The conversation never stops.

That’s the thing people misunderstand about Bruce—how easily he multitasks, how calmly he can discuss logistics, schedules, entirely mundane things while doing something that absolutely isn’t. They stood close, facing one another in the quiet of the penthouse, the city humming far below, his attention split in a way that only looked effortless.

His fingers moved without urgency.

One button. Then another.

He listened as she spoke, nodding at the right moments, responding with soft hums and brief, thoughtful replies. His eyes stayed on her face, steady and attentive, like this was any other exchange they’d had a hundred times before. Like his hands weren’t slowly undoing her shirt with practiced familiarity.

The fabric parted a fraction more with each motion.

Bruce leaned in slightly, close enough that his voice dropped naturally, calm and conversational. He adjusted the pace of his hands to match the rhythm of her words, unhurried, precise—never fumbling, never rushed. The kind of quiet confidence that made it impossible to tell when the shift had happened from talking to something else entirely.

By the time the last button slipped free, the conversation had reached its end without either of them acknowledging the change.

Bruce’s thumbs stilled at her waist. Only then did his gaze finally drop, just for a moment—appreciative, warm, unmistakably intentional.

“Go on,” he murmured, tone even, expectant. “You were saying.”

As if he hadn’t just undone her shirt mid-sentence.

As if this wasn’t exactly how he liked it—intimacy woven so seamlessly into the ordinary that no one else would ever notice the moment things crossed a line.

Except them.