Chapter 28 : One Month
The penthouse still smelled like fresh paint.
I'd bought it two weeks ago—top floor of a converted industrial building on the edge of the Narrows. Not Wayne Tower, not the gleaming spires of Gotham's elite, but mine. Legitimate ownership, legal paperwork, a real address.
The first home I'd had in either of my lives.
Selina stood at the windows, looking out at the city. The view stretched from the Narrows to the financial district, Gotham's lights creating a carpet of amber and white against the darkness.
"You're building a real life here," she said quietly.
"Trying to."
"Most people in our line of work..." She turned to face me. "They don't do this. They don't put down roots. Too dangerous. Too permanent."
"Most people in our line of work don't plan to survive."
She smiled at that—soft, knowing. "And you do?"
"I plan to thrive." I crossed to her, wrapped my arms around her waist. "I've been homeless, Selina. Sleeping in abandoned buildings, scrounging for food. That was three months ago. I'm not going back to that."
"The warehouse wasn't exactly homelessness."
"The warehouse was a base of operations. This—" I gestured at the penthouse, the clean lines and comfortable furniture, the actual kitchen with actual appliances. "This is a home."
She leaned into me, and we stood together watching the city.
"One month," she said eventually.
"One month."
"Feels longer."
"Good longer or bad longer?"
"Good." She turned in my arms, facing me. "Definitely good."
I'd spent all afternoon preparing. The kitchen—still unfamiliar, still a novelty—had produced something I remembered from my old life. A recipe that came to me in fragments: garlic, tomatoes, herbs I couldn't name but recognized by smell. The kind of cooking that required instinct rather than measurement.
We ate on the balcony, candles flickering against the night air. The food was better than I'd expected—or maybe everything tasted better when shared with her.
"You can cook," Selina observed, sounding genuinely surprised.
"Apparently."
"Where did you learn?"
The question touched something complicated. The memories were there but incomplete—impressions more than facts. A kitchen that wasn't this one. Someone teaching me, patient and warm.
"I don't know," I admitted. "It's just... there. Like a lot of things."
She didn't push. She'd learned that about me—the gaps in my history, the subjects that made me go quiet. She gave me the same grace I gave her.
"Well, wherever you learned, I approve." She raised her wine glass. "To one month. And to many more."
We clinked glasses. The wine was good—better than the stuff we'd shared in the Monarch Theatre, back when everything between us was potential rather than reality.
After dinner, we moved inside. The couch was new, chosen specifically for its comfort. Selina curled into its corner, watching me with an expression I couldn't quite read.
"What?" I asked.
"Just thinking."
"About?"
She set down her wine. The playfulness faded, replaced by something more serious.
"I want you to know something," she said. "This is real for me. I'm not going anywhere."
The words landed heavy in the quiet room.
"I know you probably worry about that," she continued. "Given who I am, what I do. The disappearing. The independence. I know it might seem like I could just... leave. Whenever things got hard."
"Selina—"
"Let me finish." She held up a hand. "I've left people before. Plenty of them. Because it was easier than staying, because I got scared, because I convinced myself I didn't deserve what they were offering." She met my eyes. "I'm not doing that with you. I'm not running. Whatever comes—the criminals, the Batman, the whole damned city—we face it together. That's what I'm promising."
I'd faced down Marco Santini. I'd negotiated with Alberto Falcone. I'd survived a direct encounter with the Batman himself.
None of that had prepared me for this moment.
"I'm not going anywhere either," I said. My voice came out rougher than I'd intended. "I built all of this—the territory, the crew, the penthouse—but none of it means anything without someone to share it with. You're that someone, Selina. You're the reason any of it matters."
She was quiet for a long moment. Then: "That might be the most romantic thing anyone's ever said to me."
"Is that a low bar?"
"Very low. My previous partners weren't exactly poets."
"I'll try to do better."
"You're already doing fine."
I reached into my pocket. The key was small, ordinary—just a piece of cut metal on a simple ring. But what it represented...
"I want you to have this," I said, extending my hand.
Selina looked at the key. Her expression shifted—surprise, then something deeper. Vulnerable.
"A key?"
"To the penthouse. So you can come and go whenever you want. So you have somewhere that's... yours. If you want it."
She took the key slowly, holding it like it was made of gold.
"Nobody's ever..." She stopped. Started again. "I've never had a place that was really mine. Not since I was a kid. Every bolt-hole, every safe house—they're all temporary. Places to hide, not places to live."
"This doesn't have to be temporary."
She closed her fingers around the key, pressing it to her chest.
"Thank you," she whispered. "This is... thank you."
We stayed on the couch until exhaustion took us—too comfortable to move, too content to want to. The candles burned down to stubs. The city hummed outside.
My last thought before sleep: "This is worth protecting. Whatever it costs."
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