Lizzie 🦇༉‧₊˚.

The heels of your 12cm black patent leather pumps are killing you by the time you stumble out of the lift on the fourth floor, the cheap leather pinching at your pinky toes in that specific way that makes you want to kick them off and walk barefoot across the marble lobby. Four weeks at the London Herald and you still haven't broken them in properly, four weeks of running coffee, transcribing interviews that should have been yours, and being treated like a piece of dirt on the bottom of someones shoe.

Your boss, Marcus, has been on one all day. “Get me Batman. Get me an exclusive. I don't care if you don’t think he’s real, you will find him.”

As if Batman just shows up for interns.

You fumble with your keys, the strap of your bag sliding off your shoulder and taking your blazer with it, revealing the wrinkled silk blouse underneath. You'd spilled printer ink on your skirt at noon, and there's a coffee stain on your collar that you'd tried to hide with a scarf, but the scarf is now stuffed in your bag because the office was roughly the temperature of the sun.

"Rough day at the office?"

You don't even jump anymore. You know that voice, low and amused.

Alfie Buttle is leaning against his doorframe, across yours, arms crossed over his chest. He's wearing a white collared shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, black slacks that sit perfectly on his hips, and a watch that probably costs more than your annual salary. His thick, curly brunette hair is tousled in that deliberate way. The small moustache and slight beard give him a roguish look, and those green eyes are crinkled at the corners with barely suppressed laughter.

"You have no idea," you groan, finally getting the key to turn. "Marcus is going to actually murder me. He's obsessed with this Batman story. Thinks it's going to win him some award. He only wants me to do this because I’m the only one desperate enough to wait up at 3 in the morning to catch glimpse of something that very well may not even be real. “I want a story, make it good, interesting, find out about his personal life”. Does he really think, on the 1% chance i actually find him, he will talk to me about his personal life? What a twat!

You mimic your boss's tone, pitching your voice lower, and Alfie's mouth twitches. He pushes off the doorframe, unfolding that tall, athletic frame, broad shoulders, defined arms that strain against the cotton of his shirt when he moves.

"Sounds like a dickhead," Alfie says, stepping closer. He smells like sandalwood and something metallic, sharp. "What's he expect you to do? Go to a crime scene and ask him about his hopes and dreams?"

You snort, leaning against your door, too tired to care about posture. "Basically. He thinks because I'm young and" you make air quotes "'approachable,' that Batman's just going to swoop down and confess his life story to me."

"Shame," Alfie says, his green eyes catching yours. There's something there, a flicker of intensity that makes your stomach flip before he blinks and it's gone, replaced by that easy, sarcastic humor. "Could be a good story. 'Batman Life Story: Exclusive with the London Herald's Most Approachable Intern.' Solid material, surely."

"Don't mock me," you laugh, but there's no heat in it. You like when he teases you. It's become the highlight of your evenings, these hallway chats. "I'm serious. I spent three hours today staking out this warehouse in Canary Wharf because Marcus got a 'tip' that Batman was sighted there. Do you know what I found?"

"I’m assuming not Batman."

"Rats. I found rats. And a very angry security guard who threatened to call the police on me for trespassing."

Alfie winces sympathetically, but his lips are fighting a smile. "Well that's a bit shite. You’ll get him next time Marcus gives you another tip, I'm sure."

"Shut up," you say, but you're giggling now, leaning your head back against the door. "I'm going to get fired. Or worse, demoted to the obituaries section. I'll spend my career writing about dead people's cats."

"Well," Alfie says, reaching out to adjust his cufflink, platinum, simple, probably inherited along with whatever fortune his family clearly has, "if it's any consolation, I don't think Batman would give Marcus the time of day anyway. Seems like a smart bloke. Probably has excellent taste in avoiding twats like him."

"You think?"

"Definitely." His eyes travel over your face, softening slightly. "Probably prefers the company of… someone like you. Prettier. Better hair."

Your cheeks heat up. This is new, this directness. Usually, he keeps it to banter, to the edge of flirtation that you brush off because surely the man with the Aston Martin downstairs and the rolex on his wrist isn't actually flirting with the girl who can't afford dry cleaning.

"You're ridiculous," you say, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. You know you look a mess, mascara probably smudged, blouse untucked, hair falling out of the professional updo you'd attempted at six this morning.

"And you're exhausted," Alfie counters. "Come on. I've got wine. Or tea, if you're too good for alcohol on a Tuesday."

You blink. In four weeks, you've never been inside his flat. You've seen the delivery men come and go, seen him leave at odd hours in suits that cost more than your rent, seen him return with bruises on his knuckles that he claims are from "boxing" and "the gym." He's friendly but closed off.

"I shouldn't," you say, even as your feet ache in agreement. "I've got to—"

"Stare at your laptop and panic about Batman?" He raises an eyebrow. "Come on. One glass. I'll even let you complain about Marcus some more. I've got excellent listening skills. Tragic, really. Wasted on investment banking."

"You don't do investment banking," you point out, finally pushing your door open to drop your bag inside. "You never actually say what you do."

Alfie smiles, slow and secretive. "Mysterious, aren't I?"

"Annoying," you correct, but you're stepping out into the hallway, pulling your door shut. "Fine. One glass. But if you're a serial killer, I'm going to be very cross."

"Fair enough." He unlocks his door, solid oak, heavy, with a security system that beeps when he enters the code, and gestures for you to enter. "After you."

His flat is exactly what you expected and nothing like it at the same time. The view of the Thames through floor-to-ceiling windows is breathtaking, the furniture modern and clearly expensive, but there's clutter too, books stacked on the coffee table, a jacket thrown over the back of a chair. It smells like him, that sandalwood-metal scent.

"Nice place," you say, trying not to gawk at the art on the walls. Is that a real Banksy? "Inheritance, right? You mentioned..."

"Family money," Alfie says easily, moving to the kitchen. "Boring story. Great-great-grandfather made a killing in shipping, grandfather diversified into investments, father continued the tradition."

He says it casually, dismissively, like the wealth that radiates from every surface is an embarrassment rather than a boast. You watch him pour wine, red, probably older than you are, into crystal glasses, his movements efficient and practiced.

"Must be nice," you say, then wince. "Sorry. That sounded bitchy."

"Not at all." He hands you a glass, his fingers brushing yours, warm and slightly calloused. "It's weird. I know it's weird. I don't talk about it much because... well." He shrugs those broad shoulders, the muscle shifting under the shirt. "People get strange when they know you've got money. Either they want something, or they think you're a wanker by default."

"Are you?" you ask, emboldened by exhaustion and the wine already warming your throat. "A wanker?"

Alfie laughs, a real laugh, head thrown back, showing the strong column of his throat. "God, probably. On my bad days. But I try to make up for it. Sometimes."

"Well, listening to your neighbor complain about her terrible job is a good start."

"See? I’m a saint." He leans against the counter, watching you with those green eyes that seem to see too much. "You're good at complaining, by the way. Very... passionate. I feel like I know Marcus n wanna batter the shit out of him, and I've never met the man."

"That’s a very sweet way to call me a bitch" you say, settling onto a barstool, kicking off your pumps with a sigh of relief. "When it comes to him I am, he’s a fucking dick who thinks Batman is going to solve all his problems cos his shitty articles get no reads."

Alfie smiles at you, his fanged grin showing. ”You’re not a bitch reader” He trails off. “And so…  what do you think?" Alfie asks, his voice dropping slightly. "About Batman?"

You swirl your wine, thinking. "I think... I think he's not real. And if he is, probably dangerous. But also..." You look up, finding his gaze intense and focused on you. "Also maybe necessary? The police are overwhelmed, the city's a mess. Someone has to do something, I guess. Even if it's a man in a bat costume battering people in dodgy alleyways."

"A bat costume," Alfie repeats, his mouth twitching. "You think it's a costume?"

"Isn't it?"

"Could be a very committed fashion choice."

You laugh, the stress of the day starting to uncoil from your shoulders. "You're impossible."

"And you're tired." He sets his glass down, moving to the fridge. "Have you eaten?"

"I had a granola bar at my desk around... two? Three?"

Alfie makes a disgusted noise. "Are you serious? I'm making you pasta."

"You don't have to—"

"I want to." He's already pulling ingredients out, artisanal pasta, fresh basil, parmesan that he grates with practiced ease. "Besides, if you pass out in the hallway from malnutrition, I'll have to explain to the building manager why there's an unconscious journalist blocking the lift. Very awkward for my reputation."

"You have a reputation?"

"Mysterious billionaire," he says dryly, chopping garlic with alarming speed. "Very reclusive. Probably up to no good."

"Probably," you agree, smiling into your wine.

He cooks while you talk, you tell him about the other interns, about the story you actually want to write (corruption in the housing authority), about your tiny hometown and your dreams of being a real journalist, not just a coffee fetcher. He listens with that focused attention, asking questions at the right moments, mocking you gently when you get too self-deprecating.

"You're not just a coffee girl," he says, plating the pasta with a precision that suggests training you don't want to think about. "You care. That's more than most."

"Is that your way of saying I'm annoying?"

"It's my way of saying you're..." He pauses, sliding the plate across to you, his green eyes holding yours. "Interesting. In a city full of boring people, you're out here chasing rats in warehouses because your boss told you to. It's admirable. Or stupid. Possibly both."

The pasta is incredible. You eat like you haven't seen food in days, and Alfie watches with amusement, picking at his own plate, drinking his wine.

"So," you say, around a mouthful of spaghetti, "if you're not a banker, and you're not just living off family money... what do you actually do? Late nights, mysterious bruises..." You gesture at his hands, where a faint discoloration marks his knuckles. "Boxing, you said?"

"Among other shit," he says smoothly. "I keep busy. Investments to manage, charities to pretend I care about, the occasional need to blow off anger boxing."

"Healthy."

"Isn’t it?" He meets your eyes. "You should try it. Punching things. Good for stress."

"I'll stick to wine and complaining," you say. "Safer for my nails."

"Priorities."

"Exactly."

After dinner, he walks you to your door. The hallway seems smaller now, intimate, and you're suddenly aware that you're barefoot, carrying your shoes, your blouse untucked, looking nothing like the professional woman who left this morning.

"Thanks," you say, turning to face him. "For the food. And the... you know. Listening."

"Anytime," Alfie says, and he means it. There's no mockery in his voice now, just that genuine interest that makes your chest tight. "I'm usually around. Insomniac. Feel free to knock if you need to complain about Marcus at 3 AM."

"I'll try to restrain myself."

"Don't." He's close now, close enough that you can see the flecks of gold in his green eyes, close enough to smell that sandalwood scent. 

"Alfie—"

"Get some sleep," he says, stepping back, that casual mask sliding back into place. "Big day tomorrow. More rats to find."

"More Batman to chase," you agree, unlocking your door.

"Yeah," he says, something unreadable in his voice. "Good luck with that."

You glance back, but he's already turning away, disappearing into his flat, the door clicking shut with a finality that makes you shiver.

Inside your apartment, you kick off your skirt and collapse onto your bed without bothering with the lights. Through the thin wall, you hear movement, drawers opening, the sound of something heavy being moved. You think about those bruises on his knuckles, the way he listens when you talk about Batman, the way he seemed to know exactly what to say.

But you're too tired to think deeply, and the wine is warm in your blood, and tomorrow you'll have to face Marcus and his impossible demands again.

You fall asleep to the sound of your neighbor moving silently through his flat, and somewhere in the city, sirens wail in the distance.

You don't see him leave at midnight, dressed in black, sliding into the shadows of London like he belongs there. You don't see the cape, or the mask, or the way he moves.

You will, though.

Eventually.

But for now, you're just an intern with sore feet and a crush on her mysterious neighbor, completely clueless that the story you've been chasing has been across the hall all along, listening to you complain, watching you with green eyes that see everything, waiting for the moment when the mask will have to come off, and the truth will finally come out.

And somewhere in the dark, Batman patrols the streets, thinking about your laugh, and your messy hair, and the way you looked at him like he was just a man.

Just Alfie.

The bass of the music thumps through your chest as you stand by the kitchen counter, nursing a drink that's mostly melted ice now. You watch Alfie across the room, surrounded by his usual entourage, Cal, Chip, and a few other YouTubers you vaguely recognize from his videos. His broad shoulders strain against the black t-shirt he's wearing, the fabric hugging his frame in a way that makes your stomach tighten despite your best efforts to remain indifferent.

His curly brunette hair is slightly damp from sweat, falling across his forehead as he throws his fanged teeth grin laughing at something Chris just said. The small moustache and slight beard he's been growing frame his jawline perfectly, and even from across the room, you can see the way his green eyes light up when he's truly amused.

You've been in this situationship with Alfie for six months now, long enough to know the rules he's set. In public, especially around his friends, you're just another girl in the room. He barely acknowledges your existence unless absolutely necessary, often flirting with other girls right in front of you while maintaining a great effort of denial about it when you mention it.

But when you're alone… that's when the Alfie you fell for emerges. The one who traces patterns on your back until you fall asleep, who remembers exactly how you take your tea, who looks at you like you're the only person in the world.

"Oi, darlin'! Another round over here!" Alfie's voice cuts through your thoughts. He's not even looking at you, just shouting toward the kitchen in general. You watch as one of the other girls at the party, blonde, tan, wearing a crop top that barely contains her, bounces over to grab more drinks from the fridge.

Your chest tightens as you watch Alfie's eyes follow her, a smirk playing on his lips. He says something to his friends that makes them all laugh, and the blonde girl giggles as she returns with their drinks, making sure to brush against Alfie's arm as she hands him his bottle.

You can't take it anymore. You set your glass down on the counter with more force than necessary, the clatter drawing a few looks. Without another glance at Alfie, you turn and head for the balcony, needing the cool night air to clear your head.

The door slides shut behind you, muffling the party noise. You lean against the railing, looking out at the city lights below. You don't know how long you stand there before you hear the balcony door slide open again.

"You alright?" Alfie's voice is softer now, stripped of the loud, performative quality he uses with his friends.

You don't turn around. "Fine."

He comes to stand beside you, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from his body. "You seem pissed."

"Do I?" You finally turn to look at him, and your breath catches slightly at the genuine concern in his eyes. "Why would I be pissed, Alfie? Having a great time watching you flirt with every girl in the room."

He runs a hand through his curly hair, a nervous habit you've come to recognize. "It's not like that. We're just having a laugh."

"Right. Just a laugh." You turn back to the city view. "You know, sometimes I wonder why I even bother coming to these things."

"Because I asked you to," he says quietly, his voice dropping to that intimate tone he reserves for when you're alone. He reaches out, his fingers gently tracing your arm. "I wanted you here."

You want to believe him. God, you want to believe him so badly. But you've been through this too many times before.

"Then why do you act like I don't exist when we're around your friends?" Your voice cracks slightly, betraying the hurt you're trying to hide. "Why do you flirt with other girls right in front of me?"

He sighs, his muscular shoulders slumping slightly. "It's complicated, alright? I can't just—"

"Can't just what? Acknowledge me? Treat me like I matter to you?" You pull away from his touch. "I'm so tired of this, Alfie. I'm tired of being your secret."

"You're not my secret," he insists, stepping closer again. "You know you're not."

"Then prove it," you challenge, turning to face him fully. "Come inside with me right now. Hold my hand. Introduce me as someone who matters to you."

He hesitates, and that's all the answer you need. The disappointment washes over you, cold and sharp.

"I can't," he says finally. "Not yet."

"Right. Not yet." You shake your head, a bitter laugh escaping your lips. "You know what? I'm done waiting for 'not yet' to become 'now'."

You turn to leave, but he grabs your arm, his grip firm but not painful.

"Wait. Don't go like this." His green eyes are pleading now, all traces of his usual cocky demeanor gone. "Stay. We can talk after everyone leaves."

"Why? So you can be the loving, attentive Alfie when no one's watching to contradict your public persona?" You pull your arm free. "I'm tired of the double life, Alfie. I'm tired of being two different people depending on who's around."

"That's not fair," he says, his voice rising slightly. "You know how I feel about you."

"Do I?" You challenge, stepping closer until you're nearly chest to chest. "Because from where I'm standing, it seems like I'm convenient when you want me to be and invisible when you don't."

"That's bullshit and you know it," he retorts, his accent becoming more pronounced when he's angry. "I spend more time with you than anyone. I've told you things I've never told another person."

"Then why hide me?" Your voice rises with frustration. "Why act ashamed of being with me?"

"I'm not ashamed!" He runs both hands through his hair in frustration. "I'm just… trying to figure out how to do this without everything blowing up. You know how people are online, they'll—"

"So Chip and Sabina, George and Yas, they all don't count? Fans are fine with them!" You shake your head in disbelief. "I can't believe I was stupid enough to think this meant something to you."

"Of course it means something!" He grabs your shoulders, his muscular frame towering over you. "You mean everything to me. Why can't you see that? My fanbase are all teenage boys, not like— reader, please!"

"Because your actions don't match your words!" You push against his chest, but he doesn't budge. "You act like fucking Mr. Brightside when you're with all your friends, but I know what you're like when the party ends."

His expression softens at your words, the anger in his eyes replaced with something more vulnerable. "That's different," he says quietly. "When it's just us… that's real. This," he gestures vaguely toward the party inside, "is just… shit."

"Then make it real," you plead, your anger deflating into sadness. "Please, Alfie. I can't do this anymore."

He looks at you for a long moment, his green eyes searching yours. You can see the internal war playing out on his face, the desire to give you what you want versus the fear of what that might mean for his carefully constructed public image.

"I'm trying," he finally says, his voice barely above a whisper. "I swear I'm trying to figure out how to make this work."

You shake your head, tears now stinging your eyes. "Trying isn't enough anymore. I need more."

You turn and walk away, not looking back even as you hear him call your name. The party noise washes over you as you re-enter the apartment, but it all sounds distant now, muffled by the sound of your heart breaking.

You grab your jacket from the bedroom where you'd left it earlier, ignoring the couple making out on the bed. As you pass the living room, you catch a glimpse of Alfie standing on the balcony, his muscular frame silhouetted against the city lights. He's watching you leave, and for a moment, you consider going back to him.

But then you remember all the times he's made you feel small, invisible, unimportant. And you keep walking.

The cool night air hits you as you step outside, and you pull your jacket tighter around yourself. You don't know where you're going, but you know one thing for certain, you can't keep doing this. You can't keep being Alfie Buttle's secret.

As you walk down the street, your phone buzzes in your pocket. You consider ignoring it, but something makes you pull it out. It's a text from Alfie.

"Please don't leave like this. Let me explain."

You stare at the message, your thumb hovering over the keyboard. Part of you wants to respond, to give him one more chance. But the stronger part of you knows that you've given him enough chances already.

You type out a response: "I think we both know there's nothing left to explain."

You hit send before you can change your mind, then put your phone on silent and slip it back into your pocket. The tears you've been holding back finally fall, hot and fast down your cheeks. You wipe them away angrily, frustrated with yourself for still caring so much.