You were among the latter. Your breath fogged in the cold air as your friend's words settled like a stone in your stomach.

He was cutting across the courtyard with the kind of easy stride that suggested he belonged everywhere and nowhere at once. Dark hair mussed by the wind. A coat that cost more than most people's rent, worn like he'd forgotten he had it on. His hands were shoved in his pockets, and his gaze was fixed—not on the crowd, not on the grand doors of the main building—but on you.

Bruce Wayne. The Wayne Boy. Walking straight toward the Cobblepot girl.

And then he stopped. Three feet away. Close enough that you could see the faint cold-flush on his cheeks, the steadiness in his blue eyes.