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DAILY PLANET | MARCH 19TH DOES DAMIAN WAYNE HAVE A CRUSH ON SUPERGIRL? Article written and edited by Catherine Grant 

This morning, an alien attack struck upon Metropolis around 9:43 am — a race coming from another galaxy wanting to destroy Superman; common routine. The Man of Steel immediately got into action, and as he bought time by negotiating with the chieftain of the invaders, other Supes such as Supergirl and the Superboys assured that the population was properly evacuated and far away from the zone of the inevitable, impending battle that was soon going to take place. 

The laser cannons went off at 9:47 am, and by that time, most civilians had been warned about the looming attack and were on their way to LordTech Field, where Superwoman and Superboy (the one with the punk fashion sense) were already stationed to protect the population. Out of all the areas, the only one who still hadn’t been properly evacuated was the business district, as the LexCorp building apparently proved to be particularly difficult to clear from all the employees. When the attack started, only a few establishments still had citizens inside, including Wayne Tower. 

We’ve already talked in yesterday's article about Damian Wayne’s — son of famous billionaire philanthropist Bruce Wayne, as well as top executive and heir to Wayne Enterprises — sudden arrival in Metropolis, supposedly because of an important work meeting with S.T.A.R. Labs. Reliable sources claim that Mr. Wayne was one of the last people to exit the building, as he apparently made sure that everyone was out before even thinking about running away from the building himself. 

“He waited until we were all on our way to the emergency exits before running to the staircase leading to the upper floor,” says Lynn Porter, 23, interning at Wayne Enterprises and survivor of the attack. “He said that other people were still there — that he had to make sure everyone got out safely.” 

Mr. Wayne’s bravery didn’t come without a price, as he was still in the building when the mothership’s attack reached the business district. Fortunately, Supergirl intervened quickly, and all remaining employees were escorted out either into the waiting ambulances or to LordTech Field. However, the most remarkable out of all the victims has to be the youngest Wayne himself, who openly refused to let go of Supergirl as she came to extract him from the rubble. 

The paramedics’ body cam footage was leaked not even an hour after the attack ended, and shows Wayne holding on tightly to Supergirl’s neck as she bridal carries him. When the superheroine tries to lie him down on the ambulance’s stretcher, the video shows the man screeching and holding onto her shoulders tighter — quite a comic sight, considering that Damian Wayne is usually considered to be around 6’2” and Supergirl is clearly shorter than him. 

The footage could be seen as a simple show of a trauma response — if it wasn’t for the fact that before the paramedics managed to get him down in the stretcher, he left a kiss on Supergirl’s cheek. 

This is undeniable — as the kiss cannot only be seen, but also heard, as a loud smooching sound is clearly distinguishable in the body cam footage audio. Before the leaked video ends, Supergirl can be seen laughing and patting Mr. Wayne’s chest as he finally settles over the ambulance’s cot, telling the very perplexed paramedics, “Oh, this one must’ve hit his head hard,”

Damian Wayne has, in fact, reportedly hit his head pretty hard, and was transferred to Metropolis General Hospital with a grade 2 concussion. Netizens have already begun commenting on the short video, some outraged about Mr. Wayne’s behaviour, others speculating about the possible entanglement between a superheroine and the son of a billionaire. 

The thing that has mostly sparked controversy, however, is the known fact that Mr. Wayne has been off the dating market ever since he was a teenager, and has a years-long relationship with Miss Kent, the daughter of well-known reporter and multi Pulitzer Prize winner Lois Lane. The two have always been quite private about their relationship, but Mr. Wayne’s kiss to Supergirl has since led to speculation that they have since broken up. 

Sources very close to the couple state that they’re as in love as ever, and that a simple moment of affection towards a heroine who saved Mr. Wayne’s life is not nearly enough for them to start doubting the other. Although, the only question we all have right now is: does Damian Wayne have a crush on Supergirl?

You angrily slam your phone on the dinner table. “I knew she didn’t call just to wish me happy birthday earlier today!” 

Lois sips placidly her coffee, reading the article on her laptop. “Your birthday was four months ago, honey, you should’ve known.” The smile on her lips tell you everything you know — she’s too flattered by her mention as a multi Pulitzer winner to be bothered with her friend’s breach of privacy in your life. “I think the article is brilliant.” 

Your father has been sulking ever since he finished reading it. “Yeah, because at least she mentions you as her mother,” he whines, resting his forehead on the counter. “I’ve known Cat for twenty years and she bothered to only mention you. She could’ve at least said in passing that you didn’t make her on your own — that Clark Kent has helped, y’know. What am I now, chopped liver?” 

You blink, pushing your glasses up. “Hello? Are we forgetting that she called me earlier to ask me if everything was alright after the attack and instead only cared about how me and Damian were doing?”

“Aw, you know Cat, sweetheart,” your mother hushes, waving you off. “Remember when she wrote that article about you finally being potty-trained?”

Clark deadpans. “She just wanted to write something that would’ve caught the eye of mothers with small children to expand her audience. And she used one of our daughter’s darkest times to do it.” 

You tug on your hair. “Do you know how hard it is to go around like nothing’s wrong when there’s still copies of that article going around? I’m haunted. Grandma still has her copy hung up on the living room’s wall. I once asked Damian to buy all the copies he could find of that just to burn them and instead he kept them.” You’d never felt more betrayed in your entire life before then.

“Just stop answering her calls,” Jon suggests, still a bit weirded out by the video of his best friend kissing his sister — albeit the two of you have been dating for years now, he’ll never get over how weird it feels. “I did when she used my acne as an excuse to write that article about pimple remedies.” He leans over the table, voice as serious as ever, “Grandma has that one framed too, by the way.”

“Horrible, horrible woman,” your father agrees, still not recovered from his colleague’s utter dismissal of his fatherly role in raising you. “Do you know how many diapers I have changed? How many tantrums I had to tame? I even participated in all the dance recitals that strictly requested the mother to participate. I wore tutus for you!” 

“Hey, don’t blame this on me,” you rebut. “That’s your coworker — tell her you’ve won a couple of Pulitzers too, I don’t know,” you open your arms with a puzzled expression, “besides, how is it that she wrote more articles about me and Jon than you guys did?” 

Your parents share a look. “Well, the two of you are the closest people she has to rely on for the younger audience. While me and your father keep our mentions of you for birthdays and TV reportages, she can be a bit nosey.” Your mother's nose scrunches. “I remember clearly the time when everyday she was coming up with a different article on how I was undoubtedly a member of Superman’s supposed harem. She wrote tens of those — more than she's ever written about you.” Another sip of her coffee, “Otherwise, I would've intervened. Your privacy can't possibly get more breached than mine did.” 

You let out a frustrated groan. “I thought she genuinely forgot about my birthday and remembered when she found out Damian was injured in the attack.” 

“I love you with all my heart, honey,” Lois starts with a grimace, “but sometimes, I think that you and your brother took too many traits from your father to properly work in a society — you guys trust people way too much.” 

“You say that because if we weren’t related, you’d probably be worse than Cat,” you grumble. 

Your father nods, spirited, “Yeah– all those articles about Superman when I first debuted? You were so mean about it — and I even gave you all the interviews you could’ve ever wanted!” 

Your mother shrugs. “Sue me — an opportunity is an opportunity.” She gets up from the couch to wash the now empty coffee mug over the sink, “By the way, how’s Damian? He must’ve been pretty out of it if he really kissed you in front of paramedics while you were in your costume.”

You sigh, “I’ll visit him at the hospital as soon as I’m halfway done with the essay that I’ve got to turn in by today– Dick and Bruce came to visit him and when I called, he was already babbling something about Vicki Vale and how much he hates her.” 

Jon raises an eyebrow. “Vicki Vale wrote an article about what happened today? I thought she only wrote about Gothamite things.”

“Technically, this is a Gothamite thing,” you huff, “because the son of the Prince of Gotham just kissed Supergirl, and she’s pissed about it.”

GOTHAM GAZETTE | MARCH 19TH HAS DAMIAN WAYNE CROSSED ALL ESTABLISHED SOCIAL BOUNDARIES? Article written and edited by Victoria Vale 

This morning, after an alien attack struck Metropolis, a video of Damian Wayne — who, for all living under a rock, is the son of billionaire playboy and supposed Prince of Gotham Bruce Wayne — kissing Supergirl — speculated daughter or relative of the Man of Steel — got leaked. The footage has sparked controversy on the Internet as people began to question the role of female superheroes and how Wayne seemingly took advantage of the situation to fulfill some kind of depraved fantasy of his. 

We’ve known of the Waynes’ entanglement with superhero society for a while now (click here for the article about Batman and Bruce Wayne’s speculated affair, here to read about the latter’s disastrous date with Wonder Woman, and here to know all about Dick Grayson’s on-and-off relationship with known alien superheroine Starfire) but this was probably a pairing that not even the most creative fortune teller could've predicted. 

Damian Wayne has always been an elusive figure in high society, especially for what entails his love life. It’s a known fact that he’s been in a relationship with the daughter of Daily Planet’s reporters Lois Lane and Clark Kent since high school, but other than that, he’s always refused to elaborate more during interviews and social gatherings.

Miss Lane has participated in the celebrations for Wayne Jr’s birthdays, and has been a new presence to this past New Year’s Eve Wayne Gala (click here for more on that). 

This secrecy about what should be an established relationship has sparked scandal on socials like Instagram and TikTok, where netizens harshly criticized the new Prince of Gotham — as really, Bruce Wayne is starting to get a tad bit too old for that title — for not sharing every little aspect of his private life like his father does. This, added to the leaked footage of this morning, has users wondering if the supposed relationship is still going strong or if tensions have arisen within the couple. 

Meanwhile, some users are outraged not rather by the supposed cheating, but by the treatment of female superheroes in modern society. “She (Supergirl) handled it very well, but I doubt she would’ve shown otherwise with the already stressed paramedics in front of her”, one comment under the leaked video suggests. “Men’s audacity managing to stay strong even during a literal alien attack never fails to amaze me”, another reads, leading to the debacle on the role of superheroines and their perception by superhero fanatics. 

Users are mostly worried about Supergirl’s well-being, as she found herself harassed by someone she was supposed to be saving. Some could argue that Wayne was in an utter state of confusion caused by the concussion he was later on found to have, but most are convinced that it was a calculated act to try and establish a predominance over a woman, even if said woman is considered to be one of the most powerful beings of Earth.

The primary question we’re all asking ourselves is: how should civilian women be able to feel safe around men, if not even superheroines are spared of their unwanted advances? And what does trust really mean for them, considering that even Damian Wayne, who has never shown an ounce of emotion to the public and has always been deemed as a feminist, did not hesitate to betray his girlfriend with Supergirl as soon as the opportunity presented itself? Stay tuned and subscribe to our newsletter to be updated as soon as Wayne's representatives come out with a statement on the situation. 

“I will go back to my old ways just to murder her,” Damian grumbles, still high off the pain medication. He rises on his elbows, still dizzy, “Father– order a jet to Gotham now, I’ve decided I’m killing this wench–”

Dick — who has barely managed to contain his laughter this whole time — tuts and has him lie back down, patting his shoulder reassuringly. “Don’t worry — B’s lawyers have already got it handled. Just try to get some rest, will ya?”

“She didn’t even say the kiss was on the cheek!” Damian slurs, “This is insulting — the whole time, it looks like I violated her!”

“Well, if you were a stranger, I guess you would’ve,” Bruce mutters grimly, his eyebrows knitted ever since he entered the hospital room and showed his son the article. “The thing is, you weren’t, but you can’t exactly go around to say that now, can you?” 

“I was disoriented!” your boyfriend screams, outraged. “I was hit in the head by a very heavy piece of rubble! I just wanted to show gratitude towards my girlfriend!” 

“And thought it was snuggle time,” Dick adds, amused, thinking back to how Damian had clung to you like a monkey very clingy towards his favourite tree branch. The latter glares at him, “You say that now, Grayson, but I still haven’t forgotten that one time when you jumped into Starfire’s arms at the haunted mansion in the fair.” 

His brother shrugs. “I wasn’t being recorded, at least. Poor Dami here instead got his lovey-dovey footage leaked, and now everyone thinks he’s a creep.” 

Damian’s left eye twitches as Dick hugs and pats his head like he’s still a kid, “Just kill me now. Ten years of feminist statements, ruined by a little peck.” 

Bruce lets out a heavy sigh, crossing his arms, “At least it wasn’t Tim’s accusation of breaking into the government’s archives to find out what really happened to Marilyn Monroe — I had to pay off federals, Damian, federals. The lawyers have already sent Vicki a very coloured letter — you’ll be out of the trenches in a matter of days.”

Damian grumbles, his words still a bit mushed from sleep and the concussion. “Where’s she? I didn’t ask to be taken to Gotham General just so she could come see me.” 

“The subway’s still down,” Bruce replies easily. “Clark said she wanted to come flying, but paparazzis probably would’ve followed her to have the exclusive on what really happened between the two of you, so he’s giving her a ride — but try to remember that a fifth of the city’s still destroyed. They could take a while.” 

Damian blindly reaches for his phone, seated on the nightstand beside the bed, and nearly rips out his IV in doing so. Dick catches the mobile when it almost falls to the ground, then holds it out of his brother’s grasp. “Lemme call her,” your boyfriend whines, in an uncharacteristic show of actual emotion. Grayson coos, “Aww, and what’s the magic word, honey? Come on, say it, I know you can do it,”

“Dick,” Damian hisses — with in mind anything but his actual name. Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose. “Stop bullying your brother, Dick — while he’s in a hospital bed, at least refrain from doing so.” 

Grayson sing-songs the whole time as he unlocks his brother’s phone, coos at the wallpaper picture of the two of you at your birthday dinner, and positively squeals when he sees your contact name. “You’ve got her saved as Beloved — and I got my full name? Not even Raven has me saved as Richard John Grayson! I think not even the government knows me like that!” 

“Suck it,” Damian says, in an actually very characteristic show of pettiness. “Gimme the damn phone.” 

You reply on the third ring, but to him, it feels like a lifetime. “Hi, Dami, how are you doing?”

“Where’re you?” he demands, words slurred on his mouth. “You save me and next thing I know, Vicki Vale is calling me a sexist patriarch who molested Metropolis’ golden girl.” 

“I’m sorry about that,” you tell him softly, honestly — you’ll make sure to patch the situation up as soon as you get back into the costume, maybe ask your mother to interview you about the incident. “If it helps, Cat Grant described you with far more gentle words — something about how you bravely made sure that everyone was out of the building before thinking about getting out yourself.”

“Right before calling me a cheater,” he grunts. “Where are you? I wan’ you here.” 

“Picking flowers,” you hum, as peaceful as ever. “Roses or lilies?”

“You,” he replies without hesitation. 

You laugh, and he’s sure he could get drunk off the sound. “Chrysantemum it is,” he can hear a hushed conversation with your father in the background, and the chirpy voice of the cashier as she asks if you’d like to add anything else to the total. “I would’ve gotten there earlier, but you know, the city’s still half destroyed and I still have to turn in that exam by today, and I bet that once I get there, you won’t let me out of your sight.”

He lets out a noise of agreement, sending a pointed look to Dick — currently picking on his nose from behind his hand, probably thinking he’s so discreet — and Bruce — on his phone, trying to look like he’s not listening into the conversation as he replies to the lawyers’ emails. “I don’t think I will. I’m stuck here with a bully and a cop, so you’d be the best upgrade I could ever think of getting.” 

Bruce turns to Dick, stunned. “Did he just call me a cop, when you’re right here?” 

“Don’t worry,” you assure your boyfriend, “I’ve packed a bag to stay overnight. I’ve got my computer with me so you can help me with the essay with that little bandaged head of yours.” You’re acting like it’s not him who always asks you to help write his essays — but it’s okay, it makes him feel useful and you know he needs to hear it sometimes. “About that, how’s the concussion?”

“Hurts,” he whines, definitely faking it out for you just so you’ll get to the hospital faster. Bruce raises an eyebrow at him, having rarely seen his son complain about injuries, as Dick finally bursts out laughing. “When are you getting here?”

“Oh, shush, you big baby,” you chuckle into the phone, the sound of a car door opening and slamming back closed resounding in the speaker. “I got you in time, didn’t I? You’re fine. You’ve handled worse.” 

“Is it Damian?” Jon’s voice — probably from the backseat — rises as he recognises the voice of his best friend coming from the phone. “Hi, Damian! Hope those rocks didn’t hit you too hard!” 

You can basically hear Damian deadpan. “Oh, yeah, guess you’re there too. You didn’t pack a bag, did you? Because I don’t want you here tonight.” 

Jon rolls his eyes even if his friend can’t see him as Clark laughs. “Don’t worry, cowboy, I won’t be the one who stops you from going to town this evening.”

Your father chokes on his breath and nearly hits a street lamplight at the joke, and you lean over the backseat to repeatedly smack your — by now not so much little — brother. The phone must’ve fallen on the backseat, because all Damian can hear is vague insults and the screeching of tires, and then your father’s voice yelling at you two to stop fighting. A chorus of “I didn’t start it!” can be heard before two smacks echo, and your voice comes back to the speaker after what feels like endless shuffling. 

“Damian,” you grumble, “Jon here just tried to murder me.” 

“It’s you who took out the heat vision–”

”Anyways,” you cut your brother off, “we’ll be there in five, ‘kay? Hang on tight for me until then.” 

The yelling starts again right before the line goes silent, and Damian wonders how possibly he has managed to survive the last twelve years with the both of you always at the other’s neck. You and Jon love each other and he’s never doubted it, but the love-and-homicide relationship between a brother and a sister actually needs to be studied. Thankfully enough, Cass has yet to try to murder him. 

The hospital door opens a few minutes later, and you emerge from the hallway, a big bouquet of chrysantemums in your hands. “Bonjour!” Jon is right behind you, hair looking a bit ruffled — no doubt from the scuffle the two of you had — and a floating, bright yellow GET WELL SOON! balloon in his hand. You pause, “Or is it bonsoir by now? I don’t remember anything about French.” 

“It’s bon après-midi," Damian’s pronunciation is as good as ever, but he grumbles when you first greet his father and brother instead of running to him. “Hey! I’m right here!”

He catches Jon’s attention instead, and he immediately drops the balloon in the air to smother him amidst his friend's various protests. “Aww, poor baby! Don’t worry, Nurse Jon is here now, everything will be alright!” He leaves a wet, fat kiss over his cheek as he cradles his head to his chest comically, not caring a single bit about Damian’s shrill screams. “Release me, heathen! I did not call for you — get away from me!” 

You laugh as Dick takes out his phone to snap a picture of the moment for his blackmail folder, and settle the bouquet in the vase sitting over the window counter. “Sorry, sorry — Jon, c’mon, he’s injured, let him go,”

”Does little Dami have a boo-boo?” Jon coos, voice high-pitched as Damian continues to thrash in his hold, “I’ll fix you up in no time–”

“Jonno,” Clark’s voice comes from the door — he’s just entered the room, jacket slung over his arm, “be nice to him — he’s got a concussion, bud.” 

This just escalates Jon’s teasing, even as you rip Damian away from his arms and into yours. “A concussion! You must be the first person on Earth to get one. I’ve never heard of it.” 

High school has taught Jon to finally tease people around him — and he takes every opportunity he can to pay back his best friend for years of being picked on. You swat your brother as your boyfriend settles with his cheek over your stomach, whining softly. “Leave him alone,” 

Your brother chuckles, softening up a bit before poking Damian in the arm. “You’re so fake, man — I’ve seen you handle broken bones with less fuss.” 

Clark sends a concerned glance at Bruce as the three of you bicker, retrieving the floating balloon from the ceiling. “How is he, actually?”

Bruce shrugs — he probably considers this more a facade than anything, as normally, his son would already be up and about. “Well, he has had worse. The doctors would like to keep him here for the night, see if he gets any nausea or other symptoms, but overall he should be out of here by tomorrow.” 

Your father raises his eyebrows — he sometimes hates the way your mother has rubbed off on him being nosey all the time, but it’s his daughter’s boyfriend they’re talking about, and he needs to know if Damian is a wimp whenever someone’s not looking. “So he is faking it.”

Bruce presses his lips into a thin line and nods, sighing. “He is.” 

“It’s like he’s a whole different guy whenever she’s around,” Dick whispers, his tone conspirational. “It’s either those alien genes you guys have got, or he’s down bad.” 

Clark scratches the back of his neck. “If it’s about genes, I’d say it’s the Lane ones working far too well. I don’t have that much appeal compared to my wife.” 

His friend hums. “I agree. Lois is ten times more interesting than you.” 

Your father frowns — the article only citing Lois as your parent coming to his mind. He’d lie if he said he wasn’t still a bit hurt by that. “What’s that supposed to mean, now?”

You and Jon have already settled on both sides of Damian — you on his right, seated on the cramped table chair with your computer open in your lap, and Jon on his left, sprawled over the bed chair for visitors’ overnight stays. While you’re mostly unbothered by it, your boyfriend has been glaring at him ever since he sat down. “I would say that chivalry has fallen on low ends, but that would equal saying that you’re supposedly a knight, and that would be insulting to all cavaliers.” 

Your brother snorts, “So what, you’d define yourself to be a knight?”

Damian huffs presumptuously, crossing his arms. “I would.” 

Jon cackles, “Since when do knights get saved by their ladies?”

“Since ladies started having superpowers. That doesn’t mean I don’t treat her like a lady whenever I’m not in need of saving.”

“Boys, behave,” you say absentmindedly, fingers tipper-tapping over the computer’s keyboard. “I’ve got this assignment due at midnight. I can’t waste any more time lecturing you two about manners.”

By the time your essay is turned in, the sky outside is pitch black, and both your father and brother have left. Dick’s snoring on the bed chair when Bruce nudges him awake, nodding to your form — finally rising from your uncomfortable seat, stretching your limbs out. “That has to be a new record for the most difficult spot to finish a document.”

Grayson yawns as Damian stares at him, disgruntled. “I’ll leave the couch to you,” he tells you, still a bit sleepy, “I assume you’ll stay here?”

You plug in your by now almost dead computer to its charger and nod enthusiastically. “Oh, yeah! Don’t worry, I’ll keep an eye on Damian for the night. Feel free to go back to your hotel.” 

When it’s finally time for the two of you to be alone, your boyfriend demands, “Beloved.” 

Still hunched over your backpack to find a hair clip, you reply, “Yes, Dami?” 

He scooches over the side on his bed, patting the now empty space. “You’ve been far too away for far too long.” 

You laugh, trotting over to his side and settling beside him — noting the way he instantly relaxes, cheek dropping to your shoulder. “I was here the whole time, hun.”

“Yes, but out of touch. Far too away, as I just said.”

Shaking your head, you take your phone from the nightstand, muttering something about how dramatic he is. “So– should we still be together? I mean, you literally cheated on me.”

His groan is the glorious crowning to a whole evening spent under Jon and Dick’s remarkable teasing, and he smushes his face against your bicep in pure, unadulterated annoyance. “Do we really have to talk about this? I don’t think I want to.”

You have to hold your laughter in just to avoid falling off the bed from it, because you know that once it comes out, it will probably never stop. “I already see tomorrow’s headlines — Damian Wayne, misogynist or result of years of Wayne patriarchy?”

“It was a kiss on the cheek!” he protests, “Vale didn’t even specify it — by reading her article, you’d think I had shoved my tongue up your throat!”

“I know that– but did you read the article about your father allegedly having an affair with Batman? Pure gold. I don’t know what that woman’s on, but I want triple the dose she has of it daily.” 

He muffles an exasperated groan on your arm, pressing a soft kiss on the exposed skin. “Years of being a gentleman at galas and with the public — gone with a kiss. And now everyone thinks I’ve violated you.”

You trace the moles on his cheek, “Well, I mean, I guess superheroines are more sexualised and all of that —and, you know, if you weren’t you, I would’ve let you down so fast you wouldn’t even have had the chance to pucker your lips before your ass was back on the rubble.” You shrug, poking where his dimples usually show, “The nice thing about being a girl and a hero, aside from wearing skirts and heels with your costume without being judged, is that you can beat creeps all you want without ever fearing how they might respond to it.”

The kiss you leave on the small unbandaged part of his forehead feels like it’s made of — what was it? Sugar and spice and everything nice? “So, when the reporters inevitably ask, I will tell them that if I was uncomfortable, I wouldn’t have been so nice with you. And that if I did perceive your behaviour like the one of a creep rather than the one of someone who had just hit their head and was clearly very disoriented, I would’ve just kicked you into the ambulance instead of being so polite.” 

Damian finally allows himself some rest, resting his head on your hip as you doomscroll over the monstrosities that are comments left under the leaked footage. “Look– there’s this girl saying ‘Don’t you guys dare lie and say that you wouldn’t have done that, because I would’ve snatched a kiss so fast that one might’ve called me the Flash’.” you giggle like a kid, “Those comments are so fun. I didn’t even realise I was so high on the Hot Heroes List up until now.” 

Your boyfriend grumbles, barely awake, his hold on your sides tightening slightly as you press a soft kiss over his temple. “Don’t get too excited now, it’s not creepy only when I do it.” 

Twirling a strand of his hair with your index finger, you hum. “Sure it isn’t, cuddlebug.” 

DAILY PLANET | MARCH 20TH SUPERGIRL SPEAKS UP AGAINST DAMIAN WAYNE’S ALLEGED HARASSMENT Article written by Catherine Grant, edited by Lois Lane

After yesterday’s incident in the business district, we’ve all been wondering how Supergirl took the situation, as this is a first for Metropolis’ heroes in general. As this morning the Supes gathered to help with cleaning up the rest of the rubble left behind by the alien attack, our staff has managed to snag an exclusive, even if brief, interview with the Girl of Steel. 

The first thing we ask is, of course, how she feels about the scandal that has taken over the Internet in the last few hours — but she just smiles, bright as ever, like all our conspiracies are just nothing more than that. I mean, I didn’t even know who the guy was until I saw the news, she replies easily. Even if it’s not really unusual, saving a big shot with this kind of job. 

When we question her well-being, she just laughs. Now, c’mon — we’ve all seen the footage; poor dude was totally out of it. This happens all the time, mostly with kids– they see something in me that reminds them of their mother or their little sister and they start clinging like crazy. It’s a totally normal, common trauma response. 

Next up is the elephant in the room — the allegations accusing Damian Wayne of harassment in her regards, brought on by the netizens and Gotham Gazette’s reporter Vicki Vale. Supergirl looks surprised, almost embarrassed at the mention of it. Well– not to undermine the gravity of any mishaps my female colleagues might have had with other men, but if a guy bothers me, I make sure he knows of it. Had he bothered me, I would’ve dropped him. 

Of course, cleaning up the city has a priority over responding to such trivial questions, so she soon left us to go back to helping the workers and the other Supes; her answers are however vital to let Damian Wayne off the hook, as they align with the version told by the latter’s lawyers on the official statement published this morning. 

Wayne’s lawyers state that he had sustained a major head injury and so was mostly incoherent during the time of the saving, attaching various medical records that seem to fully clear him of all charges of malicious intent. 

In the end, just like Supergirl said, he has probably just 'hit his head really hard’. We wish Mr. Wayne a fast recovery and leniency from Miss Kent, who has yet to speak up about the situation.

Finally out of the hospital and sat on one of the chairs in your kitchen, Damian side eyes you over his copy of the Daily Planet. “Poor dude really hit his head hard, huh?”

Swinging your legs under your kitchen table, you hum, unbothered like always. “Don’t worry, I love it when you look dumb. It makes me feel like the smart one in the relationship.” 

Well… almost like nothing had happened.

Because things had changed, and even if neither of you said a word, you could feel the shift humming beneath the surface like a quiet electrical current. You knew he knew that you knew. And Bruce Wayne—professional, stone-faced, emotionally constipated Bruce Wayne—wasn’t exactly the type to bring up rooftop vigilante confessions or bloody couch collapses during your Monday morning coffee run.

Still, he was watching you differently now.

You’d catch it sometimes—those moments when your head was bent over your keyboard, fingers flying across the calendar updates, only to glance up and find his eyes already on you. Not in that fleeting, distracted way he used to. No. This was different. Intentional. Like he was studying you, trying to memorize something he didn’t realize he’d forgotten.

You never mentioned it.

You didn’t mention the fact that your salary had mysteriously doubled, either. One morning you just… opened your paystub and blinked at the number for a solid five minutes.

You almost choked on your coffee.

Then you laughed—alone, startled, dryly amused.

Not because you weren’t grateful, but because part of you worried what it might look like. You hadn’t told anyone about Bruce’s second identity. Not even Clark. And yet, here you were, getting a suspiciously generous raise right after patching up Gotham’s most elusive vigilante on your couch.

Still, you didn’t say anything to him about the money. Just like he didn’t say anything about the fact that you’d seen him half-dressed and bleeding.

Silence was your shared language now.

Christmas crept closer on the calendar, your week-long vacation to Smallville already approved—and then extended by Mr. Wayne himself without warning or comment. You noticed it on the scheduling software one quiet Wednesday morning and blinked, eyebrows furrowed.

“Two weeks,” you said under your breath, squinting at the screen. “Did I… request two?”

You hadn’t.

He couldn’t say he wanted you to rest. Couldn’t say he wanted you safe, far from rooftops and broken ribs and the kind of darkness Gotham swallowed people in.

You could’ve marched into his office and asked—but you didn’t. You figured this was Bruce’s way of doing something nice without ever being seen doing it.

You let it go.

Instead, you buried yourself in your task list: confirming board meetings, answering endless phone calls, redirecting holiday invitations, scheduling the year-end Wayne Foundation charity appearances, finalizing travel logistics, fixing one of Mr. Wayne’s glaring calendar conflicts that would’ve had him at two galas and a board retreat on the same night.

Currently, you were typing out an email to the Metropolis city hall offices—following up on a donation Wayne Enterprises had pledged—when the phone rang.

You didn’t even glance at the caller ID.

Your hand reached for the receiver automatically, tucking it between your ear and shoulder as you continued typing.

“Mr. Wayne’s office,” you said brightly. “This is Y/N.”

There was a slight crackle on the line, followed by Eloise’s chipper voice from the front desk. “Hi, sweetie. Sorry to bother—there’s a man here—”

“Oh, go ahead and send him up,” you said, not really listening, half-focused on the typo correction blinking at you on screen. “He’s probably here for Mr. Wayne.”

“Wait—”

You hung up.

Exactly three seconds later, Bruce’s office door opened.

You didn’t even turn at first.

“Who was it?” he asked, his voice low and casual, but there was something in the tone—something tense, like a wire pulled too tight.

You glanced over your shoulder. “Don’t know. I told Eloise to send him up.”

He stared at you.

You blinked. “What?”

The tension crackled between you like static. Like the moment before lightning splits the sky. And you hated how you couldn’t stop remembering the look on his face when you asked if he wanted to stay. The way he’d looked at you when you called him complicated. The way he hadn’t denied it.

You opened your mouth to ask if he wanted you to bring water or coffee or a distraction, but then—

“Y/N?”

Your head whipped toward the elevator. The voice was warm. Familiar. Deep and smooth and impossibly safe.

Your heart leapt.

“Clark?” you gasped.

And then you were running—faster than you could remember moving in heels—across the office floor, the thick plush carpet muffling the sound of your footsteps.

Your brother stood in the doorway, tall and broad and unmistakable in that sweet, dorky way only he could manage. Thick-rimmed glasses sat on the bridge of his nose, and his soft dark hair flopped gently against his forehead, a few strands damp from the misty Gotham air. He wore a gray pea coat and a warm smile so wide it nearly broke your heart in two.

You threw yourself at him.

He caught you with one arm like you weighed nothing, like you were still six years old and couldn’t reach the cookie jar, spinning you around as you clung to his neck and laughed, genuine and warm and glowing from somewhere deep in your chest.

“Oh my God, you’re here!” you squealed.

“I’m here,” he laughed, the sound vibrating through his chest. “You didn’t think I’d miss seeing my baby sister before Christmas, did you?”

You beamed, still in his arms, eyes damp with happiness. “You never come to Gotham.”

“Well,” he said with a sheepish grin, “someone had a pretty rough week.”

You pulled back just enough to frown at him, though your eyes sparkled with amusement. “Ma called you.”

He raised his brows in mock innocence.

“Clark.”

“What? She was worried!”

You snorted, finally sliding down to your feet, still holding his forearms as if to make sure he didn’t disappear again. “Unbelievable. She ratted me out.”

“She said you cried.”

You groaned. “I did not cry. I got champagne on my dress.”

“She said you sobbed.”

You buried your face in your hands. “Oh my God, I’m never telling her anything again.”

Clark just pulled you into another one-armed hug, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

“I came to check on you,” he murmured. “Because you’re my girl.”

You blinked back something wet in your lashes.

You’d always been his. His first little sibling. His shadow. His anchor. His soft spot.

“You still have the same glasses,” you muttered.

“They’re iconic.”

“They’re huge.”

Clark laughed again, his smile wide and impossibly bright behind those dorky glasses. His hair was messier than usual, curling faintly from the cold, and his eyes—those soft, sea-colored eyes—shimmered like safety itself.

“You look good,” you said, brushing invisible lint off his jacket. “You’ve been flying more, huh?”

“Trying to,” he admitted, sheepish. “Kara says I’m too slow. Which is offensive.”

You snorted. “You’re a blur. I’ve seen it. Remember when you caught that meteor? Like. Mid-air?”

He grinned. “What, this old thing?” He mimed catching something, flexing obnoxiously. You slapped his arm.

“I missed you,” you said, more softly now.

He smiled at that, the kind of smile that reached all the way into your chest and stayed there.

“I missed you more, bug.”

There was a quiet cough behind you.

You turned and—

Oh.

Right.

Bruce.

You’d forgotten he was standing there. Your boss. Who was watching all of this with an expression so perfectly neutral you would’ve missed the sharp tension in his jaw if you didn’t know exactly where to look.

Oh.

He thought—

You stepped back slightly, placing a hand on Clark’s arm. “Oh! Sorry. Uh. Mr. Wayne—this is my brother.”

Bruce’s shoulders shifted almost imperceptibly.

“Clark Kent,” Clark offered warmly, stepping forward and extending his hand. “Reporter. From Metropolis.”

There was the barest flicker in Bruce’s eyes—recognition, maybe?—but it was gone just as fast.

“Bruce Wayne,” he replied coolly, clasping Clark’s hand.

“Pleasure, Mr. Wayne.”

Bruce took his hand, shook it once.

“Likewise.”

You didn’t notice how tight Bruce’s jaw was, how his eyes narrowed for just half a second when Clark touched your shoulder again in that brotherly, protective way.

Didn’t notice the split-second flash of relief that flickered across Bruce’s face when you’d said the word brother.

He’d been bracing himself.

You’d never know that.

You didn’t see the look that passed between them—brief, measured, masculine.

Your smile widened, the tension in the room bleeding out like a pulled thread. “I was just finishing an email. Clark, you wanna sit while I wrap it up?”

He nodded, then threw a glance at Bruce. “Unless I’m interrupting?”

Bruce’s face didn’t move, but his eyes—those eyes—lingered on you.

“No,” he said finally. “Not at all.”

You turned toward your desk again, heart beating a little faster.

You didn’t miss the way Bruce looked at you then.

Not as a secretary. Not as an employee.

But as the girl who knew his secret. The girl who’d wrapped gauze around his ribs with shaking hands. The girl who hadn’t said a word—because she didn’t need to.

 “Do I get a secretary badge too?”

 “No, it's mine only.”

Bruce watched you go—your arm looped with Clark’s, relaxed, the sounds trailing like music behind you.

He stood there, quiet, still, gaze unreadable.

But inside?

Jealousy had come and gone in a blink. And now, it left something softer behind.

He’d seen the way your eyes lit up. He’d watched it all.

And for one agonizing second—before the word brother—he’d hated the thought that someone else could pull that joy from you.

Not because he didn’t want you to have it but because he wanted to be the reason you smiled like that.

And maybe—just maybe—he already was.

The rest of the afternoon went by in a warm blur.

Clark hung around your desk, alternating between leaning on it, teasing you about how fast your typing was, and wandering through the executive suite like it was a museum exhibit. He made small talk with a few assistants from legal—charming as ever, harmlessly polite, somehow looking both like a bumbling reporter and a walking supernova at once.

You finished wrapping up the weekly emails, flagged three reports for follow-up, and cleaned your desk like you always did before a long break. Clark had taken your swivel chair hostage, legs folded in like a grasshopper as he spun slow, lazy circles, absolutely unbothered.

“Clark, people work here,” you said for the third time, nudging his shoulder as you reached to log out of your terminal.

“And I’m helping morale,” he offered brightly, spinning again. “Look at you. All cheered up.”

You rolled your eyes. “Yeah, because watching my older brother act like a caffeinated toddler is exactly what my coworkers needed.”

“You’re just mad I didn’t bring you cookies from Ma.”

You stared at him.

His mouth dropped open. “I knew I forgot something.”

You gasped. “Clark Joseph Kent. You monster.”

He laughed, shoulders shaking, your favorite kind of sound in the whole world. That laugh could turn a whole day around. Could mend a broken afternoon in three seconds flat. It’d been that way since you were little.

“Pa had eaten half of them,” he said between chuckles. “Said something about quality control.”

“Ugh.” You folded your arms. “I bet it was the molasses crinkles.”

“Yup.”

You narrowed your eyes. “I would’ve killed for those.”

Clark smiled as he leaned back in the chair, hands behind his head. “Well. Guess you’ll just have to come home for the rest of them.”

“I am going home. You knew that. You just didn’t want to share.”

“I’m not denying that.”

You kicked the base of the chair lightly, and he spun again, grinning wide.

The sun had dipped low over Gotham, tinting the skyline in shades of copper and soot. Snow hadn’t started falling yet, but you could feel it in the air—the crisp weight of it just waiting for nightfall. It was almost six. You’d already told Mr. Wayne his schedule was cleared. Everyone else in the suite had trickled out.

You closed your laptop slowly, dragging your fingers along the cool edge. “That’s it,” you murmured. “Last one for the year.”

Clark leaned against your chair, his warm hand tousling the top of your hair like he always did. You swatted him, but not with much force.

“You made it,” he said, all soft pride.

You beamed. “And with minimal trauma.”

That’s how Bruce found you.

You didn’t hear his office door open, but you felt it. That soft shift in the air, that weight of a presence even before a single word was spoken. You looked up instinctively—knew without knowing.

Bruce stood at the threshold of his office, silent and sharp in the dim light of the evening, his expression unreadable as ever. He didn’t look at Clark right away. His eyes were already on you.

And for a breath—just a breath—it was like the room quieted.

Clark noticed it too. The sudden stillness. He sat up straighter, adjusted his glasses, and gave a small, polite smile.

Bruce’s gaze didn’t move for a beat longer. Then, finally, he cleared his throat and said, “Y/N.”

You blinked. “Yes, Mr. Wayne?”

He paused.

Clark stood up beside you, suddenly less playful, picking up on something unspoken in your voice.

“I need a moment,” Bruce said.

You glanced at Clark. He gave you a tiny nod and turned toward the hallway, very obviously not listening. 

You stepped over quietly, hands loose at your sides. It felt like stepping into a conversation that neither of you had planned. One that had been waiting in the shadows since that night on your couch.

Bruce’s jaw was set. His eyes flicked to yours, then away again. You waited, patient as ever.

This time, you noticed.

The persona was slipping.

There was no flirty billionaire here. No polished playboy with a champagne flute and a model on his arm. No clever, offhand remarks. No perfectly rehearsed charm.

And he wasn’t Batman either.

This wasn’t the man who bled on your hardwood floors and let you bandage the hidden parts of him.

This was just Bruce.

And somehow, that was even harder to look at. Because he was the one you wanted. Not the mask. Not the myth. The man who looked like he’d spent the last days thinking about something he didn’t know how to say.

You kept your voice soft. “Something wrong?”

He shook his head once. “No.”

You nodded, waiting.

He studied you like a puzzle he couldn’t solve. Something tightened behind his eyes.

“I just…” He hesitated. “I realized I hadn’t said anything.”

You tilted your head. “About what?”

“About Christmas. Your time off.”

You blinked, surprised.

“Oh.”

Another pause. His voice was gentler this time. “I hope you enjoy the break.”

You smiled slowly. “Thank you.”

He glanced down for a moment, then back up. “You deserve it.”

Your heart twisted.

The words were simple—but coming from him? They struck deep. Like a hand brushing the side of your cheek that never quite touched, but left warmth anyway.

“I wanted to… thank you. For your work this year.”

That caught you a little off guard.

You softened, lips quirking gently. “Thank you for not firing me after I spilled coffee on the Q3 reports.”

That pulled a flicker of a smile from him. The briefest upturn at the corner of his mouth. It made your chest ache.

“You’ve been… indispensable,” he said finally.

You blinked again.

You could count on one hand how many times Bruce Wayne had complimented you. And it had never sounded like that before.

“Wow,” you said softly. “That almost sounded like praise.”

He glanced up at you now. There was something in his eyes. Not softness, exactly. But… honesty. A peeling-back, quiet and raw.

“I’ll be with my family,” you said quietly, watching him. “My Ma and Pa. Clark, obviously. My . . . cousin, Kara. And all the pets in there.”

His eyes softened at that. “Good.”

You hesitated, then added, “There’ll be snow. And pie.”

“You like pie?”

You gave him a look. “Everyone likes pie.”

That earned you the smallest hint of a smile. “Then I hope there’s a lot of it,” he said.

You smiled back, not sure what else to say. A knot sat heavy in your throat.

This felt like goodbye. Not just for Christmas. Like something deeper was trying to end itself before it could bloom into something neither of you could handle.

He took a slow breath.

“Merry Christmas, Y/N.”

Your name in his voice was a quiet thing. Almost reverent.

Your chest tightened.

“Merry Christmas, Bruce.”

It was the first time you’d said it like that. Just his name.

No title. No distance.

Just him.

He didn’t correct you. Didn’t move. Didn’t say another word.

You gave him a tiny nod and stepped back, walking down the hallway with your heart throbbing in your chest.

Clark waited by the elevator, arms crossed, his smile patient.

“You good?” he asked, stepping inside with you as the doors opened.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

He watched you press the button. “That was not a professional goodbye.”

You elbowed him gently. “Shut up.”

The elevator ride up was filled with the familiar hum of holiday music through cheap speakers. You leaned against the wall, arms folded, mind still back in the office.

Specifically… in his office.

The words he’d said. The way he’d looked at you. Something unspoken itched at your ribs.

By the time you reached your apartment, the city had gone dark. Snow dusted the sidewalk in soft, fresh layers. The heater hummed as you kicked off your boots, Clark shrugging out of his coat like he lived there.

You gave him a look and then dropped your bag by the couch and flopped down with a sigh. Clark joined you a moment later, settling beside you with two mugs of cocoa he’d made in a blur of super-speed.

“You spoil me,” you muttered, sipping the top layer of whipped cream.

He smiled. “You’re easy to spoil.”

You curled your legs under yourself and leaned your head against the back of the couch.

Clark waited half a beat.

“So.”

You groaned.

“So what?”

He looked sideways at you with the kind of smirk only an older brother could perfect.

“You know what.”

You groaned. “Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting, I’m just observing.”

You turned your face just enough to look at him sideways. “Observing what, exactly?”

He tilted his head, mock-thoughtful. “Oh, you know. Just the way you turned into a blushing schoolgirl the second Mr. Billionaire said your name.”

“I did not blush.”

“You absolutely did.”

You sat up, grabbing the pillow and whacking him with it.

He took it like a champ. “That’s not denial!”

“I’m not blushing over Bruce Wayne,” you insisted.

Clark grinned. “Bruce Wayne. So we’re on a first-name basis now?”

You glared at him. “You’re infuriating.”

He laughed. “And you’re in love.”

You made a strangled noise and threw another pillow at his face. He caught it easily.

“I’m serious,” he laughed, ducking. “Y/N. You’re in love with your boss.”

“I am not—!” you started, then stopped.

“You’ve got a look,” he said. “You’re doing that pouty-lip, faraway-eyes thing.”

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

“I always look like that.”

He arched a brow.

You gave him a pointed glare. “Okay. Maybe.”

Clark grinned. “I knew it.”

You groaned. “Please don’t.”

“What?” he said, grinning wider. “I’m not judging. I think it’s cute.”

“Clark, seriously.”

“Hey, hey—look. I’m just saying. I know that look. You’re soft on him.”

You slumped onto the couch. “It doesn’t matter.”

He tilted his head. “Why not?”

You exhaled slowly, wrapping the blanket around your shoulders. “Because he’s my boss,” you said quietly. “And because I’m just… me. A girl from a farm. He has models and CEOs on speed dial.”

Clark’s gaze softened.

You didn’t meet it.

“And besides,” you added after a beat, “even if he did know I care… it’d just be gratitude. Or, like, professional respect. Nothing more.”

Clark looked at you for a long, long moment.

You didn’t realize your fingers were twisting the blanket.

He didn’t ask. Didn’t press. Didn’t say the words hovering between your teeth—that you’d seen Bruce Wayne in another light, one only a handful of people would ever witness. That you’d bandaged his wounds. That you knew who he really was beneath all the masks.

Because you hadn’t told him.

And Clark didn’t need to hear it to know your heart was wrapped in something complicated.

“You’re one of the best people I know,” he said gently, nudging your shoulder. “If he doesn’t see that… he’s an idiot.”

The city stretched outside your window, still dark, still sprawling.

You thought about Bruce’s face. The look he’d given you tonight. Like he didn’t have the words. Like maybe, he wished he did.

You pulled the blanket off the back of the couch and wrapped it around your shoulders. Clark reached for the remote, flipping to some holiday cartoon you both knew by heart.

And for the first time all year, your heart didn’t feel so heavy.

The train pulled into Smallville just past dusk on the 22nd, the windows fogged with cold and lined with frost, and for a moment, it felt like the town hadn’t changed at all. As if the moment you stepped off the platform, time folded itself in half and brought you right back to being sixteen with a knit scarf and Clark’s oversized coat hanging off your shoulders.

The Kent Farm was still there. Still white and peeling in some spots, still crowned with snow like whipped cream on top of an apple pie. The big oak out front was bare now, wrapped in tinsel and glowing red-and-green lights Clark must have strung at super-speed. The porch swing creaked like it always had. And from the driveway, you could already smell pie.

The air was so clean it almost made your eyes water.

“Ma’s been baking for three days,” Clark said, tugging both your suitcases out of the car’s trunk like they weighed nothing. “You might have to fight me for the cherry one.”

“Yeah?” you challenged. “Bet she made me my own.”

He groaned. “Favoritism.”

“Younger child advantage.”

“Still unfair.”

You stuck your tongue out at him, racing up the porch. He let you win.

Ma opened the door before you could knock, her arms already out, smile breaking across her face like a sunrise. “My baby.”

“Hi, Ma,” you breathed, hugging her tight. She still smelled like cinnamon and sugar, soft and warm and a little like sunshine.

Behind her, Pa stood in his old flannel, leaning on the doorframe, his expression quiet but fond.

“Well now,” he said, arms open. “There’s our girl.”

You hugged him next, fitting into his arms like you never left. His beard scratched your cheek, and his callused hands were gentle on your back.

“Thought you weren’t showing up ‘til tomorrow,” he said, though you could hear the smile in his voice.

“Got lucky with the train,” you replied. “Clark met me in Gotham and drove me the rest of the way.”

“Mm,” Ma said, ushering you inside, “well, lucky us then.”

The house hadn’t changed much. The old quilt on the couch. The fireplace crackling with kindling and soft orange light. The tree in the corner—short, squat, and lovingly cluttered with handmade ornaments, some dating back to your first art class in kindergarten. Clark’s old stocking hung beside yours, both sagging a little under their own weight. The radio hummed with classic carols in the background.

It was perfect.

You spent the first evening in pajamas, curled up with your feet under Ma’s legs while she threaded popcorn garland. Clark lay on the floor with Krypto in his lap, absently petting it while you flipped through old photo albums and teased Pa about his seventies haircut.

You didn’t talk about Gotham.

Didn’t talk about Bruce.

Didn’t talk about the new pay bump or the way your hands had shaken when he said your name that last day. You just breathed.

And it felt like your lungs could finally fill.

Christmas morning broke with the smell of pancakes and the sound of Pa whistling “Jingle Bells” while frying bacon.

Snow had fallen overnight. Heavy, soft, glistening snow that blanketed the entire farm in silence. The barn roof sagged under it. The wind was still. Clark had cleared the driveway before anyone woke up.

You padded downstairs in fuzzy socks and a flannel shirt big enough to swallow you whole. Your hair was messy. Your eyes still carried sleep.

Ma greeted you with a kiss on the temple and a stack of warm flapjacks the size of your face.

“Merry Christmas, sweetheart.”

“Merry Christmas, Ma.”

Clark sat at the table, already halfway through a second plate. You plopped beside him and stole one of his pancakes with a fork. He glared. You beamed.

“I have super reflexes, you know.”

“You also have super generosity,” you said sweetly.

The day passed in a slow blur of joy.

You opened presents in the morning—socks and books and Clark’s idea of a joke gift (a Gotham travel mug that said “Bat-teries Not Included”). Pa gave you a new flannel, and Ma gave you a hand-knitted blanket in your favorite color.

Clark got a new camera. Ma teared up watching him unwrap it.

After that, there were pies. All kinds. Ma had made you a cherry one just for yourself. You offered Clark half a slice. He acted like you’d handed him gold.

Later, Clark flew out to visit Lois while you helped Ma with the dishes and watched a black-and-white Christmas movie on VHS. You curled up on the couch with the blanket she made you, sipping cider, belly full and warm.

It was the kind of day that didn’t need anything more.

The kind of quiet that healed something.

Even if you still felt the echo of Gotham under your skin. Even if your thoughts still kept wandering back to a cold tower and a lonely office with dark windows. Even if your heart still ached when you remembered the way Bruce had looked at you—soft, almost apologetic, and just a little too late.

It was past midnight when your phone rang.

You were in bed, tucked under layers, the room cold but your limbs warm. You blinked at the screen, expecting a message from Clark—maybe a picture of a food coma from Lois’s house.

But it wasn’t Clark.

The name on your screen just read: Mr. Wayne :p

Your heart stuttered. You answered on the second ring.

“Hello?”

There was a pause. Then a low, familiar voice, quieter than you’d ever heard it.

“Y/N.”

You sat up slowly, fingers tightening around the phone.

“Hi,” you whispered.

He didn’t say anything for a moment. You listened to the background noise—nothing but silence. No city hum. No movement.

“Y/N.”

Your heart skipped. He exhaled through his nose, slowly.

“Mr. Wayne?” you said. 

Another silence. Then, quieter: “Bruce.”

You blinked. “Bruce. Right. No working hours.”

You could hear him breathing, the faintest rustle of fabric. Something slow, heavy. Like he was lying down.

“Did I wake you?” He asked.

Something in his voice made your throat tighten.

It wasn’t the voice of a billionaire. Not even Batman. It was just him.

Tired. Raw.

“No,” you said. “I… wasn’t sleeping.”

Another pause. You lay back down slowly, pulling the blanket higher.

“Are you alright?” you asked gently.

“I don’t know,” he said, so honestly it nearly knocked the breath out of you.

You swallowed.

“I wasn’t sure if I should call,” he said. “Didn’t want to interrupt.”

“You’re not,” you whispered. “You’re not interrupting anything.”

A faint rustle, like he shifted onto his side.

“It’s quiet here,” he murmured. “Too quiet.”

You hesitated. “You’re alone?”

“…Yeah.”

You bit your lip, thumb brushing the edge of the phone.

“Are you… okay?” you asked again, softer this time.

“I think I drank too much,” he admitted.

There was no bravado to it. No self-deprecation. Just a quiet truth.

You exhaled slowly, curling tighter into the blanket. “Do you want me to stay on the phone?”

There was a pause.

“Yes.”

That one word felt like it cracked something open inside you.

“Okay,” you said gently. “I can do that.”

Neither of you spoke for a while. Just breathing. Just… there.

And then:

“Merry Christmas,” he said, his voice so low it was barely more than breath.

Your eyes burned. “Merry Christmas, Bruce.”

You didn’t ask what he’d done that day. You didn’t ask if he’d seen anyone or if he’d sat in that big house alone with all those ghosts and memories and shadows.

You didn’t need to.

He’d called you. And that was enough.

You heard him sigh quietly, the sound tugging something deep inside your chest.

“I think I’ll fall asleep,” he whispered.

“Then sleep,” you said. “I’ll stay.”

“Thank you,” he breathed.

The line went quiet after that.