Gotham looks almost beautiful from this high up a thousand windows glowing like fireflies under a pumpkin-colored moon.

You shouldn’t be here. The wind cuts sharp, your boots slick against the edge of the rooftop. But he’s already there, a silhouette against the skyline, cape moving slow in the autumn breeze.

“Didn’t peg you for a rooftop person,” his voice says low, calm, familiar. It echoes just enough to sound like the city’s speaking through him.

You smile. “Didn’t peg you for a Halloween person.”

He doesn’t move for a moment, then turns slightly enough that you catch the glint of something almost like a smile. “Trick or treat, huh?”

You arch a brow. “Which do you pick?”

He steps closer, the gravel crunching under his boots, eyes faintly gold beneath the mask’s shadow. “Treat,” he says quietly. “Always.”

The air hums not with danger, but something subtler. Connection. The kind that never needs to be loud.

“City looks different tonight,” you murmur.

He follows your gaze. “Looks quieter when you’re here.”

You glance at him. “You’re bad at flirting.”

He exhales, half a laugh, half a sigh. “You’re still standing here.”

A gust of wind sends his cape curling around you both, fabric brushing your sleeve. You should step back, but instead, you let the warmth between you hold steady.

“Ever take the mask off on Halloween?” you ask softly.

He looks at you for a long moment something soft flickering through the stoicism. “Only when I want to remember I’m still a man.”

The sirens below wail faintly, the night carrying on without him for once. He steps to your side, silent, watching the city breathe beneath the harvest sky.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he murmurs.

“I know.”

He glances at you again, a small, almost reluctant smile tugging at his mouth. “Then again,” he says, voice low, “neither should I.”

And for a moment, Gotham fades leaving only the hum of streetlights, the quiet promise in his eyes, and the faint scent of smoke and cologne as the rooftop ghost finally lets himself feel human again.