ella!

The mattress shifted again beneath you, the movement subtle enough that it might have gone unnoticed by anyone else, but after dating Bart Allen for as long as you had, you had become unusually sensitive to disturbances. Mainly because, when they were coming from him, they felt less like ordinary movement, and more like someone attempting to contain a small electrical storm inside a human body.

Your eyes remained closed as you curled deeper beneath the blankets, one arm tucked beneath your pillow while warm morning sunlight slipped through the gaps in the curtains and painted soft bars of gold across the bedroom floor. The apartment was quiet apart from the distant hum of traffic outside and the occasional creak of old pipes somewhere in the building, and for a few precious seconds you thought you might be able to drift back into sleep.

Then a hand smoothed across your back.

The touch was gentle enough that it barely registered at first, warm fingers gliding carefully along your back before disappearing again. A moment later it returned, lingering slightly longer this time, and despite yourself you felt your shoulders relax beneath the blankets.

"Babe." Bart's voice was low, though not because he was tired. He sounded like someone making an enormous effort to remain calm in the face of extreme adversity.

You responded by pulling the comforter a little higher around your shoulders.

The mattress dipped as he shifted positions. Then it dipped again. Then again. Even with your eyes closed you could practically picture him, unable to settle into a single spot for longer than a few seconds as restless energy buzzed beneath his skin.

"Babe," he tried again.

A groan escaped you before you could stop it.

For a moment there was silence, and you thought perhaps he had finally accepted defeat.

Then you felt his forehead press against your shoulder.

You cracked one eye open.

Bart was half draped across the bed beside you, his cheek squished against the blanket and his arms folded beneath his chin as he stared at you with the expression of a man who had been stranded on a deserted island for several years. His hair stuck out in every direction, still messy from sleep, and there was a faint flush in his cheeks that always appeared whenever he had been sitting still for longer than his body considered reasonable.

"How long have you been awake?" you mumbled.

His expression darkened and became almost solemn, "Thirty-two minutes."

You stared at him. Bart stared back.

The sheer seriousness with which he delivered the statement made it difficult to determine whether he genuinely considered this a crisis.

"Thirty-two whole minutes?" you asked.

"I know."

The words left him with such heartfelt suffering that you almost laughed.

"That's terrible." You played along with his anguish, shaking your head slightly before a hand came up to rub your eyes.

"It is terrible," he agreed immediately. "I've already reorganized the kitchen cabinets twice."

You blinked. "What?"

"The spices are alphabetical now." His lips quirked into a small smile, his eyes on you and much wider (and more awake) than just seconds before.. like he knew to fake being sleepy while waking you up.

"You alphabetized the spices before eight in the morning?" You questioned, shifting slightly under the blankets and his weight, readjusting so now his cheek was squished against your arm.

"I ran out of spices." The room fell quiet at that, Bart's eyes flicked toward the window. Then toward the bedroom door. Then toward the window again.

The look was familiar enough that you immediately knew where this conversation was heading.

"No." You narrowed your eyes in a way that should have served as a warning, but you knew he wouldn't take it as such.

"I didn't even ask yet!" Bart defended helplessly.

"You were about to."

His entire face brightened at that, "So you do know me."

You groaned, flipped, and buried your face back into the pillow.

A second later his weight settled carefully across your back, not enough to crush you, just enough to make it impossible to escape while he wrapped his arms around your waist.

"Babe," he mumbled into your shoulder.

"No."

"I just need to run a few laps."

"No."

"It'll take like ten minutes."

You turned your head a bit and raised an eyebrow at that, "You said that last time."

"Okay, but that one accidentally became forty-five."

"Because you ended up in California."

"In my defense, California was already there."

You could hear the grin in his voice after your face had already buried itself back into the pillow.

The worst part about dating Bart Allen was that he could say genuinely ridiculous things with such complete sincerity that arguing with him often felt impossible.

The second worst part was that he was currently warm and comfortable and wrapped around you like an oversized blanket despite being physically incapable of relaxing for more than five consecutive minutes.

"I just need to get some energy out," he continued, his voice softening as his face tucked into the side of your neck. "Just a few laps up and down the East Coast. Maybe stop in Maine. Maybe Florida. Grab a bagel somewhere. I'll be right back, I swear."

"You are describing a road trip." And as if he knew you would logically protest, he peppered your neck in gentle kisses before you could even start talking.

"It's not a road trip if I don't use roads." He mumbled against your skin, this time, you could feel the grin.

"You are not running to Florida for breakfast, we can literally go down the street."

"I could be back before your next sentence."

You turned your head enough to look at him.

The hopeful expression waiting for you was almost painful to witness.

Bart wasn't trying to leave because he was bored of being here. If anything, that was what made the situation so ridiculous. He loved mornings like this. Loved staying tangled together beneath blankets, loved the quiet intimacy of waking up beside someone he adored.

His body just, unfortunately, happened to contain enough energy to power several small cities.

For a long moment he simply looked at you, trying very hard to appear patient despite the fact that every muscle in his body seemed ready to launch him through the nearest wall.

Then he leaned forward and pressed a kiss against your forehead.

"Babe," he whispered softly, and a little pathetically. "Please."

You sighed, causing his eyes to widen, and the grin arrived before you'd even spoken.

And somehow, despite knowing exactly how this would end, you found yourself laughing into your pillow as Bart celebrated a victory he technically hadn't won yet.

← MLIST. ᝰ.ᐟ edawgz 2026.

By the time you walked into the fraternity house, it already felt like the night had decided what it wanted to be.

Music was spilling through every open window in waves that made the floorboards vibrate under your heels, laughter curling up the staircase and out into the night air like it didn’t belong to any one room. Someone had turned the living room into something halfway between a party and a performance, colored lights thrown lazily across the walls, cups stacked on every available surface like they were part of the architecture.

And at the center of it all, unsurprisingly, was Beau Maxwell.

Your brother had that kind of presence that didn’t just fill a room but rearranged it around him. Star quarterback, frat legend, and somehow still managing to look like he’d been born in the middle of a crowd and never left it.

He spotted you the second you stepped inside, his grin breaking wide and immediate as he pushed through a cluster of people to get to you.

“There she is,” he cheered, like the entire night had been waiting for your arrival specifically.

You barely got a chance to respond before he pulled you into a one-armed hug that lifted you onto your toes.

“Asshole!” you protested through a laugh, adjusting your jacket as he let go, finally.

He looked you over like he was assessing a critical player coming onto the field. “You look like you're ready to fucking party.”

“I always look ready,” you said.

“That’s true,” he admitted easily, then gestured broadly at the house. “Welcome to Sig Tau.”

“You live like this voluntarily,” you pointed out with a crinkled nose and squinted eyes.

He smiled like that was a compliment. “It builds character.”

It did not, in fact, look like it built character. It looked like it built diseases and questionable decisions.

You followed him deeper inside, weaving through bodies and laughter, already feeling the familiar ease that came with being around Beau in his element. You had grown up orbiting this version of him, the version that belonged to crowds and energy and people who shouted his name like it meant something beyond just a game.

Which was exactly why you hadn’t expected the shift.

It happened when Beau paused mid-conversation with someone at the counter, glanced over your shoulder, and then did a double-take so sharp it almost looked painful.

“Oh,” he cursed under his breath, but recovered with a grin nonetheless.

You turned slightly. “What?”

Beau didn’t answer right away. His expression had gone from relaxed to something faintly alarmed, like he’d just spotted a problem he had actively avoided thinking about for a long time.

You turned fully this time.

Some blonde who was unfairly attractive was standing a few feet away, still in that effortless post-practice presence he always carried even outside of hockey. His hair slightly mussed, shirt open at the collar, eyes already on you like the rest of the party had been filtered out of existence the moment he arrived.

For a second, neither of you spoke.

Then Dean tilted his head slightly, like he was trying to place something that had just clicked into focus.

And then he laughed once, low and disbelieving.

“No,” he said, pointing lightly between you and Beau. “That’s her?”

Beau’s hand came up in a slow, resigned motion. “Yeah.”

Dean blinked.

Then looked at you again, properly this time, like he was re-evaluating every interaction you had ever had.

“Little Maxwell, holy shit,” he said with a grin that was both fond and something a little more.

You raised a brow, did you know this guy? Had Beau just talked about you too much?

Something in his expression shifted immediately. Interest sharpened into recognition, then into something distinctly more entertained.

“Oh,” he mumbled again, slower this time, like the realization had weight. “Okay, I get it now.”

Beau sighed. “Don’t start.”

Dean ignored him completely, still looking at you like the conversation had already moved somewhere the rest of the room couldn’t follow.

“Listen, I get it. It's been years since we've seen each other cause you're always off doing some random shit with family in the summer, and I'm always rising and grinding during the season. But come on you don't even recognize these dimples?” He beamed at you as punctuation to his statement. His dimples pressing into his cheeks as his eyes closed in pure exaggeration.

You glanced at Beau with wide eyes, then back to the blonde.

"Dean?" Your jaw was practically on the floor at this point. This was not the little kid with a perfect side part that you grew up hanging out with. There was no way.

Beau looked vaguely like he was reconsidering every life choice that had led him to this moment.

Dean laughed again, shaking his head slightly as if he genuinely couldn’t decide whether this was impressive or insane.

But before he could answer, Beau stepped in half a pace, subtly but firmly placing himself between the two of you like a defensive line that had just been activated.

“Nope,” Beau put an arm between you and his best friend with a firm shake of his head.

Dean lifted a hand innocently. “What?”

“You’re not doing whatever you’re about to do,” Beau continued.

“I’m literally just standing here.”

“That’s how it starts,” Beau said flatly.

You laughed under your breath at that, and Dean’s eyes flicked briefly to you like that sound had been more important than anything else in the room.

Which Beau noticed too, because of course he did.

His jaw tightened slightly. “Tucker,” he called without looking away from Dean.

From somewhere behind the crowd, Tucker appeared like he had been summoned specifically for this purpose. He took one look at the situation, then at Beau, then at Dean, and immediately groaned.

“Oh, come on, bro.”

“Watch him,” Beau said.

Tucker pointed at himself. “Why am I always the emotional support in this house? This feels like it's just a fucking punishment at this point.”

“Because you’re reliable,” Beau said.

“That's really not a compliment in this context.”

Dean exhaled, amused, watching the entire exchange like it was a show he had not paid for but intended to enjoy anyway.

“I feel like I’m being managed,” he said.

“You are being managed,” Beau corrected immediately.

You leaned slightly toward Beau, lowering your voice just enough to be conspiratorial. “This is ridiculous, he's your best friend, why are you being such a weirdo about this?”

Beau didn’t look at you. “This is necessary, you don't know the newer Dean.”

Dean’s gaze shifted back to you again, softer at the edges now that Beau wasn’t fully blocking his view. “So,” he drawled, like he was testing the waters carefully despite the chaos around him, “you here all night, or does your brother have a curfew for you too?”

You opened your mouth to answer.

Beau answered first. “She has a curfew.”

“I do not,” you said at the same time. An offended, but exaggerated gasp escaped your lips as you glared at your brother.

Beau pointed at you like that proved his point anyway. “See?”

Dean smiled, clearly entertained now in a way that made him even more infuriating to the person trying to contain him.

“Good to know,” he hummed with a wink that was shot in your direction.

And just like that, Tucker stepped in closer, casually inserting himself between you and Dean with the exhausted resignation of someone who had accepted his role in life.

“Alright,” Tucker said, clapping Dean on the shoulder. “Let’s go get you a drink... far away from here. Preferably outside. Or in another state, fuck it, let's just go all the way to Texas for a drink.”

Dean didn’t move immediately.

His eyes stayed on you a moment longer than necessary, like he was memorizing the fact that you existed in the same room as him now in a way that couldn’t be undone.

Then, slowly, he nodded once, “Yeah,” he said. “Sure.”

But as Tucker started steering him away, Dean looked back over his shoulder one last time.

And mouthed, very clearly:

Maxwell.

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling anyway. Behind you, Beau let out a long, suffering sigh.

Your brother didn’t stop watching you even after Dean had been physically removed from your immediate vicinity.

Which, considering the fact that Tucker had successfully dragged him toward the bar like he was escorting a dangerous but extremely social animal, was saying something about how seriously your brother was taking this entire situation.

You leaned against the kitchen counter with a drink you hadn’t actually decided to drink yet, watching the party unfold. People spilling through doorways, laughter rising and falling in uneven waves, someone already attempting a very confident but very incorrect rendition of a song you vaguely recognized.

Beau stayed beside you like a shadow, except he unfortunately had opinions.

“I don’t like the way he looked at you,” he said finally.

You didn’t even glance at him. “He looked at me like we were friends who haven't seen each other in years... Oh wait- maybe that's because we are.”

Beau made a noise of disagreement. “No, he looked at you like he was calculating something.”

“That’s called having eyes and a brain, Beau.”

“That’s called being Dean Heyward-Di Laurentis.”

You finally turned your head slightly toward him. “You’re being so dramatic. At this point you should be on broadway.”

“I’m being observant,” Beau corrected immediately, though his second glance in your direction and the way his lips pursed made it seem like he may have just briefly considered asking if you were serious.

From across the room, you caught sight of Dean again near the drinks. Tucker was still beside him, one hand planted firmly on Dean’s shoulder like a human barricade, while Dean leaned casually against the counter, looking entirely unbothered by the fact that he was being monitored like a public safety concern.

Except his eyes flicked up, and immediately landed on you like they’d been waiting for you to look back.

You did, of course you did... how could you not.

Dean’s mouth curved slightly, just enough to be noticed, not enough to be subtle. He lifted his drink in a small, lazy gesture that somehow felt like it belonged only to you and no one else in the room.

Beau saw it too.

“Absolutely not,” he said flatly.

You blinked. “What now?”

“He just-” Beau gestured vaguely across the room. “He just acknowledged you like that in my house.”

You looked back at him, not even bothering with arguing the my in that statement, instead you figured a better use of your time would be to get another opinion... Y'know, make sure you weren't misreading the hints that Dean was putting down. “Like what?”

Beau stared at you like you were intentionally missing the point. “Like you’re a person he’s interested in.”

You took a slow sip of your drink finally, like you needed something to occupy your hands before you said something stupid. “Maybe I am a person he’s interested in.”

That got Beau to turn fully toward you with a look of shock and appallment.

“No,” he shut down immediately.

You raised a brow. “No?”

“He’s my best friend,” Beau said, like that explained everything.

“And I’m your sister,” you replied.

“That’s exactly why this is a problem.”

You laughed under your breath. “So your logic is I’m allowed to exist as a concept, but not as a dating option?”

Beau exhaled hard, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re not a dating option.”

“That’s not how people work,” you said, your arms crossed as your eyebrows furrowed. You had been able to humor this whole protective brother ordeal for a little bit, but now you were starting to wonder if you could push this as far as you wanted it to go.

Across the room, Dean said something that made Tucker immediately react like he’d just been personally offended by the universe. Tucker grabbed Dean’s arm again, physically turning him slightly away from your direction.

You watched it happen.

Then you looked back at Beau. “Is Tucker always like this?”

“Yes,” Beau said without hesitation. “And I’m paying him in friendship points.”

“That feels like hazing.”

“It’s fraternally sanctioned, don't mention it out loud though....”

You hummed, glancing back again just in time to see Dean make eye contact with you over Tucker’s shoulder.

He lifted his brows slightly, like he was asking a question without saying it. You tilted your head, and he seemed to read that like a book.

Beau noticed immediately... again.

“No,” he said again, his rink resting on the counter now as he leaned towards you with crossed arms.

You didn’t respond.

Because Dean had just shifted, subtly shaking Tucker’s hand off his arm with a pat that looked friendly but firm, and started walking.. directly toward you.

Beau straightened instantly.

“Oh my god,” he muttered.

“Relax,” you teased, even though your attention was already fully on Dean now.

Beau stepped slightly in front of you again out of pure instinct, like blocking access was muscle memory at this point. “I am relaxed. I am very relaxed. I am so relaxed I am about to throw up.”

“Beau.”

“Do not ‘Beau’ me right now.”

Dean arrived anyway, and he stopped just short of your brother -- his bestfriend -- smiling like this was exactly the reaction he had been expecting, and maybe even hoping for.

“Tucker’s not very good at his job,” Dean said casually.

“I heard that,” Tucker called from across the room.

Dean didn’t look away from Beau. “Yeah, I wanted him to hear it.”

Beau pointed at him immediately. “Stay on your side of the room.”

Dean glanced at the finger like it was mildly amusing. “Which side is that?”

Beau’s expression tightened. “The side that is not my sister.”

That made Dean finally look past him, his eyes landing on you.

And when he did, his voice dropped slightly, the teasing still there but softened around the edges like he was aware of exactly what he was doing.

“I was just coming to say hi,” he said all too casually with a cheeky shrug.

Beau didn’t move. “You said hi from across the room.”

“I feel like it’s better up close.”

“Why.”

Dean paused, then shrugged lightly. “Higher accuracy.”

You let out a quiet laugh before you could stop yourself. That, of course, got Dean’s attention again immediately.

“Okay,” Beau interrupted, stepping slightly closer to Dean now like he was ready to physically negotiate boundaries if necessary. “You’re done.”

Dean looked at him, eyebrow quirked, and head resting to the side just slightly. “With what.”

“With whatever this is.”

“This is a conversation,” Dean informed him, like he was struggling to find the simple word.

“This is a threat,” Beau corrected.

From somewhere behind Dean, Tucker reappeared, clearly having abandoned all hope of containing anything at this point.

“I tried,” Tucker said, holding up his hands. “I genuinely tried.”

Dean finally exhaled, looking between Beau and Tucker like he was evaluating the situation in full now.

Then he leaned slightly closer to Beau, voice dropping just enough to turn private.

“I’m not doing anything,” he said. “I’m talking to her.”

Beau didn’t budge. “That’s how it starts.”

Dean’s mouth twitched. “You’ve said that already.”

“I will keep saying it,” Beau replied.

There was a beat, then Dean looked past him again, directly at you.

And this time, there was no teasing in it at all, just something unapologetically interested.

“I’ll be over there,” he muttered, nodding slightly toward the quieter side of the house. “If your brother decides to stop guarding you like you’re a national treasure.”

Beau immediately opened his mouth, but you made sure to speak first.

“I’ll find you,” you nodded with a small smile.

Beau froze, and poor Tucker made a sound like he was witnessing the end of something inevitable.

Dean, however, smiled and for once it wasn't the usual smug one.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I was hoping you would.”

And then he walked away again, slow enough not to look like retreat, confident enough not to look like permission, while Beau slowly turned his head toward you like he was trying to process the fact that you had just said that out loud.

“No,” Beau said again, but weaker this time.

You took another sip of your drink.

“Yes,” you corrected.

Behind you, Tucker sighed deeply and walked away in surrender.

← MLIST. ᝰ.ᐟ edawgz 2026.

Bruce Wayne hated bad press.

Not because it damaged Wayne Enterprises, because Lucius usually fixed that before it became a real problem. And definitely not because Gotham’s elite whispered about him over expensive champagne either, because Bruce had learned years ago that rich people would gossip about anything if they got bored enough.

He hated bad press because you wrote it well.

Not tabloid garbage, not shallow billionaire hit pieces filled with lazy commentary and recycled headlines, but articles sharp enough to make people uncomfortable, pieces that dug beneath the polished charity galas and photo ops and exposed the ugly disconnect between Gotham’s suffering and the city’s wealthiest man pretending another fundraiser counted as activism.

Your latest article had been particularly brutal.

The article had gone live at 6:12 AM.

By 7:00, every major Gotham outlet had reposted excerpts.

By 8:30, Wayne Enterprises stock had dipped two percent.

And by noon, Bruce Wayne himself had apparently read it three separate times.

----

Bruce Wayne does not save Gotham. He curates it.

There is a difference.

One requires sacrifice. The other requires branding.

For years Gotham has treated Bruce Wayne like a symbol of civic generosity, the charming billionaire heir photographed beside hospital wings and scholarship funds while reporters eagerly document another smiling donation beneath carefully arranged lighting.

The city calls him compassionate because compassion is easier to market when it wears tailored suits and buys buildings with its last name engraved above the entrance.

But Gotham’s wealthiest son has perfected a version of philanthropy that prioritizes visibility over permanence.

Last Thursday, while residents in the Narrows were still clearing floodwater from apartment buildings the city deemed “structurally inconvenient,” Wayne Enterprises hosted its annual preservation gala downtown beneath imported chandeliers and a floral installation rumored to cost more than the average Gotham household earns in two years.

Inside the gala, donors drank champagne beside ice sculptures.

Six miles away, children slept in water-damaged shelters.

Wayne Foundation representatives later confirmed that emergency aid was distributed to affected neighborhoods by Friday afternoon, complete with media coverage and coordinated press releases.

Convenient timing.

Bruce Wayne has built an empire on being seen caring about Gotham, but visibility has never been the same thing as accountability. Charity offered after cameras arrive is still charity, but it is also performance, and Gotham has mistaken performance for heroism for far too long.

Because the uncomfortable truth beneath Wayne’s carefully maintained image is this:

Gotham does not need another wealthy man funding damage control after tragedy strikes.

It needs someone willing to prevent the tragedy before it becomes profitable to mourn publicly.

And perhaps the cruelest part of Bruce Wayne’s legacy is not that he fails Gotham entirely.

It is that he convinces people that incremental kindness from billionaires should feel revolutionary in the first place.

-----

It spread fast.

By the next morning every media outlet in Gotham had picked it up, and suddenly Bruce Wayne was trending for something other than being photographed falling out of clubs with models draped over his shoulders.

Which was why you nearly dropped your drink when your editor leaned against your desk and casually informed you that Bruce Wayne himself had requested a private interview.

Specifically with you.

“No assistants?” you asked slowly.

Your editor grinned. “No PR team either.”

“That’s suspicious.”

“That’s journalism, good journalism. Means you got to him.”

“No,” you muttered, staring at the forwarded email on your screen, “that’s a setup.”

Still, two days later, you found yourself walking through the front doors of Wayne Tower wearing your nicest blazer and the expression of somebody entering enemy territory.

The receptionist practically melted the second she saw your name on the appointment list.

“Mr. Wayne is expecting you.”

That somehow made it worse.

You expected a boardroom. Or a conference area. Something sterile and corporate where he could smile politely while a legal team watched from the corner.

Instead, they brought you to the penthouse office at the very top floor.

And Bruce Wayne opened the door himself.

It was irritating how attractive he was in person.

You already knew that, obviously, Gotham practically documented the man like he was a national monument, but photographs didn’t capture the size of him properly, or the way his voice settled low and smooth when he spoke directly to you.

“You came.”

You blinked once. “Well.. you did invite me.”

A flicker of amusement crossed his face, subtle enough that you almost missed it.

“Right,” he motioned for you to properly enter. “Come in.”

The office was massive, all dark wood and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Gotham, but somehow it still felt strangely personal. His jacket was tossed over the couch instead of hung up properly, files scattered across the desk like he’d actually been working before you arrived.

Bruce gestured toward the sitting area. “Drink?”

“I don’t take beverages from men, especially those who are trying to sue me.” You smiled, despite the slight bite behind your words.

That got an actual laugh out of him, low and rough.

“I’m not suing you.” He shook his head while pouring himself a glass.

“You should,” you replied. “The article was mean.”

“You think it was unfair?”

“I didn't say that. I think it upset you.”

Bruce sat across from you then, elbows resting against his knees slightly as he studied you in silence for a second too long.

It was unnerving.

Most powerful men interrupted constantly, especially men with reputations like his, but Bruce just watched people, quiet enough that it forced them to keep talking.

“You don’t like me,” he said eventually.

You crossed your legs. “Professionally?”

“Personally.” He corrected without a breath. Your eyes narrowed at that as you took him in. Though you had never spoken to him directly, he was so far looking like everything you had heard.

“I don’t know you personally.”

“You write like you do.”

The air shifted a little after that. Not hostile exactly, but heavier somehow.

You had expected defensiveness. Anger maybe. Instead he seemed calm in a way that felt more dangerous, because every question he asked sounded casual while somehow managing to feel intensely direct at the same time.

“You think I’m shallow.” His eyebrows quirked slightly, allowing himself to lean back instead of sitting in such a defensive manner as he had moments earlier.

“You cultivate shallow.”

“You think the playboy act is fake.”

You held his gaze. “Isn’t it?”

Bruce smiled faintly then, and something about it made your stomach tighten. “That depends who’s asking.”

God.

That was annoying.

Because suddenly this did not feel like an interview anymore.

You glanced down at your notebook mostly to regain control of your own brain.

“So why exactly did you ask for this meeting?” you asked. “Because if it’s just to stare at me while I insult you, I should probably start charging consultation fees.”

Bruce leaned back into the couch slowly, one arm stretched along the back cushion behind you, not touching, but close enough that you became painfully aware of the space anyway.

“I wanted to know if you actually believed what you wrote.”

“I did.”

“Even the part where you called me Gotham’s most emotionally detached philanthropist?”

You smiled despite yourself, a small, amused breath escaping you. “Especially that part.”

Another pause.

And then, infuriatingly, Bruce looked pleased. “You’re different in person,” he noted quietly.

“You sound disappointed.”

“No,” he murmured. “More so... distracted.”

The tension hit so suddenly it almost felt embarrassing.

Because you should not have been reacting to him like this.

Not when you’d spent months publicly criticizing him. Not when half your career currently revolved around dismantling the mythology surrounding Bruce Wayne.

And definitely not when he was looking at you like he already knew exactly what effect he was having.

You cleared your throat. “Do you flirt with every woman who says mean things about you?”

His tongue poked out to run across his bottom lip, while his eyes found something in the room that wasn't you for just a moment before meeting yours once more. “Only the interesting ones.”

“That line probably works often.” You shook your head. This was absolutely feeling like a trap, and you'd make sure your editor knew you were right. You were not going to let Bruce fucking Wayne flirt himself out of your opinions.

“It hasn’t worked on you yet.” The yet lingered after the words died in the air between you two.

You hated that your face felt warm.

Bruce noticed too. You could tell by the way his eyes dropped briefly toward your mouth before returning to your eyes again, slower this time.

The silence stretched.

Outside the windows Gotham glittered in the dark below you, but inside the office everything suddenly felt close and overheated and strangely private.

“You know,” you said carefully, “this is a very manipulative PR strategy.” You shifted, your legs uncrossing briefly as you adjusted your blazer, before your right leg tightly rested atop your left.

Bruce tilted his head slightly. “Is it working?”

Your laugh came out softer than intended. “That depends,” you replied. “Are you this arrogant all the time?”

“No. I'd like to call myself generally humble. I only act like this when someone keeps looking at my lips.”

You stared at him.

He stared back.

And the worst part was that he didn’t even look smug about catching you. If anything he looked more interested now, gaze heavier, sharper, like the tension between you had finally become something undeniable instead of hypothetical.

You shut your notebook sharply and decisively. “Right.. that’s enough interviewing for today.”

Bruce’s eyes flicked down to the motion before lifting again.

“Leaving already?”

“You are a workplace hazard, and I'm not letting that jeopardize the career I've built for myself.” You shook your head with an annoyed huff. This was not how you wanted this to go. You wanted to get him to say something that would prove everything you've ever written to not just be convenient coincidences but rather cold hard truth.

As much as you hated to admit it, you were underprepared. You chose not to believe the idea that he was actually charming (when he wanted to be).

This time, when you turned to look at him after slinging your bag onto your shoulder, his smile was slower.

“Come back tomorrow,” he said.

You stood carefully, trying very hard not to think about how close he was now. “Why would I do that?”

“Because you’re curious.”

He stepped forward then, not enough to crowd you fully, but enough that the space between you narrowed into something charged and dangerous.

“And because,” Bruce added quietly, “I think you want to find out whether you hate me as much as you thought you did.”

← MLIST. ᝰ.ᐟ edawgz 2026.