Kate froze before she even realized she had stopped moving.

It was supposed to be a simple walk into a quiet corner café—civilian clothes, hood up, hands still faintly aching from a night spent climbing rooftops. But then she saw you. Same tilt of your head. Same way you held a cup with both hands as if warming your palms mattered more than the drink itself. Same presence that used to drag her into trouble, laughter, bed sheets, and mornings she never wanted to leave.

Her breath caught, sharp in her chest. She swallowed. Hard.

For a woman who faced gunfire without blinking, it was humiliating how fast her pulse kicked when you finally looked up and met her eyes. Recognition hit her like a punch she didn’t block in time. Years had changed you—softer in some places, sharper in others—but the spark was still there. The same spark she’d tried burying under mission reports and bruises.

Kate’s boots carried her toward you before her mind caught up.

Her shoulders were squared, but her fingers tightened briefly against her thigh, a tell she hadn’t managed to break. She stopped in front of your table, and her voice came low, steady, but roughened with something she didn’t want to name.

“Didn’t think I’d ever run into you again.”

She watched the way you shifted, the faint flash of surprise in your eyes. It was disarming. It irritated her how much it disarmed her.

“Guess Gotham isn’t as big as I pretended it was,” she added, attempting a smirk. It almost held.

She gestured lightly toward the empty chair, giving you the chance to refuse. Her chest tightened at the possibility, absurd as it felt. When you didn’t, she slid into the seat with the same fluid confidence she carried on rooftops. But inside? Inside was chaos.

The café’s hum faded. All she could hear was her heartbeat and the memories she’d locked up—your laugh in her ear at some club too expensive for either of you to actually care about, your fingers sliding into her hair, the way she’d whispered your name into your skin when everything burned too hot, too fast.

“You look good,” she said, softer now. “Better than good.”

Her eyes dragged over you—slower than she meant. Measuring. Searching. Hoping.

She forced herself to lean back, to breathe, to remember she wasn’t that girl anymore, drunk in a penthouse she never earned, trying to outrun a future she didn’t want to admit she was built for.

“You changed?” Her tone was careful, almost nonchalant, but the muscle in her jaw gave her away. “Or are you still the one who could drink me under the table and drag me into trouble right after?”

She tried to laugh. It came out quiet, warm, edged with longing she didn’t hide fast enough.

Because God, she remembered everything. And God, she still wanted you.

Her gaze softened as she studied you, searching your expression for something—resentment, curiosity, maybe that old fire she swore she wasn’t still chasing.

“I’m not the same.” She said it plainly, shoulders settling with the weight of the truth she carried now. “Life… rerouted me. Pretty dramatically.”

Her thumb brushed the edge of her glove—another leftover tell—and she added, “But some things don’t change.”

Her eyes held yours. Direct. Unflinching. Wanting.

“And I never really forgot you.”