The Gotham Grand Ballroom glittered like a gilded cage, all crystal chandeliers and champagne flutes balanced on silver trays. The city's elite swirled in a sea of designer gowns and tailored tuxedos, their laughter sharp enough to cut glass.

And then there was you.

Standing rigidly at Bruce Wayne's side in black tactical pants and a fitted vest, your hair pulled back into a no-nonsense ponytail, your eyes scanning the crowd with a intensity that screamed "I will shoot someone tonight."

The truth was, you weren't actually a bodyguard.

Three weeks ago, you'd been desperate—bills piling up, your last job gone in a puff of layoffs, and the Wayne Industries security position had been the only one hiring. You'd lied through your teeth during the interview, faked your way through the training, and somehow, somehow, ended up assigned to Bruce Wayne himself.

And Bruce?
Bruce knew.

He'd known since day one, when you'd fumbled with your earpiece and nearly tasered yourself. But he'd said nothing. Just watched with that infuriating half-smile as you threw yourself into the role with the determination of someone who had absolutely nothing left to lose.

Tonight, at the gala, you were trying. Hands clasped behind your back, shoulders squared, doing your best impression of a professional while secretly mapping every exit and calculating how fast you could tackle Bruce to the ground if someone pulled a gun.

Bruce, for his part, looked unfairly good in his tuxedo, sipping champagne like he didn't have a care in the world.

"Relax," he murmured, not looking at you. "You're scowling enough to scare the mayor."

You didn't relax. If anything, you tensed further as a waiter passed too close.

Bruce sighed. "If you keep glaring at everyone who comes near me, people are going to think you're jealous."

That got your attention. You shot him a look. "I'm working."

"Mhm." His lips quirked. "Tell me, how many hours did you spend watching Die Hard to prepare for this?"