#dawgpound

There were nights when Bruce came home late enough that the sky had already begun to lighten at the edges. There were times when he no longer blended into the black of Gotham's night as it began to thin into that particular gray that belonged only to the hour before sunrise, when the city seemed to hesitate between exhaustion and another day.

Those nights had their own rhythm. You learned it without ever meaning to. The distant hum of tires along the drive, the almost imperceptible click of the door, Alfred's footsteps somewhere below, and then Bruce's quiet presence moving through the house as though he were trying not to disturb it.

You had learned, too, that there was a difference between Bruce being late and Bruce being late.

Late meant two in the morning, at the worst, it would push three.

Late meant you would wake to the mattress dipping beneath the weight of his knee, and feel his hand brush your hip in apology before he disappeared into the bathroom to wash the night from his skin.

But this? This was entirely different.

The clock on your nightstand had passed five when you woke. For several seconds, you didn't move a muscle.

Sleep had left you slowly, leaving behind that strange, heavy awareness where the room felt both familiar and wrong, every ordinary object sharpened by the absence of another person. The curtains were drawn, the bedroom was dark except for the faint amber glow of the city leaking through the edges, and beside you the sheets were perfectly smooth.

Cold.

You reached across the mattress anyway, your hand landed on the empty side of the bed.

Bruce's pillow was still where you had left it, the indentation from earlier in the evening barely visible beneath the dim light, and his side of the comforter remained folded back exactly as it had been when he left.

You stared at it for a moment then you looked at the clock.

5:17.

"Bruce?"

The word came out quietly, almost foolishly, because some part of you still expected him to answer from the bathroom or from the hallway or from somewhere downstairs where he had gone to make coffee because apparently sleeping like a normal human being had become an unreasonable request.

Nothing answered.

You pushed yourself upright immediately. The tiredness was gone already, your eyes were alert and darting around from the bed, to the bathroom, to the door.. anywhere he might be.

The room was cold.

Bruce always kept the bedroom cooler than you preferred, claiming that he slept better that way, and over the years you had learned to sleep beneath an unreasonable number of blankets while he lay beside you as though he had been personally designed for winter. Usually you complained about it. Usually he would pretend not to hear you while reaching over in the dark and pulling the blankets higher around your shoulders.

Tonight, there was no one there to do it.

You reached for your phone. No messages. And the last one from Bruce had been hours ago.

'I'll be home late.'

Nothing unusual about that, nothing unnerving or stomach dropping.

You had answered with a 'I love you, stay safe,' and a simple heart, because you knew better than to ask how late? when he was already out there. You had learned that asking for a timetable from Batman was like asking the weather to behave itself.

Still, there had been something different about the way he had kissed you goodbye.

You remembered it now with uncomfortable clarity.

He had been standing at the foot of the stairs in the entryway, already dressed, already somewhere else in his head. His fingers had brushed along your jaw before he kissed you, and it had been brief, almost distracted, except for the way he had lingered for half a second afterward with his forehead against yours.

You had laughed softly and asked him if he was planning on coming back before breakfast.

He had smiled. A real one. A small, tired, private. "I'll try."

You had rolled your eyes. "That's not an answer."

"It's the best one I have." He grumbled, and you had kissed him again anyway.

Now, sitting alone in the dark, you wished you hadn't let him leave with that answer.

You got out of bed, your eyes stinging, and a simple swallow felt like a manual task.

The hallway was silent. Wayne Manor had a particular kind of silence at night, one that could never quite be mistaken for peace. The house was way too large for that. Every sound had somewhere to travel, every floorboard seemed capable of remembering footsteps from decades ago, and the darkness gathered in the corners in an almost theatrical manner.

You walked downstairs barefoot, pulling Bruce's old sweater around yourself because it was the closest thing within reach and because, despite everything, you still found comfort in wearing something that smelled faintly like him.

The kitchen was empty.

You turned on one of the small lamps over the counter rather than the overhead lights, leaving the room in a pool of warm gold that did very little to make the house feel less enormous.

There was a mug sitting beside the coffee machine.

Yours.

You had forgotten to put it away after dinner, and now you couldn't stop yourself from staring at it.

That was the sort of thing that happened when you were waiting for someone. Ordinary objects became evidence. The cup meant you had been here. The untouched half of the dessert in the refrigerator meant you had expected him to come home. The book lying open on the couch meant you had sat there reading while listening for the sound of his heavy boots.

You opened the refrigerator and stared inside without actually seeing anything.

You weren't hungry. You weren't thirsty.. but you desperately needed something to do with your hands.

So you made tea in the mug that read 'Mrs.' It was part of the set that Jim Gordon gifted you two on your wedding as a joke.. you all knew Bruce would never buy himself something like that, but you loved when Bruce returned one night with them tucked in the gift bag.

It was a stupid thing to make tea in this moment, almost embarrassingly domestic, but the ritual gave your mind somewhere to go. Kettle. Mug. Tea bag. Water. Honey. You moved through the motions automatically, and for a few minutes you managed to convince yourself that you were simply awake because you couldn't sleep.

Then your eyes landed on the clock above the stove.

5:31.

You set the spoon down, and picked up your phone again.

Still nothing.

Without even a second to waste, you called him.

The phone rang.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Then it went to voicemail.

A heavy sigh left you and you hung up without leaving a message. You told yourself that he probably couldn't answer and his phone was probably buried beneath the armor. You told yourself that there were a hundred perfectly reasonable explanations for why Bruce Wayne, your husband, had not come home yet.

You told yourself these things because the alternative was admitting that something was wrong, despite the fact that your cheek was torn to bits on the inside while your teeth gnawed at it. So was the skin around your nails as you picked and pushed it.

You knew Bruce, so you sure as hell knew the way he treated danger.

You knew the way he treated pain.

You knew that there was almost nothing he would ever willingly tell you if he believed telling you would make you afraid.

That was the problem with loving someone like Bruce.

He could look you directly in the eye with blood drying beneath his collar and tell you that everything was fine, and because he loved you, he would mean it.

Not because he thought nothing was wrong.

Because he had decided that whatever was wrong belonged to him.

The first hint of dawn appeared sometime after six.

You were sitting on the bottom step of the staircase when it happened, knees drawn against your chest, Bruce's sweater pulled around you like a blanket. The tea had gone cold beside you hours ago.

You had stopped checking the clock. There was no point when time had become something ugly that moved whether you wanted it to or not.

You heard Alfred before you saw him. His footsteps were quiet, measured, and familiar, which was exactly what you needed at the moment.

He appeared at the end of the hallway already dressed, his expression composed in the way it always was, though you had known him long enough to recognize the tension beneath it.

He stopped when he saw you, and for a moment, neither of you said anything. Then his eyes moved toward the clock.

"You should be in bed, Miss." He said in that polite tone he held even when everything felt like it was falling apart.

You almost laughed, but it came out as something closer to a breath.

"So should you." You quipped back in a faint voice.

Alfred's mouth tightened slightly, but he didn't correct you. Instead, he walked toward you and sat on the step beside you with the careful dignity of a man who had spent his entire life pretending that nothing could surprise him.

You stared at your hands. "He's never been this late." Your voice was barely even audible, you couldn't bring yourself to talk any louder in the fear that it might break the quiet that you carefully crafted to ignore the truth.

Alfred was quiet, and that was answer enough. Your eyes met his, brows turned up in an effort to hold back all of the worries in your head. Your lips tight and downturned like they were the dam holding back all of the truths you didn't want to believe.

"Has he contacted you?" You whispered.

"No." The word settled between you in a way that was too final and too heavy.

You swallowed thickly and rubbed your hands slowly and harshly against each other in an effort to soothe yourself.

"That's not normal."

"No," Alfred said gently. "It isn't."

Something in your chest seemed to fold inward.

You had spent hours trying not to think the worst, and now the worst had been spoken aloud in a way that was somehow more gut wrenching that saying it directly.

You looked toward the windows.

Outside, Gotham was beginning to wake.

The sky had gone pale over the trees, and somewhere in the distance a siren wailed before fading into the morning traffic. People were getting into cars. Stores were opening. Coffee was being poured. Somewhere, someone was complaining about the weather to their husband while getting ready for work.

The world was continuing.

It was an obscene thing, sometimes, how easily the world continued when your own had stopped.

"I should've stopped him." You said through a thick, tightening throat.

Alfred turned toward you. "You could not have."

"I could have tried." Your head fell into your hands, as all of the painful ideas of the future without your husband began to flood your mind.

"You have tried."

You shook your head. "I should've said something this time, told him no or-.. or something."

"You did, Miss. You do every night, it is something Master Bruce truly hears." Alfred assured you, his eyes intent on your hunched-over figure.

"I should've-.."

Alfred cut you off, "Mrs. Wayne."

The gentleness in his voice stopped you, your head raised from your hands just enought to look at him, and Alfred looked at you for a long moment.

"Master Bruce knows precisely how much you love him."

Your eyes burned. "Then why does he keep doing this?" Your voice finally cracked. The composure you had learned to keep over the years of loving Bruce finally breaking just enough for someone else to see.

Alfred's expression changed, not much, but enough. "His love for you is precisely why he does it."

You looked away at that, your fingers pressed into your temple.

Truthfully, you hated that answer. You hated it because some part of you understood.

Bruce had always been afraid of losing things. He had built an entire life around preventing it. He had made himself into something harder, stronger, faster, more relentless than the boy who had once watched his parents die in an alley.

But none of that had made him less afraid. It had only given his fear somewhere to go.

You stood abruptly, wanting to keep your thoughts from spiralling further.

"I need to call him again." You mumbled while wiping your eyes and keeping your head turned from him. Alfred had seen the worst of Bruce many times, he had seen some of your worst moments as well, but you refused to let anyone see this because then it made it too real.

Alfred didn't stop you as you walked into the kitchen and found your phone where you had left it on the counter.

Your thumb hovered over Bruce's name.

Then you called. This time, it rang.

Once.

Twice.

Your heart climbed into your throat.

Three times.

Four.

Five.

Then... a click. A click that caused you to freeze with your head angled down and your left arm tucked under your right.

"Bruce?"

Nothing. You could hear breathing, but only barely. Nothing was clear, and no one was saying anything.

Your entire body went cold. "Bruce?"

Then voice came through the line. "Mrs. Wayne?"

You stopped breathing. The room seemed to tilt around you. You leaned against the counter to prevent yourself from going down as your hand came to your mouth. You knew Bruce would rather shit in his hand and clap than let someone answer his phone.

"Who is this?" Your voice was so faint that it was painful to hear. It was hoarse from holding back tears and the state of shock you were in wasn't allowing for it to have any depth to it.

There was a pause.

Then the voice said, carefully, "This is Detective Gordon."

You gripped the phone so tightly your knuckles hurt.

And suddenly, all the little explanations you had built throughout the night — the forgotten phone, the late patrol, the traffic, the weather, the possibility that he had simply fallen asleep somewhere in the cave — collapsed beneath the weight of one terrible certainty.

Something had happened.

You closed your eyes as a way to brace yourself. "Is he alive?"The question barely made it past your lips.

There was silence on the other end. Too much silence.

"Yes."

Your knees nearly gave out as the sob you had been holding back slipped through your defenses in one, weak sound.

"But he's hurt." Gordon muttered gruffly, and solemnly

You closed your eyes and pursed your lips while swallowing down the emotions that were trying to rip through you, "How badly?"

Another pause.

"I think you should come to Gotham General."

You didn't remember hanging up. You didn't remember telling Alfred. You didn't remember putting on shoes.

You only remembered the feeling of your wedding ring against your finger as you gripped the steering wheel, twisting it unconsciously with your thumb while the city blurred beyond the windshield.

You remembered thinking that you had spent the entire night waiting for Bruce to come home. You remembered thinking that maybe you had misunderstood what home meant because home had never been Wayne Manor.. no that place was far too deliberate and far too big to be home.

It sure as hell had never been Gotham. It had never been the enormous house or the money or the cave hidden beneath it.

Home had always been the man who came through the door eventually, the man who left his shoes beside the bed, the man who stole the blankets, the man who kissed your forehead when he thought you were asleep. The man who, no matter how late it was, always came home.

And as you drove toward the hospital with your heart beating so hard it hurt, you realized that the thing you were most afraid of was not that Bruce Wayne might die.

It was that you might have to learn how to live in a world where he didn't come home.

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The quarterly acquisition meeting had been scheduled for nine in the morning, and by nine seventeen, Bruce Wayne already knew he had made a mistake.

The mistake was assuming you had come into the room intending to negotiate, when, unfortunately for him, you had come intending to win.

Bruce sat at the head of the conference table with Lucius on one side of him and three members of the Wayne Enterprises development team scattered along the opposite wall. Across from them, you had your laptop open, a stack of financial reports beside you, and the particular expression Bruce had learned to associate with impending trouble.

You had worn that expression during your last three negotiations, and every single time it had ended with one of his executives quietly revising a proposal they had spent weeks preparing.

You clicked to the next slide, before folding your hands neatly infront of your freshly pressed suit with an entirely unreadable expression. You'd done this long enough. you knew if even a crack of emotion or opinion showed your chances were shot because they'd assume you were.. "too emotional," or "clearly underprepared."

"Your projected operating margin is inflated."

One of the senior executives frowned. "We've accounted for the revised construction costs."

"You've accounted for the costs your contractor gave you in May, it's August now."

You tapped the screen with the end of your pen.

"The contractor raised their steel estimate twelve percent last month. Their labor projections are also outdated because the union renegotiated their contract two weeks ago. You're carrying a contingency reserve of eight percent." (this means extra money and time that's an emergency fund for known issues)

The executive glanced toward Bruce.

You smiled politely, though it was entirely a facade. You genuinely could give less of a shit if you were polite or not, you needed this to work. Otherwise, the.

"You'll need at least fourteen percent."

Bruce looked down at the report in front of him.

He had already checked the numbers multiple times before the meeting — once in the car, once in the elevator, and a third time out of habit the moment he sat down. Nothing about them had changed. The acquisition was sound, the projections conservative, the risk profile acceptable.

And yet... You were right, because of course you were. Quite frankly, it was becoming a pattern he did not appreciate noticing.

"I thought your company used the same contractor," he said, looking up at you.

You didn’t even glance at your notes before answering. "We did."

"Then why didn't you use the same projection?"

"Because we dropped them."

Your eyebrows lifted slightly as you watched him, like you were mildly curious how long it would take him to catch up.

"They tried to increase our costs by twelve percent without providing a revised materials breakdown. I gave them forty-eight hours to justify it. They couldn't."

Bruce leaned back in his chair, the leather barely creaking under the controlled shift of his weight. His eyes stayed on you a moment too long, tracking the ease with which you said it — no hesitation, no embellishment, just the plain fact.

"And you terminated the contract."

"I replaced them."

"That quickly?"

"Why would I wait?"

There was no arrogance in your voice. That was what made it worse.

You weren’t performing competence for the room. You weren’t trying to impress anyone seated at the table, least of all him. You simply stated outcomes the way other people stated weather conditions — inevitable, already decided, sure as hell not up for debate.

And you were becoming increasingly amused by the fact that Bruce kept asking questions he already suspected you could answer.

Lucius looked down at his notes, the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth suggesting he was failing to remain professionally neutral.

Bruce caught it immediately.

"You seem entertained."

Lucius cleared his throat, adjusting his glasses with deliberate slowness. "I'm observing."

"Mm."

You turned another page, the paper crisp under your precisely polished nails. You knew you needed to overcompensate to be taken seriously in the business world, but you also knew that no matter who you are.. appearance was everything in this business.

"I haven't gotten to the financing structure yet." The tip of your tongue poked out to wet your glossy lips before returning to the presentation.

Bruce’s attention snapped back to you.

There was a warning in his eyes now — not quite irritation, but not not. Whatever it was, was calculating and intent, and had it been any other man? You would already have been sliding your number into his hand.

"You have a problem with the financing structure?"

"No." You replied curtly, "I have several problems."

That got his attention in a way the contractor discussion hadn’t.

You turned your laptop toward him, the screen casting a cool light across the table, and tapped once at a projected debt schedule that had already been approved by three separate departments.

"You're financing sixty percent of the acquisition through short-term debt." (wayne enterprises is borrowing 60% of the money to buy the project but the loan has to be dealt with before the project is done)

"At favorable rates."

"Currently, favorable rates."

Bruce’s fingers tapped once against the table — precise, controlled, almost imperceptible. A habit more than a tell, but still a tell if someone knew where to look.

"The rates are locked for eighteen months."

"And the project has a thirty-month construction schedule."

"They'll refinance."

"At what rate?"

Bruce didn’t answer immediately, and the pause he had wasn't uncertainty, you knew that for damn sure. He was calculating, already running through contingencies, market conditions, political shifts, interest projections, everything that would take the average man a day's worth of work was nearly finished in just his mind. That's why it was his company after all.

You may not like Bruce Wayne, but you would have to be an utter idiot to say he wasn't good at what he does.

"Exactly." You finally interjected, deciding that, though this was his boardroom, it wasn't his meeting.

One of the executives shifted in his seat, suddenly very interested in the grain of the table.

Bruce’s gaze stayed on you.

"You've clearly done your homework."

"I don't walk into negotiations without doing my homework."

"Neither do I."

"I know." That was all you said. Two simple, certain words.

Something about them tightened his jaw — not because they were provocative, but because they were true in a way that left no room for rebuttal. You weren’t challenging his intelligence. You were simply refusing to assume he was the only one in the room who had it.

You weren’t intimidated by him.

You didn’t flatter him.

You didn’t soften your criticism because he was Bruce Wayne, or because the room expected you to.

You stood across from him in a tailored suit that cost more than most people’s monthly rent and dismantled his company’s financial strategy one assumption at a time, speaking with the calm precision of someone who had already run every version of this conversation in their head and found all of them lacking.

It was infuriating.

It was impressive.

And, to Bruce’s growing irritation, it was incredibly attractive in a way that had no business existing in a boardroom.

You advanced to another slide.

"Now, here's where you've really made a mess."

Bruce stared at the projection. Lucius coughed into his hand in a poor attempt to disguise his chuckle. His chuckle, which, for the record, was not at you, but rather at Bruce.

You looked between them with narrowed eyes before allowing yourself to slowly get back into your groove.

"The acquisition price is too high."

Bruce's jaw was jutted a bit and was certainly clenched in frustration. "We're aware of the market."

"Clearly." Bruce’s eyes narrowed slightly, but you didn’t pause. "You paid a seventeen percent premium because you assumed another bidder would enter the negotiations."

"There was another bidder."

"They withdrew six hours before you signed, Mr. Wayne."

That landed, and rather hard at that.

Bruce’s expression changed in a way most people in the room would have missed entirely the moment a variable he had accounted for turned out to be wrong.

You noticed, because of course you did. "You didn't know that." You had assumed he did, but you weren't surprised he didn't.

"How did you-..."

"I spoke to them."

Silence.

The room didn’t move. Even the air felt like it had stopped trying.

Bruce stared at you. He stared so intently that he was unintentionally soaking in the way your hair was so perfectly styled. The way your nails were so perfectly manicured and matched the bag you had brought. The bag, which might he mention, had a fucking sunflower charm.. as well as a heart charm with what he could only assume was either a boyfriend or pet's name -- he was hoping the latter.

There was no way in hell the woman who was actively disassembling his company's strategies had a red bag with charms on it.

You folded your hands on the table, posture relaxed in a way that suggested you were perfectly comfortable sitting in the center of a storm you had personally engineered.

"They were never going to match your offer. You overpaid because you believed you had to win."

Bruce leaned back slowly, the chair responding with a soft, controlled shift.

"And what would you have paid?"

You gave him a number. There was no hesitation or theatrics, just a figure that hit the table like a verdict was substantially lower.

Bruce went very still. "You would've lost the acquisition."

"No. I wouldn't have."

"How?"

"Because I would've waited."

"For what?"

You looked at him like the answer was obvious. "For you."

His eyebrows rose slightly in nothing but interest.

You continued, entirely unfazed by the fact that you had just implied you would outmaneuver him by doing literally nothing at all.

"You've demonstrated a consistent pattern over the past three years. You become more aggressive when you think someone is challenging you. Your competitors know that, and they use it against you. I knew you'd overbid."

Bruce stared at you.

There were several possible responses available to him.

He could point out that your analysis was based on incomplete information. He could challenge your valuation model. He could bring up your own company’s acquisition history and expose the assumptions you had made in previous negotiations. He could turn this into a war of data, numbers, leverage.

Instead, his mind supplied a far less useful observation.

Jesus fucking christ.

You were devastating.. and you knew it, that was the worst part.

Bruce shifted slightly in his chair, a movement so small it would have been invisible to anyone else in the room. But you noticed anyway.

Of course you did.

You continued talking, completely unaware — or perhaps entirely aware — of the effect you were having.

"Your problem is that you're emotionally attached to winning, which is not going to help you run a multi-trillion-dollar company."

"I'm not emotionally attached to anything." He nearly scoffed at the thought, his arms crossing tightly over his unfairly broad chest.

Your eyes lifted from the spreadsheet.

"Really?"

"Really."

"You spent forty million dollars above market value because another company irritated you."

Bruce’s mouth tightened.

"That's a business decision."

You let out an involuntary bark of a laugh. "That's a tantrum with a legal department."

Lucius made a sound that suspiciously resembled a laugh and immediately disguised it as a cough.

Bruce looked at him with an eyebrow raised and a wildly incredulous expression. "Do you have something to add?"

Lucius cleared his throat with a shake of his head, "Nope."

Lucius’s expression was carefully neutral in a way that suggested he would absolutely be adding something later, just not in this room.

Bruce turned back toward you, and you were smiling again. That was the problem. Not all the critqueing or the painful accuracy of it, hell not even the fact that you were correct more often than you had nay right to be.

It was that smile. That confident, controlled, and mildly amused smile. It was like you were enjoying the fact that he was still following along, or rather, like you were enjoying him.

Bruce had spent years surrounded by people who either feared him, needed him, or wanted something from him badly enough to pretend they didn’t.

You wanted his company to lose money.

And you were doing it with the same calm focus other people used to sign contracts and use his money for their own benefit.

Apparently, that was doing something profoundly unfortunate to his self-control.

He shifted again, and you noticed immediately the way the creases in his pants folded a little more, particularly around his thighs. Not that you were looking, it was just kind of in your face.. considering how large they were and the fact that he had his leg resting on top of the other.

Your eyes narrowed slightly. "Are you uncomfortable?"

"No."

"You've been moving around for the last five minutes."

Bruce looked directly at you. "I'm fine."

You studied him for a moment longer than necessary, then returned to your laptop.

"Good." You clicked to the next slide. "Because we're not finished."

Bruce almost laughed. Of course you weren’t, why would you be.

You spent another forty minutes walking him through the acquisition, identifying every weakness in his financial model with surgical precision, and proposing alternatives that would save both companies a considerable amount of money — if anyone in the room had the discipline to implement them.

By the time you reached the final slide, three of his executives had stopped taking notes entirely. They weren't lost, instead, they had been staring at Bruce. He had become unusually quiet and focused, but they all had a feeling it wasn't just on your presentation.

"That's my position."

Bruce looked at the closed computer, then at you.

He cleared his throat, sitting up straighter while never letting his eyes leave you. "You've essentially rewritten our acquisition strategy, is what I've gathered."

"To put it simply, I'd say so."

His forehead creased while his eyes narrowed in thought. "You expect us to adopt it."

"I expect you to recognize that it's better."

"And if I don't?"

You stood, gathering your papers with efficient, unhurried movements. Carefully, tucking everything in a neat pile, then into your bag. Making sure to adjust the charms so they were facing the correct way.

"Then I'll buy the property myself." You stated simply, not looking up from your bag. You weren't bluffing either, that's what both worried him and excited him.

Bruce’s gaze followed you as you moved around the table.

"You'd have to beat my offer."

You paused beside his chair, just long enough to see his posture become more rigid and his chest just barely puff out a bit.

"I already told you, Bruce. I know how to beat you."

He looked up at you, and you simply smiled.

"Wait."

Then you walked away, and Bruce watched your every step as you left the conference room, then the line of sight from the large windows that lined the walls facing into the rest of the office.

Silence settled over the room in layers after the click of the door came, softly but final.

Lucius waited approximately three seconds before standing up with a poorly held-back smile. "Should I reschedule your afternoon?"

Bruce continued staring at the door, his hand splayed over his bottom lip and stubbled jaw in complete awe.

"No."

"You have a meeting with the board."

"I know."

"And then the charity committee."

"I know."

Lucius gathered his papers, unhurried.

"All right." Then, after a moment, he glanced at Bruce with an expression that was far too knowing to be professionally appropriate. "You seem distracted."

Bruce finally looked at him. "I'm not."

Lucius smiled faintly. "Of course." He waved a hand to be as dismissive as Bruce was being then saw himself out of the conference room after the other executives, although not before one of them muttered something about how you might as well run the business.

Bruce remained alone in the conference room, staring at the financial projections you had left behind.

The numbers were good.

Your strategy was better.

And unfortunately, Bruce had just discovered that watching you dismantle his business model while looking that pleased with yourself was going to become a significant problem.

He rubbed a hand over his face and exhaled slowly.

"Fuck." He exclaimed under his breath, one word full of every emotion he had been feeling while watching you.

From somewhere outside the room, Lucius’s voice carried faintly through the glass.

"I heard that."

Bruce closed his eyes. This was going to be a very long quarter.

← MLIST. ᝰ.ᐟ edawgz 2026.

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❚ COLLECTION 01. THE ROMCOMS

COMING ATTRACTIONS

01. PRETTY WOMAN (1990) STARRING: bruce wayne x fem!reader GENRE: Slow Burn • Strangers to Lovers • Fake Arrangement • Billionaire Romance • Gotham Glamour RUNTIME: ??? REVIEWS: "★★★★★ A surprisingly heartwarming film. - Alfred"

02. 10 THINGS I HATE ABOUT YOU (1999) STARRING: john logan x fem!reader GENRE: Slow Burn • Dating Arrangment • Enemies to Lovers • College Au RUNTIME: ??? RATING: "★★★★★ idk why someone loved this guy but cute ig. - Dean Di Laurentis"

03. HOW TO LOSE A GUY IN 10 DAYS (2003) STARRING: hal jordan x fem!reader GENRE: Just A Bet Trope • Strangers to Lovers • Ego vs Ego • Unexpected Romance RUNTIME: ??? RATING: "★★★★★ She shouldn't have lowered her standards for him. - Barry Allen"

04. SHE'S THE MAN (2006) STARRING: dean di laurentis x fem!reader GENRE: Rivlas to Lovers • Genderbend • Sports Romance • College Romance RUNTIME: ??? RATING: "★★★★★ I wish I got to see dean shirtless like that smh - Beau Maxwell"

05. THE HOLIDAY (2006) STARRING: steve rogers x fem!reader GENRE: Smalltown Love • Single Dad • Forced Proximity • Opposites Attract RUNTIME: ??? RATING: "★★★★★ Men like Steve don't exist IRL. - Natasha Romanoff"

06. 27 DRESSES (2006) STARRING: clark kent x fem!reader GENRE: Always the Bridesmaid Trope • Strangers to Lovers • Third Act Turmoil • Forced Proximity RUNTIME: ??? RATING: "★★★★★ I laughed, I cried, I also rewatched twice. - Hal Jordan"

07. THIS MEANS WAR (2012) STARRING: jason todd x fem!reader x roy harper GENRE: Love Triangle • Oblivious Love Interest • Comedic Battles • Bromance to Rivals RUNTIME: ??? RATING: "★★★★★ Why can't I be loved by jason and roy wtf. - Wally West"

08. WATCHING THE DETECTVES (2007) STARRING: tim drake x fem!reader GENRE: Weirdo x Weirdo • Manic Pixie Dream Girl • Nerds Are Hot • Mutual COMEDIC 'Stalking' RUNTIME: ??? RATING: "★★★★★ this one is for the freaks AND geeks. - Dick Grayson "

09. A CINDERELLA STORY (2004) STARRING: peter parker x fem!reader GENRE: Evil Stepmother • True Love's Kiss • Fantasy-ish • Happily Ever After RUNTIME: ??? RATING: "★★★★★ i want this movie tattooed in my eyelids. - Ned Leeds"

10. MY BIG FAT GREEK WEDDING (2002) STARRING: dick grayson x fem!reader GENRE: Found Family • Marriage • Big Chaotic Family • Heartwarming RUNTIME: ??? RATING: "★★★★★ I wish I got to marry Dick smh. - Gar Logan"

Should you wish to request a movie adaptation, just leave a comment or DM with who you'd like to see in your chosen movie.

Keep an eye out for a Collection 02. CLASSICS and make sure to comment on this post if you'd like to be tagged. All fics in this series can be found under #drive-in

← MLIST. ᝰ.ᐟ edawgz 2026.

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.”

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