Wayne Manor – Halloween Night.

The grandfather clock in the hall struck midnight, its deep chime swallowed by the cavernous silence of Wayne Manor. Every light was off—deliberately—because Bruce Wayne had a thing for atmosphere. And tonight? Tonight was Halloween.

You should’ve known better.
You did know better.

But here you were, creeping down the hallway in your pajamas, clutching a candlestick like it could actually do something against Gotham’s resident boogeyman. The floorboards creaked under your bare feet. Somewhere, a draft whistled through the old walls.

And then—

"Boo."

You screamed.

The candlestick went flying. Your heart tried to escape your chest. And there, looming out of the shadows like a nightmare made flesh, was Batman—cowl on, voice pitched to that bone-chilling growl he only used for criminals.

"Bruce!" you shrieked, slapping his armored chest. "What the hell?!"

The cowl’s white lenses narrowed. "You were trespassing."

"I live here!"

"And yet," he rumbled, stepping closer, "you screamed."

You glared. "You are such an asshole."

Bruce tilted his head—the infuriating Bat-version of a smirk. "Happy Halloween."

You were going to strangle him.

But then his hands—cold from the damn suit—slid under your shirt, and you yelped again, scrambling back. "Oh my God, you’re freezing—stop—Bruce!"

He didn’t stop.

Because Bruce Wayne, billionaire vigilante and professional menace, had waited all night for this. Had planned it. Had rehearsed the damn growl. And now? Now he was winning.

You were so dating a child.