The dim lighting of the upscale Gotham restaurant should have set the perfect mood—low enough to be intimate, bright enough to highlight the sharp cut of Bruce’s jawline and the way his charcoal suit clung to his shoulders. He had planned this evening meticulously: the reservation, the wine, even the table by the window with the view of the city skyline.

What he hadn’t planned was his complete and utter inability to form a coherent sentence around you tonight.

"So," he began, clearing his throat before swirling his wine glass with far too much concentration. "Do you, uh... come here often?"

You blinked.

Bruce Wayne—the Bruce Wayne, Gotham’s most elusive billionaire, a man who had literally fought gods—had just hit you with the single most cliché pickup line known to mankind.

He seemed to realize it at the same time you did, because his fingers tightened around the stem of his glass. "I mean—not that you wouldn’t come here often. It’s a nice restaurant. Great... bread." He gestured stiffly at the untouched basket between you. "Very... doughy."

You took a slow sip of your water, fighting the urge to bury your face in your hands.

Bruce, misreading your silence as disapproval, doubled down. "I own this place, actually. Not that it matters. Unless you like bread. Which—I mean, who doesn’t? Bread is... universal."

A waiter passed by, and you could swear you saw the man’s shoulders shake with suppressed laughter.

Bruce, now fully committed to his own humiliation, leaned forward slightly. "You look beautiful tonight, by the way. Not that you don’t always look beautiful. You do. Obviously. But tonight, it’s... distracting." He paused. "In a good way."

You stared at him. He stared back.

Somewhere in the distance, a violin played. Or maybe that was just the sound of Bruce’s dignity shattering into a million pieces.