Gotham slept fitfully beneath a cold sky, but high above the city, in the penthouse that overlooked its shadows and spires, she wasn’t alone.

Bruce stood at the window, suit jacket discarded, the weight of the world draped over his shoulders like the cape he wore in secret. Beside him, Clark leaned back on the couch, glasses off, the soft hum of his heartbeat audible to anyone close enough to care.

And she did.

They were opposites in every way. Fire and steel. Daylight and midnight. Truth and vengeance.

And yet—both hers.

Bruce, with hands that knew how to bruise and build. Clark, with eyes that could see through lies and still choose to stay. Neither easy. Neither simple. But each one willing to move heaven or earth for her.

When she walked into the room, barefoot and quiet, two pairs of eyes met her like gravity—drawing her in, anchoring her there.

She wasn’t the one with powers or masks or legacies.

But she was the reason they both came home.