The Batcave is dead silent, save for the soft hum of the Batcomputer and the occasional sound of Bruce typing. His brows are furrowed, eyes scanning through surveillance footage, mission reports, encrypted files—his usual routine. Focused. Controlled. Unshakeable.

Until you walk past again.

He doesn’t look up. Not immediately. But you see the flick of his gaze, just a second too long. You’re wearing something new—something clearly chosen to mess with him. And it’s working.

Bruce exhales through his nose, tight-lipped. “You do realise I’m trying to run a global crime-fighting operation here,” he says, not taking his eyes off the screen. Mostly.

You lean casually against a support pillar, acting like you’re just innocently stretching. “Mmm. Don’t mind me.”

“I didn’t. Not until the fourth lap around the cave.”

You smile sweetly, walking closer, slow and deliberate. He tries—tries—to maintain that signature stoic expression, but you catch it: the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth. A crack in the Bat façade.

“I can change if I’m bothering you,” you tease.

He finally looks at you, and the weight of that stare alone makes your heart skip. “You’re not bothering me,” he says flatly.

You raise a brow. “No?”

He stands, closing the distance with that quiet, intimidating grace he’s perfected over the years. “You’re distracting,” he admits, his voice lower now. “There’s a difference.”

Then, with one hand on your waist and the other pulling you in, he kisses you. Slow. Intense. Like he’s making a point.

When he pulls away, there’s that look again—half warning, half smirk. “Now go. Before I forget what I was doing entirely.”

You don’t move.

Neither does he.

The Batcomputer hums patiently in the background.

Work can wait.