قبلني وكأنها أنفاسك الوحيدة
kiss me as if it were your only breath

CRACKED PHONE BARELY WORKING, its screen splintered like a spider's web.

Dried blood clung to her scrubs, a grim reminder of the night's chaos.

Bruises mottled her arms and neck, dark shadows etched into her skin.

Her lips, split from a fresh wound, stung sharply in the cold autumn air.

Maryam sat on a weathered bench by the bay, the tiny mobile clutched tightly in her hand. Being alone in Gotham was dangerous, especially with murders happening at every corner.

But it didn't matter. Not now. Not tonight.

The bridge loomed ahead, its steel arches glowing against the inky sky. The water beneath was as still as glass, broken only by the faint ripple of a passing boat. Maryam stared at it, unblinking, her hazel eyes catching the flickering lights from the towers beyond.

She didn't know how long she'd been sitting there, but her feet had carried her to this spot like they knew the way, long before her mind did.

She couldn't go home — not after what she'd seen, not after what she'd done.

When the notification lit up her shattered phone, she almost ignored it.

She didn't want to see him.

She didn't want to see anyone.

All she wanted was peace.

To be left alone.

But Zorro had other plans.

The message was simple yet persistent, and she found herself caving. Maybe he was hurt. Maybe he had something important, something she couldn't afford to overlook.

She didn't know.

Her thumb hovered over the screen. She didn't want to care. She didn't want to say yes. But she already knew she would.

And she hated herself for it.

She hadn't spoken to her sisters in days. The thought tugged at her, worry curling in her chest like a tightly wound thread.

But then again, it wasn't unusual. Maryam had always been the one to pull away, disappearing into her own world when life got too heavy.

Her family understood that by now; they didn't press, didn't pry. They knew better than to poke at wounds she wasn't ready to explain.

Still, the silence lingered.

Sherine was probably working herself into the ground in Metropolis, barely finding time to eat, let alone check in. That was just Sherine — a force of nature in the world of corporate litigation.

Warda had her own storms to weather, her focus entirely on the tiny life growing inside her. Maryam could still picture the ultrasound photos Warda had sent weeks ago, her excitement spilling out in voice notes that Maryam hadn't had the heart to respond to.

And Rania ? God, she was all over the news these days. Maryam remembered catching a glimpse of Bella's confident smile plastered on a banner outside a café, the words "Change Starts Here" bold beneath her face. According to Bella's last message, a major speech was coming up soon. Maryam meant to reply, to offer some words of encouragement, but the weight of her own life had held her back.

Then there was Alma.

Sweet, stubborn Alma, who should've been neck-deep in her bar exam prep but instead seemed tangled in something much more dangerous. And that "something" had a name: Vito Falcone.

The memory of their last argument flashed through Maryam's mind, sharp as broken glass.

She'd begged Alma to stay away from him, her voice rising until it cracked. "The Falcones are poison," she'd said. "You don't get involved with people like that and walk away unscathed." But Alma had brushed her off, her defiance as fierce as Maryam's fear.

Maryam had taken it a step further. As the Wraith, she'd sought out Vito herself, cornering him in the shadows with the kind of questions no one dared to ask. He hadn't been shaken. Not even close. Instead, he'd met her with a grin that made her blood run cold, his confidence like a blade against her resolve. "You've got nothing to worry about," he'd said. "I'm not my father."

But those words didn't mean much in a city like Gotham, where trust was a currency too expensive for most to afford.

Since then, there'd been nothing.

No cryptic messages from Alma.

No rumors.

No whispers of danger.

Just silence.

And maybe that should've been a relief, but it wasn't. Not here. Silence had a way of mutating into chaos when you least expected it.

Maryam shifted on the cold bench, her elbows resting on her knees as she stared out at the bay.

Her fingers, still stiff from the chill, rubbed idly at the edge of the cracked phone in her lap. She wanted to believe it was over, that Alma had come to her senses and walked away. She wanted to believe Vito Falcone had been telling the truth.

But belief didn't come easy these days.

Her eyes dropped to the pavement beneath her boots. Maybe she'd done everything she could. She'd warned her sister.

She'd confronted the man.

If Alma wouldn't listen, what else was there to do? She couldn't fight battles she didn't understand, not when her own life felt like it was crumbling beneath her.

Still, it gnawed at her — the thought of Alma stepping into a world she couldn't protect her from.

And then there was Uncle Andrei's letter. Not urgent, not pressing, but another weight on her shoulders all the same.

She'd have to respond to him — figure out what to say to a man who always seemed to ask too many questions and understand too much.

Her exhaustion ran bone-deep, tugging at every corner of her being. She raised a trembling hand to her throat, fingers brushing over the tender skin where the bruises hadn't yet faded. Her mind kept circling back to him, to the call that had shattered her fragile quiet.

The freezing wind bit at her exposed face, but it wasn't the cold that made her shiver. It was the thought of what came next.

He'd said he was coming.

That strange, infuriating, autistic bat, as she'd once called him in a rare moment of candor. The name had stuck in her head ever since, not because it was fair, but because it fit in some crooked, poetic way.

She hated that he always kept his promises.

Hated that she was sitting there, freezing on a bench, because some part of her couldn't bear the thought of leaving before he arrived.

And she hated herself most of all for hoping he'd show up.

"Maryam!"

His voice cut through the freezing night like a blade, sharp and urgent. She didn't turn right away, but her shoulders stiffened as the sound reached her.

It wasn't just the voice — it was what it carried: worry, guilt, something that felt too close to regret.

She finally turned, and there he was.

Bruce, in his drifter attire, his coat flapping in the cold wind as he marched toward her with purpose. For a brief moment, it was almost like one of those quiet nights when they'd strolled through the city, conversations trailing like smoke. But this wasn't one of those nights.

His steps were quicker, his eyes wide as they scanned her, taking in the blood crusted on her scrubs, the bruises painting her arms and neck.

"What happened?" he demanded, stopping just short of her. His hand rose, instinctively reaching for her face, but she stepped back, arms folding tightly across her chest.

"Don't," she murmured, turning her gaze to the side, away from him, away from the way his eyes softened when they landed on her.

Bruce froze, his hand dropping, but his gaze didn't leave her. He studied her like she was a puzzle missing too many pieces, his jaw tightening at the sight of her battered figure.

The yellowing bruises on her neck, dotted with beauty marks he used to trace with his eyes, the faint, angry line of a cut on her lip.

"Maryam," he said again, his voice quieter this time, almost pleading. He stepped forward. She stepped back.

"Talk to me. Tell me who did this—"

"I'm fine," she interrupted, her voice flat but laced with a tremor she couldn't quite mask.

"No, you're not." His tone hardened, his chest rising and falling with his barely restrained anger. "Who did this to you?"

"Why do you care?"

The words hit him like a slap. His hand shot up to his jaw, clenching it in frustration. "You sent me a message—"

"And you didn't come," she cut in sharply, her voice rising for the first time.

He flinched.

Silence stretched between them, heavy and unbearable.

"I'm sorry," he said finally, the weight of it pressing into the space between them. "I didn't see it. I was—"

She shook her head, cutting him off again. "It doesn't matter, Bruce. I know you can't be everywhere at once."

"That's not an excuse," he shot back, voice breaking on the edges. "I should've been here. To protect you."

"I don't need your protection!" she snapped, her words cracking, betraying the defiance in her tone. Her eyes shimmered, the tears brimming dangerously close. "How many times do I have to tell you? I'm fine on my own."

Her voice faltered at the end, and she quickly shook her head, pulling the small, battered phone from her pocket and shoving it against his chest.

"Your thing sucks," she muttered, but her hand didn't stay there.

Her fingers rose, hovering near his face as if caught in a war with herself.

She clenched her teeth, trembling, her hands wrinkling and curling in the space between them. "You literally told me," she spat, her voice shaking with suppressed emotion, "just a few nights ago, that you didn't want to see me anymore. For—" Her tone dropped into a grave imitation of his. "'My safety.'"

She let her hands fall to her sides, her body sagging under the weight of it all. "And yet here you are."

"You sent me a message on the mobile," he said, his voice firm but tinged with something softer, something almost vulnerable. "That means it was urgent."

Maryam let out a sharp laugh, the kind that wasn't born of humor. "Yeah. Four hours ago, you idiot," she bit out, the insult flung with precision.

"I'm sorry," he started, but she cut him off, rolling her head back and squeezing her eyes shut like she was trying to physically shove away her frustration.

"And I already told you it's fine," she said, sharper than she intended. She exhaled, shaking her head, her tone softening. "You're needed everywhere, Bruce. You can't be everywhere at once. I get that. I understand that."

"Yeah, but you called," he pressed, as if those three words were all the explanation he needed.

"And?" Her brow lifted, challenging him.

Bruce turned his head away from her, the sharp lines of his jaw catching in the muted glow of the bay lights.

She followed the movement, watching the bruises still marring his skin, the muscles in his jaw working under the surface as he clenched it.

"Nothing else matters when it's you," he said finally, his voice low, almost like a confession.

"You imbecile," she hissed, heat rising to her cheeks as she shoved his shoulders. He didn't budge, not an inch. "Shut the fuck up. Don't say things you don't mean. The city is more important than me."

"Not when you're in trouble," he replied, unwavering.

Her head shook violently, her frustration spilling over.

"You see, I—I don't like it." Her words fumbled out, her hands moving between them, tracing the invisible space. "This. Whatever." She bit her lip, struggling to find the words, and finally sputtered, "And you shouldn't either!"

Turning sharply, she crossed her arms and stalked to the railing by the bay, her gaze dropping to the water's surface.

It rippled under the bridge lights, but her thoughts were anything but calm.

She felt him approach, his warmth bleeding into the cold space between them.

He stopped just behind her, close enough for her to feel him, but not so close that she couldn't breathe.

She gulped, her voice quieter now, almost hesitant. "How are you?" Even when she was mad at him, even when she wanted to scream, she still cared. She couldn't help it.

It struck him like a blow, that quiet care. His chest tightened, his heart warming at the thought that someone — someone other than Alfred — worried about him. Worried if he was hurt, if he was alive.

It made him want to keep going, for her, for this.

He leaned forward, his forehead resting gently against the back of her head. The scent of lavender clung to her hair, soft and familiar, and he let himself linger there for a moment.

"How am I?" His chuckle was low, bitter, the kind of laugh that meant anything but amusement. "You're asking me how I am?"

She turned to face him, and he was right there, his hands shoved deep into his pockets.

Inches away.

"Of course, I'm asking," she said, furrowing her brows as she looked up at him. Her voice was steady, but her expression wavered between defiance and concern. "I saw the video."

The wind cut between them, sharp and biting.

She shivered, wrapping her arms tightly around herself for warmth.

Bruce's eyes flickered at the movement, and without hesitation, he started unzipping his vest.

"What are you doing?" she asked, her voice climbing in pitch. "It's cold—"

But he didn't listen. Instead, he draped the heavy vest over her shoulders, his large hands pulling it into place. She tried to protest, shaking her head, but his insistence won out.

"Fine," she sighed, her lips jutting into a small pout as she tugged the vest tighter around herself. It was absurdly big on her, practically swallowing her frame. But somehow, it suited her, the oversized garment giving her an edge she hadn't intended.

She looked at him, the faintest glimmer of warmth returning to her eyes.

And in that moment, Bruce knew — it wasn't the city, or the fight, or the mission that kept him going.

It was her.

Bruce's gaze fell to the ground, his jaw tightening as he finally murmured, "I'm fine."

"No, you're not," she countered softly, but firmly.

He let out a sharp exhale, his hands curling into fists at his sides. "It doesn't matter." Then, almost hesitantly, he glanced at her, voice dipping lower. "Are you not going to hate me? Judge me?"

Maryam tilted her head, her hazel eyes narrowing, not in anger, but in thought. "I already did," she admitted bluntly, a small, humorless smile tugging at her lips.

"A long time ago," she said softly. "But I could never judge you for what your parents or family allegedly did. That would be the height of hypocrisy." She paused, drawing in a deep breath as her gaze dropped to the floor. Then, lifting her eyes to meet his face, she continued, her voice steady but gentle. "To answer your questions... no, it doesn't change anything. Nothing about how I feel for you."

He looked at her then, really, expression shifting, questioning, almost disbelieving.

"I don't want to talk about it right now," she whispered, continuing. "This isn't about me. It's about you."

They stood in silence, the weight of her words lingering between them. The cold wind wrapped around them, but neither moved, their eyes locked, searching for answers neither knew how to give.

Finally, Maryam broke the quiet.

"Bruce, your parents' actions don't define you," she said, her voice steady, filled with conviction. "What you do—that's what defines you. You need to realize that."

He blinked, his shoulders tensing as he looked away. " Everything I did was for them," he muttered, almost to himself. "And then I saw that video..." His voice cracked, and he clenched his fists tighter, the muscles in his arms taut with restrained emotion.

Maryam stepped closer, her movements deliberate, calm.

She reached for his hands, her smaller fingers gently uncurling his fists. Her touch was light but grounding. "Who said it was the whole truth?" she asked, her tone firm but soothing. "Come on, Bruce. You're not seriously going to trust that freak."

His eyes snapped back to hers, searching her face for something — reassurance, clarity, forgiveness.

She didn't look away, her gaze steady, unwavering.

"I went to see Falcone," Bruce finally admitted, his voice quiet, almost defeated.

Maryam's grip tightened around his still-clenched fists, her thumb brushing over the bruises on his knuckles.

His whole being was bruised, from the physical wounds to the weight of the truth he was carrying. She could feel it; how deeply it had cut him, how it was trying to break him.

But she wouldn't let it.

Not if she could help it.

"Bruce, what?" Her voice was tight, her eyes narrowing as she searched his face for some kind of explanation.

He hesitated, then spoke with a grim certainty. "It's true. My father... he murdered someone to protect his image. And according to Falcone, Maroni might be the one who killed my parents."

Her heart twisted, a sudden coldness rushing through her veins. She clenched his fists even tighter, her words cutting through the air with a fierce edge. "And you're going to believe him? That liar?"

Bruce looked down at their hands, his jaw tightening again. "I don't know."

Maryam's chest tightened, her mind racing with all the things she wanted to say. The anger, the fear for him, the need to make him see the truth. She wasn't going to let him drown in the lies Falcone had spun. She refused to watch him destroy himself over this.

"I'm sure there's more context to it. There has to be." She shook her head firmly, her voice unwavering. "I won't believe anything that comes out of that man's mouth. Trust me. He's lying."

Bruce met her gaze then, his eyes haunted, conflicted, and yet, somewhere deep inside, he was listening.

"He's the one who's been pulling the strings in Gotham," he muttered, his voice distant, the weight of the revelation still sinking in. "He has the power to make people believe anything... even if it's a lie."

Maryam's heart ached for him, but she forced herself to stay strong. "You're not alone in this, Bruce. Don't let him twist your perception. You're stronger than him, stronger than the lies he feeds you."

She pulled his hands gently into her own, her fingers tracing the bruises with tenderness, as if trying to erase the weight of the world from his shoulders. "I'll help you find the truth. Not through him, but through you. That's what matters."

He looked at her, his eyes softening for a moment, as if the storm inside him was momentarily held at bay, a fleeting calm.

But that peace shattered when he pulled his hands from hers, as though she had burned him with her touch. His fingers trembled as they brushed against her face, delicate, careful, like she might shatter if he touched her too hard.

"Maryam..." His voice was low, almost a whisper. "What happened to you?"

She looked down, biting her lip, unwilling to meet his gaze at first, but then, after a long, drawn-out breath, her eyes locked with his. "Riddler came to my apartment."

His breath caught in his chest, and his brow furrowed in confusion, then suspicion, then pure, cold anger.

"What?" His voice cracked as he stepped back, his hands falling away from her face as if the very thought of what she had just said had burned him. "Did he do this to you?" His voice rose in panic, and he took another step back, as if the weight of her words was too much to bear. "God, Maryam, I'm going—"

"No, you're not going anywhere." Her voice was calm but unwavering, her eyes sharp, locking with his in an unspoken challenge.

"This is my fault," he muttered, the words laced with guilt, his fists clenched at his sides.

"No, it's not," she countered, but her voice faltered for just a second.

"Yes, it is!" His voice shook with frustration, but she held firm, shaking her head slowly.

"He left anyway, it's okay—" she began, but he cut her off, his eyes burning with a rage he couldn't keep contained.

"No, it's not okay!" His voice was a low growl, desperate and furious. "He hurt you, he touched you—that's enough for me to go and—"

She turned toward him then, her eyes challenging, daring him to continue. "What? What are you going to do, Zorro?" She didn't let him answer, her voice rising in quiet fury. "Nothing, because I don't want you to. You shouldn't be focusing on me. He came. He left. That's it."

Bruce opened his mouth to argue, but she cut him off with a wave of her hand, her gaze never leaving his.

"Why? Why you?" he asked, voice a whisper now, raw and aching, as though trying to grasp the unraveling threads of control.

Yet, deep down, he already knew the answer.

She sighed, shoulders slumping as she met his eyes. "I wasn't on his list. It was... improvised, he said." She paused, her throat constricting as though the words themselves burned. "He also said..." Her voice broke slightly before she pushed forward, the confession heavy on her tongue. "That he saw me at the funeral. With Falcone... and with you."

Bruce took a step back, face twisting in frustration and self-loathing.

His body taut with tension, the storm in his eyes intensifying as he absorbed her words.

It wasn't just anger — it was guilt, frustration, and a simmering fury at a world that always seemed to punish those he cared about.

He rubbed his face then, the heat of guilt flooding through him. "This is why I told you we shouldn't—"

"Yeah," she cut him off, her voice sharp now, more than a little bitter. "And when I obeyed you and accepted your choice... look at what happened. He came anyway. Not just because of you, but because of me." She shook her head, eyes dark with the weight of everything she was carrying. "Even if he hadn't seen me with you, he could've with Falcone. He could've still come either way."

She didn't look at him, but Bruce could feel her presence — the tension in the air, thick and suffocating.

He continued to pace in front of her, feeling the weight of her words pressing in on him like a vice.

The scent of sandalwood and aftershave surrounded her, his jacket still draped over her shoulders, its warmth somehow grounding, but he couldn't escape the growing cold in his chest.

Maryam crossed her arms, her eyes still not meeting his, but her voice trembled slightly as she spoke again. "Please... don't blame yourself. It's okay. I'm fine."

"Fine?" he murmured, voice hoarse. "You're fine?"

She nodded to herself, almost as if trying to convince herself more than him. "It was terrifying in the moment, but... I thought he might know... about my persona. But he didn't. Thank God." Her voice trailed off as she stared out at the bay, the silence stretching between them, thick with unspoken words.

Bruce stopped pacing, standing stock still in front of her. "He seemed familiar, though. I couldn't place it, but I knew..." Her voice faltered as she sighed again, the weight of her words catching in her throat.

One final truth, one final piece to this broken puzzle. "One thing's for sure—he hates you. And your family."

Bruce stood there, frozen, his gaze distant, focused on nothing at all, but Maryam could feel the tension tightening in the space between them.

And though he stood still, stone-like in his silence, she knew that he wasn't just angry.

He was broken.

He was afraid.

And he was fighting the urge to destroy everything in his path to protect her.

But she wasn't going to let him.

Not like this.

Not over a lie.

Maryam stood still, her breath catching in her chest as Bruce closed the distance between them. His words hung in the air like a tension that refused to break, each syllable pressing down harder than the last.

"Maryam—"

She cut him off, her voice trembling, but with a force she barely recognized in herself. "Then I went to the tower."

She swallowed, her throat tight.

Her arms crossed over her chest in a defensive posture, but her gaze was far away, like she was seeing something that wasn't there. "I saw you there with another woman. I saw and heard everything."

Bruce's eyes widened, a flicker of guilt flashing across his face. "She doesn't mean anything to me."

"Really?" Maryam's lips curled into a mock smile, the hurt evident in her tone. "The kiss told me otherwise."

"I pushed her the moment she put her lips on mine," he said, voice rising with a harshness that was almost defensive. "And even when her lips touched mine for those few seconds, I was only thinking of you."

The words hit Maryam harder than she expected.

For a moment, the world seemed to slow down, as if time had stopped altogether.

What the hell did he mean by that? She wasn't sure if she felt relief or something else — something raw, aching, and confusing.

She wanted to say something, anything, but her words stuck in her throat.

Instead, she found herself snapping, the sting of her emotions too much to ignore.

"Don't lie to me." Her voice was low but firm, her gaze never wavering from his.

"Never." His response was immediate, filled with sincerity, but she couldn't quite trust it.

The hurt in her chest wasn't so easily healed with words.

Maryam let out a sharp breath, letting her arms drop to her sides in frustration. "You know what?" she began, rubbing the back of her neck. "I don't even know why we're talking about this."

She wiped her hands across her face, trying to push away the flood of emotions that threatened to overwhelm her.

Bruce stepped closer, a hesitant smile tugging at his lips. "You're jealous?"

Maryam's eyes narrowed as she quickly shook her head, the flicker of insecurity behind her eyes betraying her words. "I'm not. Just like you wouldn't be if I went kissing another man, right?"

His body tensed, his hands flexing involuntarily.

Maryam couldn't help the small, triumphant smile that played at her lips, though she quickly masked it with indifference.

She leaned against the metal railing, pretending she wasn't bothered, even as her heart raced.

"There's that really handsome doctor who works with me. He's got everyone in his pocket back at the hospital. He keeps asking me on a date, and I might actually say yes the next time he asks. You know, because I'm getting old and all that, according to my aunt, so I need to find—"

Bruce was on her in an instant, the space between them closing in a heartbeat.

His voice was sharp, cutting through her words. "Stop."

She raised an eyebrow, a soft challenge in her tone. "Why?"

He sighed heavily, shaking his head as if the weight of her words was too much to bear.

His arms placed themselves on either side of her, hands gripping the metal railing as if it were the only thing holding him together.

"Listen, Milou," he began, and there it was — the nickname. It brought a warmth she wasn't sure she was ready for, but it still made her heart skip a beat. "I'm not good at this, alright? I said things to you that I've never said to anyone else. I allowed you in. You hear me? I let you in, and I shouldn't have, but I did because the temptation was too much. You were too much. And I enjoyed it. So I did."

Maryam's breath hitched in her chest, and for a moment, she didn't know what to say.

He was close — closer than he'd ever been, and the words he'd spoken, the confession hanging in the air, made her pulse race in a way that scared her. His eyes were soft, vulnerable, the walls around him starting to crumble.

But despite the vulnerability, despite the intensity in the space between them, she stood there, not backing down.

"Cause I'm valuable, right?" she whispered, her voice soft, almost fragile.

Bruce's breath caught in his throat, and his eyes flickered with an unreadable emotion.

But his lips barely parted before he answered, his voice a hushed murmur. "You're not valuable."

"Then what am I?" she asked, her hands still gripping the edges of his arms.

His gaze softened, and for a moment, everything around them seemed to blur, like time itself hesitated. "You're everything."

Her heart skipped a beat.

"I thought you forgot about me. I thought that you didn't care as I cared about you—"

"Stop," he cut her off, his voice firm yet trembling, raw with emotion. His hands found hers, gripping them tightly as if to anchor her. "Don't ever say that. Don't ever think that."

She blinked, startled by the intensity in his gaze, the way his voice cracked on the edges.

It was so strange, seeing this side of him — vulnerable, unguarded, as if he were shedding all the layers he'd built up over the years.

But in that moment, it wasn't a weakness. It was a quiet strength, raw and real, laid bare only for her.

"I already told you... I could never forget you," he whispered, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. "You're in everything I do, in every breath I take. And the thought of you thinking otherwise... it hurts more than you'll ever know."

She could feel the heat from his body radiating against hers, his words sinking deeper than she had anticipated.

Then, as if to erase the space that remained between them, his nose brushed against hers, the slightest touch, just enough to send a shiver down her spine.

"No matter what happens, no matter what comes between us, I'll always find you," he murmured softly against her ear.

His lips traced the curve of her jaw, moving downward with a tenderness that was almost reverential, following the delicate line of her neck, like the whisper of a feather's caress.

She closed her eyes, lost in the sensation of him, of the weight of his presence, and the truth behind his words.

She hadn't realized how much she needed this, how much she needed him until this moment.

"Promise me," she whispered, her voice barely audible, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as if to ground herself.

He kissed her then, softly, on her pulse, where the beat of her heart echoed louder than any word could and her breath hitched. "I promise," he murmured into her skin, his lips tender but determined. "Always."

Maryam's breath stuttered as his lips grazed her skin once more, igniting a fire deep within her.

It wasn't just warmth she felt — it was molten, consuming, as if his touch had set her very soul alight. It was like the kiss of Prometheus's stolen flame, a spark from the divine that burned and illuminated all at once.

It wasn't just fire either, no — it was like the forge of Hephaestus, alive and crackling, shaping her into something new, something stronger, something irrevocably bound to him. His touch felt like the golden threads of the Fates, weaving their lives together in a tapestry neither could undo.

It was overwhelming, a raw, primal energy that surged through her veins, leaving her breathless and yearning.

His kisses were light, almost reverent, as though savoring every moment, every inch of her.

He kissed the soft curve of her neck, his lips brushing against the delicate skin just below her ear. One kiss, then another, and another... Each one pressing against the tiny beauty marks that dotted her skin like scattered constellations. His lips lingered, worshipping the delicate imperfections, savoring the way they felt beneath him.

Then, with a slight shift, he nipped gently at one of the marks, the faint sting sending a rush of heat through her body.

Maryam tilted her head to the side, giving him more access, her breath hitching as his lips traced the path of her neck.

She felt his mouth leave lingering, possessive kisses at each beauty mark, each one leaving behind a trace of warmth and desire.

The nips grew more insistent, a mix of tenderness and urgency, as if he couldn't get enough of the feeling of her skin against his lips.

Her body responded instinctively, the softest moan escaping her as her fingers curled tighter into his shirt.

She wanted more — more of his touch, more of the feeling of him against her. She let herself sink into him, surrendering to the tenderness and heat of the moment, her neck exposed to him, offering herself completely.

It was like he was intoxicated, lost in the taste of her, each kiss pulling him deeper into the feeling of her presence.

She almost moaned, her body craving more, and yet, there was something about the restraint in his movements that made it all the more intoxicating.

Her eyes fluttered closed, but the warmth of his breath lingered on her skin, making her pulse race.

"Bruce," she whispered, the sound like a plea in the silence.

At the sound of her voice, he froze, his lips hovering inches from her skin.

She felt the sudden absence, the cold air filling the space where his warmth had been.

She missed the feeling, but it wasn't just the kisses that she craved.

It was him.

His eyes met hers, and in that moment, it felt like everything stopped.

His blue eyes, deep and endless, reflected the tumultuous ocean of his soul. They were like a storm at sea : wild, vast, and yet somehow calm in the same breath.

And then she looked into his eyes.

They were like the sunrise, soft and radiant, casting light into the darkness of the world around them. They held promise and hope, and yet there was a flicker of something haunted, something incomplete, waiting to be understood. In them, she saw the possibility of something beautiful, fragile, and undeniable.

For a heartbeat, they were suspended in time, their gazes locked — storm meeting her sunrise — and it felt like the world around them held its breath.

He slid his hand to the back of her neck, his touch tender yet possessive, while his other hand cradled her cheek, his thumb tracing the softness of her skin.

Their foreheads met, a gentle pressure as his nose brushed against hers, feeling the warmth of her breath.

He lingered there for a moment, savoring the proximity, before his thumb brushed over her lips, the sensation soft and inviting. He could feel the subtle tension in her, the way her lips parted slightly in anticipation.

His heart thundered in his chest, the raw desire coursing through him, igniting every nerve, every inch of his being.

"I want to kiss you," he whispered, voice thick with yearning, words dripping with an ache he couldn't hide.

"You were already doing that a moment ago," she replied, her voice a soft, teasing murmur.

"Milou, please," he breathed, as if fighting to keep control, his hands trembling with the force of his restraint. "Don't torture me any longer."

Her eyes fluttered at the vulnerability in his voice, her breath catching as the weight of his confession settled between them.

She swallowed hard, her pulse quickening, and though she tried to hold back, her body leaned toward him, drawn by a force she couldn't resist.

Her lips parted, and in a breathless whisper, she spoke, "Then kiss me."

That was all he needed.

That was all it took.

His breath hitched as he leaned in, his lips claiming hers with an urgency he couldn't suppress.

The moment their mouths connected, a wave of heat surged through him — she tasted even better than he'd imagined, like everything he needed.

The kiss was electric, a perfect meld of softness and pressure, as though their lips had always been meant to meet.

Maryam, her heart pounding in her chest, didn't even register the pain in her lip, the small wound from earlier was insignificant compared to the intensity of what was happening between them.

Her hands found his chest, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as if anchoring herself to him.

She opened her mouth slightly, inviting him in, and he wasted no time, deepening the kiss, pressing his body against hers.

Her back met the cold railing, and he pressed closer, his hips fitting against hers, the heat between them intensifying with every movement, she could feel his want against her.

His arms wrapped around her, pulling her even tighter, as if he couldn't get close enough.

A soft, breathless moan escaped her lips, dripping with desire, and it seemed to consume him, driving him to claim her even more fiercely, a hunger tempered by tenderness.

He was consuming her, yet with an aching gentleness, his tongue exploring with slow, deliberate strokes, tracing the contours of her mouth as though memorizing every curve and taste.

Their tongues tangled, the rhythm of their movements matching, like a silent conversation that spoke of need, of connection, of something more.

The world around them seemed to disappear, the only thing that mattered was the feeling of her in his arms, the way she tasted, the way she breathed against him.

Each touch, each kiss, was more than just an expression of desire — it was a promise, like a moment suspended in time where nothing else existed but the two of them, wrapped up in each other.

Her hands threaded into his hair, tugging gently as his hood slipped away, exposing the messy dark locks beneath.

The sharp pull earned a low, guttural grunt from Bruce, and he responded by pressing his hips harder against her, pinning her firmly against the railing. The cold metal digging into her back was nothing compared to the heat coursing through her, and she couldn't stop the moan that escaped her lips as their teeth and tongues clashed in a battle for dominance, each kiss more fervent than the last.

When the need for air finally forced her to part from him, Bruce didn't relent. His mouth trailed after hers, capturing her lower lip for another brief taste before she fully pulled back.

A soft, shy smile curved her swollen, bruised lips as she looked at him, her chest heaving.

Her fingers cupped his cheek, and he leaned into her touch, brushing a tender kiss against her palm.

"Do you know how long I've wanted this?" he asked, voice a husky whisper, his arms still wrapped securely around her waist.

The intensity of his gaze and the way he tightened his hold on her made her heart race anew.

She hummed, still dazed and breathless from their kiss, mind still foggy with the weight of the moment. "Let me guess... ever since you met me?" she teased, lips quirking playfully, though her tone was still soft and laced with vulnerability.

Bruce chuckled, low and rough, his forehead resting against hers as his hands slid down to grip her hips firmly.

"You're not wrong," he admitted, his voice softer now, the confession hanging heavily between them. "But it wasn't just want, Maryam. It's never just been that."

Her teasing expression faltered, replaced by something deeper, a flicker of hesitation in her eyes. "Then what has it been?" she asked quietly, her voice barely above a whisper.

He let out a slow breath, his hands squeezing her hips as if grounding himself. "You've been in my head since the first moment. I see you, Milou. And it terrifies me how much you see me too." His thumb brushed along her cheek, his touch reverent. "You make me want things I shouldn't. Things I thought I didn't deserve."

Maryam blinked, caught off guard by the rawness of his words.

Her fingers trailed lightly down his arms, resting on the firm grip he had on her waist. "Bruce... you deserve everything," she said firmly, her voice carrying an edge of conviction.

He shook his head slightly, a rueful smile on his lips. "Not everything," he murmured, his gaze falling to her lips again. "But maybe... maybe you."

Her heart stuttered, the weight of his words sinking in, heavy and intoxicating.

She didn't respond with words this time. Instead, she closed the distance between them, capturing his lips in another kiss, slower, deeper, as if pouring all the emotions she couldn't articulate into that single act.

This time, he let her lead, his hands never leaving her body but softening their hold, following her rhythm.

It wasn't frantic or desperate like before; it was steady, purposeful, a connection that seemed to fuse them together in the dim light of the city around them.

When they finally broke apart again, their breaths mingling, Bruce rested his forehead against hers once more, his hands framing her face gently. "You're dangerous, Maryam Halimi," he whispered, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.

She laughed softly, the sound breathless. "Says the man who spends his nights fighting criminals in a cape," she teased, her fingers brushing the hair at the nape of his neck.

"I mean it," he replied, turning serious again. "You've undone me in ways I didn't think possible."

"Good," she said simply, her smile soft but resolute. "Because you've done the same to me, Bruce Wayne."

This time, she wrapped her arms around him, pulling him close as if she could shield him from the weight of the world.

Bruce let himself melt into her embrace, his head resting in the crook of her neck.

He pressed soft, lingering kisses against her skin, breathing her in like she was the air keeping him alive.

Her fingers stroked the short hair at the nape of his neck, grounding him, steadying him. She leaned down, pressing a feather-light kiss to his ear, her breath warm against his skin as she whispered, "It's going to be okay."

He didn't respond with words. Instead, he turned his head slightly, brushing his lips against her cheek in a tender, silent acknowledgment. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and filled with vulnerability. "Only if you'll stay."

Her arms tightened around him, her lips brushing his ear once more as she whispered back, "I'm not going anywhere."

Bruce exhaled a shaky breath, his grip on her waist firm but not demanding, as if afraid she might vanish despite her words. He buried his face deeper into the crook of her neck, seeking solace in the warmth of her skin, the steady beat of her pulse against his cheek.

"I don't deserve you," he murmured, his voice muffled and raw.

Maryam leaned back slightly, just enough to cup his face in her hands. Her fingers traced the sharp lines of his jaw, her eyes soft but unwavering as they held his. "You don't get to decide that," she said firmly, her thumb brushing over his cheekbone. "I'm here because I want to be. Because I choose to be."

His throat worked as he swallowed hard, his eyes searching hers for something — redemption, perhaps, or permission to believe her.

He found only sincerity, a reflection of the feelings he'd been too afraid to name for so long.

Her lips curved into a small, reassuring smile. "We'll figure this out together, Bruce. Whatever happens—your family, Falcone, the Riddler—we'll face it. You don't have to carry it all on your own anymore."

For a moment, the weight of his burdens felt just a fraction lighter.

He rested his forehead against hers, closing his eyes as he let her words settle over him like a balm on an open wound.

"Together," he echoed, the word a promise, a vow he wasn't sure he deserved to make but couldn't resist.

Maryam's fingers threaded into his hair, grounding him, anchoring him. "Together," she repeated softly. Then, with a playful smirk, she added, "But you owe me dinner for all this emotional labor."

Bruce huffed a quiet laugh, the corners of his lips twitching upward despite himself. "I think I can manage that."

He kissed her again, as if he could never get enough, and truly, he couldn't.

His lips lingered on hers, memorizing every softness, every warmth. When he finally leaned back, his expression turned somber again, that familiar frown settling in as his thumb traced idle circles against the delicate curve of her neck.

"I need to go see Alfred," he murmured, his voice low and tinged with reluctance.

Maryam nodded softly, not asking why or urging him to stay. She understood, as she always did. "Alright."

"Alright," he echoed, but his hands betrayed him, refusing to let go.

And she didn't let go either.

Instead, she rested her head against his chest, letting the steady rhythm of his heartbeat anchor her.

It was like a melody, low and steady, resonating with the kind of strength that spoke of battles fought and burdens borne. Each beat felt like a reassurance, a promise whispered in silence: I'm still here.

Bruce's rough fingers threaded through her hair, gentle despite their callouses. "Where will you go? You can't go back to your apartment. You can come to my—" he began, his mind already calculating possibilities, always returning to strategy.

She could feel the soft vibration of his voice through his chest and closed her eyes, savoring the moment.

"I'll go to my aunt's. And before you protest, I'll be fine. Don't worry about me, okay?"

A beat.

"I'll always worry about you," he replied, his voice firm, as if it were a truth carved into stone.

Maryam didn't argue; instead, she tightened her arms around him, holding on just a moment longer.

They stayed like that, two souls entwined in a fleeting bubble of stillness amidst the chaos. It felt eternal, a quiet universe that existed only for them, fragile yet infinite in its tenderness.

After a moment, he led her to his motorbike, insisting on taking her to her aunt's. He handed her a helmet, his touch lingering for just a moment before they sped off into the night.

Her head rested against his back as Gotham blurred past, the city's chaos a distant hum compared to the storm of emotions within her.

She thought of everything that had happened, every word spoken, every touch shared, and at the thought of it, a soft smile graced her lips. She wrapped her arms around him more firmly, clinging to him as if he were her only tether to solid ground.

At each red light, his hand would reach back, brushing against hers, like a silent reassurance that he was there.

When they arrived, she slid off the bike, removing the helmet and handing it back.

And as she began to shrug off his jacket, he stopped her with a gentle shake of his head.

"It's okay," he said, his voice low and steady. "You can keep it."

She paused, her fingers brushing the worn leather, before meeting his gaze. A small, grateful smile curved her lips.

"Go," she whispered, voice soft but firm, "and be gentle with him."

Bruce took her hand, warm and soft against the coolness of his own, and brought it to his lips. He pressed a lingering kiss to the back of it, his eyes never leaving hers.

Then she turned to leave, her hand still tethered to his until the space between them grew too wide, and it slipped away.

And as he drove away and disappeared, Maryam drew her hand back to her chest, clutching it as if to hold onto the memory of his touch.

She held his absence like a whispered prayer, delicate and eternal.

A/N : Sooo... SURPRISE 🎉 It finally happened, folks 🫡 (I hope it wasn't too cringey)

I've been dying to share this moment with you, and I hope it felt as intense and satisfying as I imagined it. My goal was to make you feel every ounce of that slow burn, all the pining and yearning they've been drowning in. I didn't want it to feel rushed or out of nowhere because, let's face it, nothing kills a romantic moment like bad pacing.

Originally, I had this whole grand plan to save their first kiss for the second movie. Yep, you read that right—SECOND movie. But with that not coming out for another two years (if we're lucky and it doesn't get pushed back again 😒), I thought, why wait? I mean, they've been circling each other so much it was starting to get ridiculous, like, just kiss already!!!

That said, I'm still second-guessing myself because I'm a chronic overthinker. So, let me know: did it feel natural? Did it deliver the emotional punch? Or did I mess up and throw off the rhythm?

Be honest, but not too honest—I'm fragile (jk)