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Noah stayed on the bench longer than planned.
He leaned back, closed his eyes, and let the noise of Gotham blur into the background. Cars, voices, footsteps—none of it felt urgent right now. For once, his chest wasn't tight with panic. Just tired. The good kind of tired.
"Hey… mind if I sit here too?"
The voice was close. Too close to ignore.
Noah opened his eyes and turned.
Oh.
Oh no.
She was… striking. Not in a flashy way. More like the kind of beauty you notice without meaning to. Long red hair fell over her shoulders, messy but natural. Green jacket, dark pants, boots with dirt on them. Like she actually walked through grass instead of pretending to.
And her eyes—sharp, green, calm.
Poison Ivy, his brain screamed instantly.
No fangs. No vines. No murderous plants.
Just a woman asking for a place to sit.
"Yeah," Noah said quickly, then forced himself to relax. "Go ahead."
She sat beside him, not too close, not far either. Comfortable. She leaned back and looked up at the trees like she was checking in on old friends.
They sat in silence for a few seconds.
Noah kept his face neutral, but inside he was screaming.
Okay. Don't panic. Don't say anything stupid. Don't mention her criminal record.
She broke the silence first.
"This park could be better," she said.
Noah blinked. "Yeah?"
She nodded toward the grass. "Too many chemicals. You can smell it if you pay attention. Keeps things alive, but barely."
He glanced around, actually thinking about it. "Guess Gotham doesn't do 'healthy.' Just… functional."
That earned him a small huff of amusement. "That's one way to put it."
He relaxed a little.
"I come here when my head's too loud," Noah said. "Trees don't talk back. Usually."
She turned to him, eyebrow raised. "Usually?"
He shrugged. "Hey, Gotham's weird. I don't judge."
That did it.
A small smile tugged at her lips. Just for a second—but he caught it.
"Fair enough," she said.
They watched people pass by. A couple arguing quietly. A kid tripping over his own feet. Life, messy and ordinary.
"You don't seem like the city type," she said after a while.
"Is it that obvious?"
"A little," she replied. "You're sitting still. Most people here look like they're running from something."
Noah let out a breathy laugh. "Maybe I'm just bad at running."
She glanced at him again. "Or maybe you're tired of it."
That hit closer than he expected.
"Yeah," he admitted. "Something like that."
He rubbed the back of his neck. "Yesterday, my biggest problem was whether instant noodles counted as dinner."
"And today?"
"I'm not even sure what day it is anymore," he said, then added, "Pretty sure that's not a good sign."
She smiled again—this time a little warmer.
"You adapt faster than most," she said.
"Or I'm in denial."
"That too."
The conversation flowed easier after that. Less guarded. They talked about the park, about how cities chew things up, about how people forget to slow down. Noah cracked a few jokes—about Gotham being allergic to sunlight, about how benches were the city's version of therapy.
Each time, she smiled. Not big. Just enough.
Eventually, she checked her phone and sighed. "I should go."
"Yeah," Noah said. "I should… figure out my life."
She stood, then paused. "What's your name?"
He hesitated for half a second. Then—"Noah."
"Pamela," she said.
She pulled out a pen, scribbled on a scrap of paper, and handed it to him.
"If you ever want to talk," she said. "About plants. Or life. Or whatever."
Noah took it, surprised. "I might."
She gave him one last look—curious, thoughtful—then walked away, disappearing into the trees like she belonged there.
Noah sat there long after she left, staring at the number in his hand.
"…I really need to stop pretending this is normal," he muttered.
But he was smiling.
---
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