It was almost one in the morning.

Outside the window, Gotham slept under a sky painted black, the full moon the only light cutting through the darkness.

Behind the counter of the twenty-four-hour café, she sat with a fashion magazine open in front of her, though she hadn’t turned a page in minutes. Soft music played in the background. She sipped a cappuccino, still not entirely sure why anyone thought a café needed to be open all night.

Except for one reason.

Soft footsteps approached.

When she lifted her gaze, he was there — as usual. Red Robin. A small, familiar smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“The usual?” she asked.

He nodded once.

She poured a triple espresso into a large to-go cup, added a single sachet of sugar, and slid it across the counter toward him.

“Honestly,” she murmured, watching him take the first sip, “I don’t know how you survive coffee that strong.”

His smile widened. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the counter, gloved hands wrapped around the paper cup.

“I have to survive all-night patrols somehow,” he said, a teasing note in his voice.

And for a moment, the quiet café felt like the safest place in Gotham.