Leo loved that Daddy loved Mommy. That was not the problem.

Honestly, Leo thought it made perfect sense. Mommy was amazing. Mommy smelled like books and soap and the cotton she wore to the library. Mommy knew where the plasters were, remembered which dinosaur was which, and always did the voices properly during bedtime stories. Mommy could tell when Leo was sad.

So, of course Daddy loved Mommy. Obviously. 

Daddy loving Mommy was not confusing. But Daddy being attached to Mommy like a very large, very serious sticker was the confusing part.

Because since Daddy had come home, he had been very… clingy (he learned that word from your best friend, Uncle Jonathan). Leo noticed it immediately. Daddy stood too close to Mommy in the kitchen. Daddy followed Mommy down the hall when you went to get laundry. Daddy held on to Mommy’s waist whenever she walked past him, like he had to check she was still real. Daddy kissed Mommy’s forehead. Daddy kissed Mommy’s hand. Daddy kissed Mommy’s shoulder when she was making coffee, which made Mommy say, “Dex,” in that voice that meant you were pretending to be annoyed but were actually not annoyed at all.

And at night, Daddy was worse.

At night, when Leo was supposed to be asleep, Daddy slept in Mommy’s bed. Apparently it was also Daddy’s bed now, but Leo wasn’t ready to accept that.

And Daddy didn’t just sleep beside Mommy, but he was practically glued to Mommy!

Leo had seen it from the hallway more than once, when he was supposed to be asleep across the hall. You would be propped against the pillows, reading under the warm gold light of the bedside lamp, and Dex would be wrapped around your waist like he had been hired to keep you from floating away. His face would be half-buried against your chest, one arm heavy over your stomach, mouth pressing sleepy little kisses to your collarbone every few minutes.

You let him do it. You even smiled when he did, because you loved it.

Sometimes you put your fingers in his hair and scratched gently, and Daddy would go so still that Leo knew he liked it very much.

Leo understood affection. Leo understood love.

Leo didn’t understand, though, why Daddy was allowed to sleep with Mommy every night when Leo had to sleep by himself.

Because Leo had a room. Mommy had a room. Rabbit had a place in the dollhouse. The dinosaurs had their chest. Mommy’s library books went in her tote bag, even when you sometimes forgot three of them on the kitchen table. Shoes went by the door.

Everything had a place.

Except Daddy, apparently. Daddy’s place was just wherever Mommy was. He didn’t even have his own room!

This bothered Leo for days.

Not in a jealous way. More in a sad, practical way. Everyone needed a place. So one afternoon, Leo marched into the guest bedroom that had slowly become your office, pointed at the pull-out sofa bed and your desk, and announced, “Daddy, this can be your room.”

Dex looked up from where he had been fixing the loose hinge on the door. “My room?”

Leo nodded, very seriously. “You need one.”

Dex glanced toward the hallway, where you were making tea in the kitchen, then back at Leo. He looked confused. “I… have a room.”

Leo frowned. “Where?”

Dex said it like it was obvious. “With your mom.”

Leo went completely still. His little face folded into pure confusion. “With Mommy?”

Dex’s mouth twitched. “Yes.”

Leo stared at him like Daddy had just explained the laws of the universe incorrectly.“But that’s Mommy’s room.”

“It’s our room.”

Leo blinked.

You appeared in the doorway with two mugs just in time to watch your son’s entire worldview collapse.

Leo looked at you. Then at Dex. Then back at you.

“Mommy shares her room?”

You bit your lip.

Dex, unhelpfully, looked deeply pleased with himself, smug despite the fact that his competition was literally his own son. “Yes,” he said. “With me.”

Leo’s mouth opened. For once in his tiny life, he had no argument ready. He didn’t even know people could share rooms!

One night, though, when the apartment had gone dark, Leo climbed out of bed with his blanket dragging behind him and tiptoed down the hall. His night-light had been on, but the corner near the wardrobe still looked too shadowy, and Rabbit had fallen off the bed twice, which is probably a bad sign.

Your bedroom door was half-open.

Inside, you were trying to read.

Keyword trying, because Dex was not helping.

He was curled around you beneath the blanket, his arm around your waist, his cheek pressed against your chest. Every time your eyes moved back to the page, his mouth brushed against your skin in a lazy little kiss, like he couldn’t help himself.

“Dex,” you murmured, the book still open in one hand. “You’re distracting me.”

His voice came muffled against your skin. “Hmm.”

“I am trying to read.”

“So read.”

You lowered the book.

Dex lifted his head just enough to look at you, and Leo saw that gentle thing happen to Daddy’s face again. The thing that only happened around Mommy. Leo decided this was very sweet.

Unfortunately, Leo was also a very rule-oriented kid, so he also found it very hypocritical.

“Mommy?”

Dex went still immediately.

You looked toward the door, your eyebrows furrowing. “What is it, sweetheart?”

Leo stood in the doorway in his pyjamas, clutching his blanket with both hands. “I’m scared of the dark. Can you come sleep with me?”

Your eyes changed from curious into sympathetic. It meant Leo already knew you were about to say something disappointing and feel bad about it later.

“Oh, baby,” you said. “You’re getting bigger now. You need to try sleeping by yourself, okay? Being independent is important.”

Leo stared at you. It was very close to his father’s death stare when his eyes moved, very slowly, To Dex.

Dex, who was still wrapped around your waist.

Dex, whose face was still half-buried against your akin.

Dex, who had made no attempt to move, explain himself, or pretend he was not clinging to you for dear life.

Leo frowned. “But Daddy’s bigger than me.”

You froze. Dex’s eyes finally opened properly.

Leo pointed at him, deeply offended by the hypocrisy happening in front of him. “He should be independent first!”

What followed in the next few seconds was terrible, perfect silence.

Then you made a laugh-like sound into your hand, trying to hide it but failing. 

Dex lifted his head slowly. Leo stood his ground.

He had Dex’s stubborn little mouth. Dex’s serious eyes. Dex’s absolute confidence when he believed he was right.

And unfortunately, he was right.

“Leo,” you said carefully, trying very hard to remain a responsible parent. “Daddy is…”

You looked down at Dex. Your husband looked up at you, daring you to finish that sentence.

You couldn’t.

Because what were you supposed to say?

Daddy spent seven years missing Mommy?

Daddy has attachment issues?

Daddy is a six-foot fugitive who becomes emotionally unstable if Mommy is too far away?

Daddy is emotionally dependent but we’re working on it?

Leo blinked at you, waiting for an answer, but your husband beat you to it. 

“I am independent,” Dex defended himself, clearing his throat.

Leo’s eyebrows pulled together. “You’re holding Mommy.”

Dex looked down at his own arm around your waist as if discovering it there for the first time, because at this point, it was muscle memory. Then, he looked back at Leo.

“I’m protecting her.”

You chuckled, and Dex shot you a look, almost a pout.

Leo didn’t look convinced. “From what?”

Dex opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

You bit your lip to stop a laugh

That was when Leo knew he had found weakness.

He stepped farther into the room, dragging his blanket behind him like a tiny judge entering court. “There’s no bad guys in here.”

Dex’s face went serious. “There could be.”

You smacked his shoulder lightly. “Don’t scare him.”

Dex rolled his eyes, because he knew his son. “I couldn’t if I wanted to.”

Leo climbed onto the end of the bed without permission, still frowning at his father, which was funny, because it just looked like Dex and mini-Dex having the world's cutest standoff.

“If Daddy can sleep with Mommy because he’s scared of bad guys,” Leo said, “then I can sleep with Mommy because I’m scared of the dark.”

You stared at him. Dex stared at him.

Leo stared back, deeply satisfied with his own logic. It was, unfortunately, airtight.

Your resolve lasted maybe half a second. “Oh, sweetheart,” you sighed, already defeated. “Fine. I’ll come with you.”

Leo’s face lit up immediately.

You pulled the blanket back and started to climb out of bed. Dex, because he was your husband, moved at the same time. He was already sitting up, hair mussed, expression serious, one hand reaching for the edge of the blanket like it was obvious that he was coming, too.

Leo noticed, and his little smile vanished.

“No.”

You paused halfway out of bed, with one foot on the floor.

Dex looked at his son. “No?”

Leo tightened his grip around your hand and stood very straight, blanket dragging behind him like a tiny king issuing a royal decree. “Daddy can’t come.”

Dex blinked. You pressed your lips together.

“Why not?” Dex asked, and there was just enough offence in his voice to keep you amused.

Leo frowned at him, still deeply wounded by the audacity. “Because Daddy needs to practice to sleep by himself.”

You turned your face away because if you looked at Dex, you were going to laugh.

Dex stared at Leo.

Leo stared back with the calm, righteous confidence of someone who had caught a grown man breaking his own rule.

“I can sleep by myself,” Dex said, eyebrows furrowing.

Leo’s eyes dropped very pointedly to your side of the bed, where Dex had been wrapped around you two seconds ago. “You don’t.”

You made a small, helpless sound.

Leo tugged your hand, already pulling you toward the door. “Come on, Mommy.”

You let him lead you, biting your lip so hard it hurt.

Dex stayed in bed, visibly offended, the blanket pooled around his waist, looking like an assassin who had just been grounded by his four-year-old. As a result, he scoffed.

It was small, but Leo heard it.

“Daddy,” Leo said, scandalised.

Dex stared at him. “What?”

“That was rude.”

Dex closed his eyes.

For a second, you thought he might actually argue. Dex liked arguing when he thought he was right, and Dex almost always thought he was right. But then he looked at you, and the annoyance in his face tamed into something much more helpless.

Leo saw it.

Daddy loved Mommy so much. Leo liked that Daddy loved Mommy.

He did.

It made the house feel cozy.

But rules were rules.

“It’s one night, baby,” you said softly.

Dex’s teeth clenched.

He didn’t  like it, that much obvious.

But Leo was watching him with solemn expectation, and Dex had been trying very hard to be good at fatherhood. Good at breakfast. Good at bedtime. Good at not moving the dinosaur chest even though he clearly still wanted to. Good at letting Leo win small things because he was his son. 

So Dex exhaled through his nose. “Fine.”

Leo brightened.

Dex pointed lightly at him. “But Mommy comes back after you fall asleep.”

Leo frowned. “No. Mommy sleeps in my bed.”

Dex’s expression went flat.

“All night?” Dex asked, very annoyed now.

Leo nodded. “All night.”

Dex looked at you like betrayal had entered the marriage.

You smiled sweetly. “It’s only fair.”

“Hmmm,” Dex sighed.

“Yes,” Leo said. “Because Daddy is learning.”

Dex looked deeply unimpressed. Still, he leaned across the bed and kissed your temple. His mouth lingered against your skin, warm and reluctant, his hand coming up to cup your cheek like he was already annoyed about missing you from two rooms away.

Leo sighed loudly. Dex looked at him.

“You kiss Mommy a lot,” Leo said.

You laughed for real then.

Dex’s mouth twitched. “I’m married to her.”

Leo considered that.

“Does married mean Daddy is always cuddling mommy?”

Dex shook his head, trying to wrap around why his son was so argumentative about you. Oh right. He was his son. “No.”

Leo looked at you. “I think yes.”

Dex opened his mouth, but you reached over and patted his cheek.

“Don’t argue with him,” you said, still smiling. “He’s already won.”

Dex looked offended, but he kissed your palm anyway.

Then he leaned down and rested one large hand on top of Leo’s head. “Be good,” he said, even though he knew Leo was already a very good kid. 

Leo nodded. “Be brave.”

Dex breath hitched. 

Leo repeated very seriously, “Be brave, Daddy.”

Dex looked at him for a long moment, and then his voice went smaller. “I’ll try.”

So you carried Leo back to his room, even though he was big enough to walk, because sometimes being scared of the dark meant you got carried. His room smelled like clean laundry, picture books, and plastic dinosaurs. The night-light cast amber stars over the walls, and the dinosaur chest sat at the foot of the bed, exactly where Leo wanted it.

You curled yourself around him in his little bed as best you could. It was too small for you, so your knees bent awkwardly and one foot stuck out from under the blanket, but Leo looked pleased.

Your arm went over his tummy.

“Mommy?” he whispered.

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“Daddy loves you a lot.”

Your hand moved slowly through his hair. “Yes,” you whispered. “He does.”

“He kisses you all the time.”

You smiled in the dark. “I noticed.”

“Is that because married?”

You were quiet for a second. Then you said, “Partly.”

Leo thought about that.

“Does Daddy get scared when you’re not there?”

Your hand paused only briefly, but he felt it. To avoid thinking too much, you kissed his forehead.

“Sometimes.”

“But he’s big.”

“Yes.”

“And he has to learn.”

You laughed into his hair. “Yes. Apparently he does.”

Leo nodded, satisfied.

For a while, there was only the hum of the apartment and the faint noise of New York outside the window. Leo’s eyes grew heavy. Your hand kept moving gently through his hair until sleep pulled him under.

At some point, you fell asleep, too.

You meant to wait until Leo was settled and then secretly go back to your room. You really did. But Leo was warm, the bed was soft enough, and the apartment was silent. Your eyes closed for just a second.

Before you knew it, pale morning light was slipping through the curtains.

Leo woke first.

For a moment, he only blinked at the light on the wall. Then he noticed you still curled awkwardly around him, asleep with one arm across his middle.

Then, he noticed your hand.

It had slipped over the edge of the bed sometime in the night and… someone was holding it.

Leo lifted his head.

Daddy was on the floor.

Dex was asleep beside Leo’s bed, back against the wall, one knee bent, one arm resting on the mattress. His fingers were tangled gently with yours. He must’ve come into his room sometime in the night, found your hand, and fell asleep. 

He hadn’t climbed into the bed.

So, while he may have tried to stay in his own room, he had definitely not slept by himself.

Leo stared.

Dex looked different asleep. Still serious somehow, but softer around the mouth. His black T-shirt was wrinkled. His hair was messy. He looked uncomfortable on the floor, but he was holding Mommy’s hand like it was the only place his hand belonged.

Leo looked at you. Still asleep. He looked at Daddy again. Still asleep.

Then Leo slowly reached for Stegosaurus.

He lifted it close to his mouth so he could whisper without waking either of you.

“Daddy is not independent,” Leo told it.

Stegosaurus, wisely, didn’t argue.

Leo nodded to himself. Then, after a moment, he added very softly,

“But he’s learning.”

—end.

Sanji thought you were asking for more (you probably were) and one of his hands lifted to grope at your tit, squeezing the fat flesh between his fingers like a stress-toy he couldn’t get enough of. His digits were sticky with the remaining whipped-cream he had smeared around your breasts just before lunging for it to clean it. You left his tongue lap at your skin, leaving saliva around.

Your thoughts were in shambles when Sanji pulled away, eyes opening to finally look at you. There was a warmth in your lower belly, pooling wetness in your panties that you so clearly wanted him to take care of. Your boyfriend simply hummed, licking the corners of his lips before speaking. “That might be the best dessert I’ve ever gotten the chance to eat, baby.” His hand was still groping your tit, squeezing it, smearing his saliva around as he ended up pinching your nipple.

You gasped at his action before he spoke again. “Just a good girl, aren’t you?”

“Sanji! God—Stop teasing me…” You voiced, whining at him. He chuckled, taking a step closer so you had to open your thighs to let him stand in between. “I know baby, you want it all, don’t you? The full course.” He said, head tilting to the side, blond hair falling even more on his face. Still, you could see the teasing in his expression and hear it in the tone of his voice.

A nod of your head was the only answer he got, and his lips parted to speak once more. “I see… Maybe after I finish my dessert, m’okay? Those tits are too good to be ignored.” 

You groaned but the melody got stuck in your throat when Sanji started to attack your sternum with kisses. His lips lingered on your skin, open-mouthed that left warm trails up to your collarbones. His tongue slipped past his lips to lick at your sweet, soft epiderm, cleaning the mess he had made himself there. Now, both of his hands were playing with your breasts, groping and squeezing them. His fingers moved to pinch and twist your nipples, making you gasp and moan his name; which was his favorite melody from you.

Sanji hummed at the valley of your breasts. “That’s it, baby, let me hear how good I make you feel.” His hands moved to the underside of your tits, making the flesh bounce in his hands, pushing them up and closer just so he could press his face there. His lips were everywhere now; pressing kisses, licking remaining whipped-cream; your nipples being the strawberries on top. Once more, Sanji closed his lips on one of your buds, circling his wet and warm tongue around it. “Sanji—” You moaned, hands grabbing at the dress-shirt he wore.

He suckled at your nipple, eyes closing again, moans vibrating from his throat. You felt them all the way down to your pussy; wetness dampening your panties.

Saliva leaked from the corners of his lips, smearing on your tit that he held in his warm, strong hand. His fingers started to tease at the second bud; pinching it between his thumb and index. He rolled it, tugged it, pressed his thumb against the sensitive nipple and tried to push it in. The sensations of his wet mouth and fingers were enough to make you dizzy.

But it was the biting of his teeth around your bud, him tugging on it that made you come. It was surprising, you had never felt that way before; a loud gasp escaping you, thighs shaking around Sanji’s hips. Your back arched, the grip on his dress-shirt tightened to pull him closer. Sanji moaned at your reaction, letting the orgasm course through your body before slowly pulling away in a loud wet-pop noise. His eyes were full of mischief as he looked at you.

“Well, that’s new, isn’t it, baby? Coming just from me playing with your tits?” He teased and you slapped his shoulder gently, breathing labored. A tear of sweat dripped from your forehead and you licked your lips. “Shut up, idiot… Give me the full course, now, will you?” Sanji laughed at your words, hands moving to undo his belt, his head nodding.

Bruce Wayne had been electrocuted, nearly impaled, and almost poisoned—all in the span of six weeks. That wasn’t even counting the four separate stabbing incidents over the past three months. Each time, the blade was unique. One had even been laced with a neurotoxin so obscure, Bruce had to dig through Cold War archives just to identify it.

The common denominator? You. His wife.

You never admitted it. You didn’t have to. You never left a fingerprint, never stepped out of character. To the world—and even to Alfred—you were perfect. The devoted spouse. Gotham’s sweetheart. And as far as Bruce could tell, you hadn’t tried to kill anyone else. Just him.

Take last Thursday.

Bruce had walked into the Batcave only to find a pressure-triggered stake embedded in the driver’s seat of the Batmobile. His seat. The one no one else ever touched. The trigger had been subtle—clever, really—buried just beneath the custom leather cushioning. If he hadn’t scanned the seat before sitting (as he now routinely did), he’d be pinned to the interior like a kebab.

He’d climbed back upstairs, singed, sore, and furious, only to find you in the kitchen like a scene out of a vintage ad. Apron tied neatly around your waist, hair pulled back in a messy bun, humming a familiar tune as you piped icing onto cupcakes.

“Chocolate with raspberry filling,” you chirped brightly when you saw him. “Your favourite.”

Bruce had only stared. The cupcakes were pristine, beautiful… and decorated with a pattern that made his eye twitch.

Each one was a tiny bat. Skewered.

Alfred passed by with a pleased hum, lifting one from the tray. “She’s so attentive, sir. You’re lucky.”

Attentive. Yes. That was one word for it.

Then there was this morning.

Bruce sat at the breakfast table, eyes flicking from the half-finished crossword in front of him to the steaming cup of coffee you’d just set down beside it, punctuated by the warm press of a kiss to his cheek. It was your usual gesture—affectionate, domestic. So was the faint trace of something… foreign in the aroma.

“Colombian roast?” he asked casually, not looking up.

You smiled, soft and sweet, as you settled across from him in a silk robe the exact colour of dried blood. “Costa Rican,” you replied. “I know you’ve been cutting back on caffeine.”

“Thoughtful,” he murmured.

You hummed in response, already scrolling through your phone with a content, peaceful expression. One that did not belong to someone who had definitely tried to suffocate him in his sleep just a few hours earlier.

There had been no prints. No witnesses. No cameras. Just Bruce, waking with a sharp gasp at 3:07 a.m., a silk pillow pressed against his face—firmly and definitely deliberately—and the slight, unmistakable dip of the mattress as you slid back beneath the covers beside him with a whisper soft enough to be sickeningly concerned.

“Nightmare again, love?”

He hadn’t answered. You hadn’t pressed.

You never slipped. Not once. Not in public. Not at home. Not even in the bedroom—which, maddeningly, remained incredible. Your touch was always warm. Your affection, believable. Your moans, real. And it was that balance—between the loving wife and the likely assassin—that was driving him slowly, methodically insane.

He’d triple-checked the Batcave’s systems. Gone line by line through the security feeds. Rerun every log for the toxin releases, the mechanical malfunctions, the pressure-sensitive traps woven into the vents and walkways of his own home. Each incident, without fail, pointed back to one inevitable truth.

It wasn’t a stranger. It wasn’t an intruder. It was someone with access. Intimate, unfiltered access. Someone who knew the layouts. The passwords. Him.

Someone who brought him homemade soup when he returned battered and stitched together. Someone who watched him sleep with the serene calm of a lover… and the silent patience of a predator.

You wanted him dead. Only him. Not Alfred. Not Gotham. Not even his enemies. Just Bruce.

And the lengths you’d gone to?

Frankly—impressive. Terrifying. But undeniably impressive.

The problem was—no one believed him.

You were perfect. Too perfect. Gotham’s golden girl. The city adored you. You did charity work with orphans, hosted elegant galas for the Wayne Foundation, and once, personally, pulled a kitten out of a sewer while wearing four-inch heels. You’d handed the soggy creature to Damian with a smile, and now it lived like a prince in the manor, nestled in his bed most nights. Even he adored you.

Meanwhile, Bruce was starting to look… unhinged. Paranoid. And if he was being honest, maybe just a little insane.

“Bruce,” Clark had said gently over comms last week, “you’ve been muttering ‘she’s trying to kill me again’ during Justice League meetings. Barry and Hal think you’re losing it.”

“I’ve told you, Clark. She is,” Bruce insisted.

There was a pause. Then a sigh. “She brought you dinner.”

“In a bento box,” Bruce snapped. “Hand-delivered. To the Watchtower.”

Clark made a soft, confused sound. “Isn’t that… thoughtful? Lois and I do that all the time. It’s romantic. A way to show we care.”

Bruce stared at the comm. He could practically hear the smile in Clark’s voice, like he was just waiting for Bruce to admit how lucky he was. As if that bento box wasn’t laced with enough trace chemicals to warrant a full Bat-lab analysis.

It was hopeless. No one took him seriously.

Even Jason, of all people, had the audacity to laugh. “Look on the bright side, B,” he’d said with a wide grin, clapping Bruce on the back. “You always said you’d go out alone in the dark. Just didn’t think it’d be at the hands of someone who irons your shirts.”

Bruce didn’t dignify that with a response. Mostly because it was starting to feel true.

He even tried to test you one evening. He slipped into the kitchen quietly, just as you were finishing up dinner. The scent of rosemary chicken filled the air—warm, familiar, homey. And then… something else. Subtle, but unmistakable. A hint of bitterness beneath the herbs. Arsenic, maybe.

He leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “Need a hand?”

You didn’t flinch. Not even a pause in your slicing. “You’ll ruin the plating,” you teased, glancing at him from beneath your lashes. “Go sit. I want this one to be perfect.”

Of course you did.

Dinner was served shortly after. Alfred complimented the tenderness of the chicken. Damian—traitor—asked for seconds. You poured Bruce a glass of wine yourself, smiled as you set it beside his plate, and took your seat as if you hadn’t laced his entrée with slow-acting poison.

He took one cautious bite.

Nothing happened.

Then another.

Still nothing.

But midway through dinner, as the conversation rolled on and laughter echoed faintly through the dining room, Bruce began to cough. Not a small, casual cough—no, this one clawed at his throat, chest tightening as the burning sensation took root.

And before anyone else could react, you were already at his side.

“Oh, you poor thing,” you cooed, slipping an arm around his shoulders, your voice full of concern. “Did it go down the wrong pipe?”

You rubbed his back, pressed a glass of water to his lips, wiped at his mouth with a napkin. The doting wife, playing your role to perfection.

Everyone watched the scene with passive interest, no one truly alarmed.

Because this was just how things were now.

Even as Bruce sat there, coughing and glaring holes through you, no one questioned a thing. Deep down, he knew the rest of his family must have suspected something. Tim had hesitated before biting into his own piece of chicken. Dick had watched Bruce too closely. Even Damian’s gaze had lingered a moment too long on the water glass.

But no one said a word.

Because compared to Bruce’s previous love interests—cat burglars, assassins, thieves—you were considered the best of the bunch.

So they let it go.

Believing, perhaps foolishly, that Bruce could handle it.

And somehow… he knew. Even if he boxed the remains of the chicken and sent it to three different labs across Gotham, the test results would come back clean.

Just like they always did.

And he’d look even more paranoid than before.

And so, silently, Bruce accepted the water. Without complaint. Without accusation. He waved you off with a tight smile, reaching under the table the moment your back was turned. Slipped the capsule from the inner pocket of his jacket—a fast-dissolving antidote he now kept on him at all times—and swallowed it with a swig of wine.

Then, politely, he excused himself from dinner.

Later that night, you found him in his office.

He sat behind his desk, sleeves rolled, fingers steepled over a file he wasn’t reading. You drifted in without a sound, but he felt you coming—could always sense when it was you.

“How are you feeling?” you purred, your voice like warm honey. Your hands slid over his shoulders from behind, graceful fingers working into the tension in his neck. His eyes fluttered—damn you—and for a moment, he let himself lean into your touch.

But then you were gone again, floating across the room toward the bar. You poured amber liquid into a crystal glass, humming softly, and returned with a smile that was all teeth and silk.

“Nightcap?”

Bruce took the glass. Paused. Lifted it to his nose and sniffed.

You sighed, utterly unbothered. “Too paranoid,” you chided gently, tsking under your breath. “It’s just whiskey.”

“With an aftertaste of cyanide.”

You held his gaze—and took a sip yourself. Smiled. “Only a drop.”

He stared.

You leaned in close, brushing your lips against his jaw, breath warm against his skin. “It builds immunity,” you whispered.

And just like that, you pulled away.

Bruce remained still, watching your retreating figure as you sauntered out of the room. The silk of your dress shimmered with every step, clinging perfectly to your curves, your hips swaying just enough to make him forget—briefly—that you’d tried to kill him again tonight.

You glanced over your shoulder with a smile that could’ve fooled the gods. “Don’t stay up too late, love.”

The door closed softly behind you, and Bruce let out a long, slow exhale. He stared at the untouched drink in his hand, then set the glass down with a quiet clink. His fingers lingered on the rim for a moment before he finally rose, dragging a hand down his face as he left the office and followed after you.

When he entered the bedroom, the lights were already dimmed and you were curled beneath the covers, the picture of elegance and ease. As he moved around to his side of the bed, you shifted, stretching like a satisfied cat before curling against his side with a contented sigh.

“Did I tell you Alfred loved the lemon tart I made?” you murmured, your voice warm and sleepy.

Bruce didn’t move. “You replaced the sugar with ammonium nitrate.”

“Only half,” you replied breezily. “He has a strong constitution.”

Silence stretched between you.

You hummed lightly, as if this were just playful banter between newlyweds. “You’re fun to play with,” you said, tracing a finger along the line of his ribs.

“You could just divorce me,” Bruce muttered, dry as ever.

You gasped, genuinely offended. “And break my vows?”

He turned his head to look at the ceiling, expression blank. “You said ‘in sickness and in health,’ not ‘in mortal peril.’”

You giggled, snuggling closer, pressing a kiss to his shoulder like the conversation hadn’t just included a detailed breakdown of chemical agents. Your voice was soft, almost teasing. “You’re being dramatic,” you said sweetly. “I haven’t technically killed you yet.”

Bruce let out another sigh, eyes closing. “Yet.”

“I mean,” you murmured, nuzzling into his chest, “if you insist on surviving, that’s kind of on you.”

He huffed through his nose. “I have contingency plans for everything.”

“I know,” you replied, voice muffled by the fabric of his shirt. You yawned, your breath warm against his skin. “I’ve been disabling them one by one.”

He turned his head slightly to glance down at you. “…You’re insane.”

You smiled, serene and unbothered. “You married me,” you whispered, tracing lazy circles along his ribs. “You also know the contract I’m under.”

And he had.

After the twentieth attempt on his life, Bruce had finally done what he should’ve done from the beginning—he investigated you. Dug into sealed files, chased whispers through black markets, and pieced together a name no one dared speak aloud in full. The Black Widow assassin. 

Someone had put a contract on Bruce Wayne’s head. And you—his wife, the beloved darling of Gotham—had taken the job.

And for some reason—some maddening, utterly ridiculous reason—he still hadn’t stopped loving you.

Maybe it was because, deep down, he knew you’d never actually intended to kill him. Not really. You were far too skilled for the constant failures to be anything but deliberate. Every “attempt” had been just close enough to say you tried, but somehow failed.

He’d begun to slowly accept his new reality, even if you had tried to push him down the stairs last Tuesday.

He could still hear your voice, feigning shock as he clutched the railing.

“Oh no, love! You must’ve slipped.”

Now, as you drifted in and out of sleep beside him, you spoke again—so softly, he almost missed it.

“You’ll also never be able to prove it’s me.”

His eyes opened

You didn’t look at him. But you smiled—that same serene, public smile. The one you wore at galas, arm wrapped around his. The one you gave reporters when praising your husband’s philanthropy. The one you wore while sharpening knives in the kitchen—knives that always seemed to go missing right before each new “accident.”

“I don’t need to,” Bruce said quietly. “You’ll slip eventually.”

At that, you turned, propping your chin on his chest, gaze playful and unreadable in the dark. “Maybe,” you murmured. “But until then… wouldn’t it be a shame to ruin our marriage over some silly little suspicion?”

He stared at you, unmoving.

She only smiled before leaning in to kiss him. Long and deceptively sweet. 

And damn it… he kissed you back.

His hands slipped around your waist, guiding you atop him as the kiss deepened. His hands wandering along your body.

Because the truth was—he couldn’t quite bring himself to stop you.

Because beneath all the perfection, all the poison, all the blades hidden in soft glances and honeyed words… there was a terrifying truth he could never say aloud:

He’d rather be killed by you than live without you.

And you knew it.