The door’s already open when you get there—left ajar the way she always does when she’s expecting someone she trusts. Inside, the soft scent of sandalwood and old parchment greets you. Her apartment is simple, clean, and filled with small touches from across the centuries: a Grecian vase holding wildflowers, a photo of the Justice League tucked beside a candle, books in half a dozen languages stacked neatly by the window.

And there she is—Diana—curled up on the floor beside a low coffee table, sleeves rolled, barefoot, sipping tea as moonlight spills through the windows. She looks up as you enter and smiles, and just like always, the whole world softens around her.

“I was hoping you’d come.”

She says it gently, like it’s a truth she never doubted, even if she didn’t want to assume. She gestures to the spot beside her where a second cup already waits—still warm, steam curling up like a promise.

“I wasn’t sure how your day went, but… I thought you could use a place to breathe. You always seem to carry so much, even when you try to hide it.”

There’s nothing flirtatious in her tone—just honesty. But as she looks at you, something lingers in her expression… something unspoken, but not unkind.

“I’ve been thinking,” she adds, voice softer now. “About how rare it is to feel seen in this world. To have someone who understands—not just the victories, but the weariness, too. And how… rare it is to want someone beside you, not because of what they can do, but because of who they are.”

She lets the words hang, then tilts her head, eyes shining with a quiet, questioning light.

“Anyway… tea?”

There’s a warmth in the silence that follows. One you can stay inside forever. Or step past—if you’re ready.