#consent first

They don’t sit.

“We’re running into resistance,” the committee member says, folding their hands. “On the executive spending bill.”

Tim looks up. “Resistance how?”

“Concerns about continuity.” A pause. “And judgment.”

That word lands heavier than it should.

“Judgment,” Tim repeats.

The committee member exhales, clearly uncomfortable. “You’re new in the role. People are… cautious.”

Cautious is polite. Fearful would be more accurate.

“Some board members,” they continue, “still associate the Wayne name with a certain… era.”

Tim doesn’t interrupt.

“They remember Bruce’s tenure as CEO,” the committee member says carefully. “The galas. The headlines. The romantic entanglements. The perception that money was spent impulsively.”

Tim’s jaw tightens, almost imperceptibly.

None of them know.

They never did. But the ‘money wasted on girls and parties’ has always been a front.

“Fair or not,” the committee member adds, “there’s a concern that those patterns could repeat.”

Tim keeps his voice steady. “And my personal life factors into this how?”

Another pause.

“There’s a belief,” they say, lowering their voice, “that leadership appears more disciplined when it looks… settled. Grounded.”

Settled.

The word again.

“Since the holiday party,” they continue, “there’s been less resistance. People feel more confident approving long-term allocations. Especially if you’re connected to someone stable and connected in their own right.”

Tim says nothing.

“The vote is scheduled for January fifteenth,” the committee member finishes. “Between now and then… stability matters.”

That’s the real message.

This isn’t about romance.

It’s about trust.

And fear.

“I shouldn’t have said anything,” they add quickly. “But I thought you deserved to know how the room feels.”

Tim nods once. “Thank you.”

When the door closes, Tim remains standing.

This isn’t gossip.

This is leverage.

They aren’t asking him to change his behavior.

They’re asking him to perform reassurance.

And beneath that — quieter, heavier — is the truth he can’t say aloud:

If this budget doesn’t pass, projects go dark.

Resources dry up.

People get hurt.

Not Wayne Enterprises people.

Gotham people.

Tim exhales slowly, then opens his calendar and schedules a call.

—

When he explains it to you, he does so clinically. No drama. No leading.

You’re seated at your desk, jacket draped over the chair, notes already open.

“They’re worried because I’m new,” Tim says. “And because of my predecessor.”

You hum softly. “Legacy anxiety.”

“Yes.”

“And now,” he continues, “they’re associating perceived stability in my personal life with fiscal discipline.”

You blink — then laugh, short and incredulous. “That’s absurd.”

“I agree.”

“They’re conflating optics with governance,” you say. “That’s sloppy.”

“It is.”

You lean back. “But it’s not uncommon.”

“No,” Tim agrees. “Which is why I wanted your perspective.”

There it is.

Not a suggestion.

A consultation.

“From an ethics standpoint,” he asks, “does this concern you?”

You consider it. Truly.

“No,” you say finally. “Not yet.”

“Not yet?”

“They’ll move on,” you reply. “Someone else will become the fixation. Narratives always shift.”

Tim nods. Accepts it immediately.

“That was my initial read as well.”

And he lets it go.

Which matters.

—

The second conversation happens three days later, at the long dining table you’ve been sitting at most weeks for as long as you can remember.

Nothing about the evening is unusual at first.

The same dishes.

The same seating.

The same gentle questions about work, travel, whether you’re eating enough.

It isn’t loud.

It doesn’t come with threats.

That’s what makes it dangerous.

Your family frames it as reassurance.

“This would make people feel more confident,” someone says, passing a bowl across the table. “About the future.”

“About continuity,” another adds gently. “About you.”

You pause, fork hovering midair.

“This article?” you ask. “About a holiday party?”

“It’s not the article,” they say quickly. “It’s what it signals.”

Signals.

You understand signals.

You’ve built a career translating them.

And what you notice then—suddenly, unmistakably—isn’t what is being said.

It’s what isn’t.

No one asks who you’re seeing.

No one mentions anyone you should meet.

No names are dropped casually into conversation like suggestions disguised as coincidence.

For months, family gatherings felt less like invitations and more like setups.

You’d arrive expecting dinner and leave having politely declined a man who’d been pre-approved for you. Someone stable. Someone appropriate. Someone whose presence was meant to signal that your life could still be guided back into place.

They called it concern.

They called it help.

You called it management.

You learned how to recognize it before it happened — the sudden insistence that you attend, the way your mother asked whether you were “bringing anyone,” the carefully casual introductions that came with résumés attached.

And now—

It’s stopped.

The silence where that pressure used to live is unmistakable.

That night, you sit alone on your couch and replay Tim's words.

Between now and January fifteenth... stability matters.

That's when it clicks.

This isn't noise.

It's alignment.

Power adjusting itself around perception.

You don't feel pressured.

You feel informed.

You pick up your phone.

—

Tim answers on the second ring.

"I didn't think it mattered," you say. "I was wrong!"

There's no surprise in his voice. Only relief.

"Do you want to talk in person?" he asks.

"Yes."

The conference room is dim, city lights threading through the windows like veins.

Neither of you rushes.

"This isn't about the article," you say.

"It's about control."

"Yes," Tim replies. "About defining the narrative before it defines us."

"And doing the least harm." You add

"Exactly."

Silence settles — thoughtful, weighted.

"I wouldn't suggest this," Tim says carefully, "if I didn't trust you. And l won't pursue it if you're uncomfortable."

You study him.

"This would be public-facing only," you say. "Strategic. Temporary."

"Agreed." He nods

"Clear end date."

"January fifteenth,” Tim says immediately.

You nod.

"And if it starts costing either of us leverage?"

"We end it."

Simple. Clean.

You take a breath.

This isn't romance.

It's consent.

"Alright," you say quietly. "Then let's be intentional."

Tim extends his hand.

You take it.

The handshake lingers — not from hesitation, but from recognition.

This was chosen.

Outside, Gotham hums on, reassured by a story it doesn't understand.

Inside, two people have just agreed to hold a line together.

And neither of you is naïve enough to believe it will stay this simple.

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Tim offers you coffee. You accept. The exchange feels like muscle memory — practiced, safe.

“Optics are… holding,” Tim says once you’re seated. He’s composed, voice steady, fingers resting flat against the edge of his desk. “The response has been consistent.”

You nod. “The assumption’s settled in.”

“Yes.”

There’s a pause. Not awkward. Just careful.

“We should be mindful going forward,” he continues. “The holiday season amplified visibility. That won’t last, but the impressions will.”

“I agree,” you say. “We may need to adjust proximity. In public.”

“Boundaries,” Tim says.

“Yes.”

You both write it down, metaphorically. No one asks which boundaries. No one lists them out loud. You understand each other too well for that.

Silence stretches again.

Outside, a siren wails distantly and fades. The building hums around you, business as usual.

“The end date remains unchanged,” Tim says at last. “January fifteenth.”

He says it like something that can still be controlled.

You breathe out. Not in relief. In acceptance.

“That still works,” you say.

He nods once. “Good.”

Another pause.

This one is heavier.

You look at the window instead of at him. “My family… expectations are stable. For now.”

Tim’s expression doesn’t change, but something in him stills. “I’m glad.”

You almost say thank you again.

You don’t.

Instead, you gather your things. He stands as you do, instinctive, polite.

“We’ll keep communication open,” he says. “If anything feels off.”

“I’ll tell you,” you promise. “Same goes for you.”

“Yes.”

At the door, you hesitate — not long enough to be obvious, but long enough to feel it. Tim notices anyway. He always does.

Nothing is said.

You leave.

Later, alone, you realize what you didn’t talk about.

Not the way his hand had rested at your waist.

Not the way your breath had caught.

Not the way the room had gone quiet for half a second too long.

You told yourselves it was situational.

Seasonal.

Contained.

Rules were reaffirmed.

Terms remained intact.

Everything was recalibrated.

Except the part neither of you wrote down.

And that, you suspect, is going to matter.

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