in and say I missed our night because I was Batwoman.

So she stood there, taking the anger, knowing this was the cost of keeping someone safe… even if it made her feel like absolute garbage.