Then, without warning, he dipped.
Not a fall. A controlled descent, smooth, deliberate, until the world rushed up to meet them and stopped just short of contact.
They skimmed the river.
Not on it. Not in it.
Just above.
So close the distinction stopped mattering.
The surface stretched beneath them like polished glass, a ribbon of liquid silver under the morning light. Bruce held the altitude with surgical precision, centimeters of separation, nothing more, his control so exact it felt less like flying and more like threading a needle at speed.
The air changed down here. Cooler. Thicker. The river breathed against them in a damp, whispering chill that curled around Bruce's boots and grazed the backs of Lily's hands where they gripped his arm.
He accelerated.
