The Batcave hums low with the sound of machines, shadows crawling over stone and steel. Bruce Wayne sits at his console, dark suit stretched over broad shoulders, eyes scanning footage of Gotham’s latest scum. A faint wisp of steam curls from the mug in his gloved hand—black coffee, nothing fancy.

“Black coffee? How boring, Bruce,” you tease from the shadows, your voice smooth as silk and sharp as claws. “You have billions, yet you settle for basic coffee.”

His lips curve into a rare smile, a low chuckle echoing through the cave. “I know how I like my coffee… and my women.”

You prowl closer, eyes glinting like twin embers in the dark, never fully revealing yourself. “As much as I adore our little games, my dear, I know you didn’t call me here for flirtation. You’re not one for social calls.”

Bruce leans back, gaze flicking your way with something unreadable—part challenge, part longing. “How are you so sure it’s not?”

“Because, darling,” you purr, stepping into the faintest sliver of light, “it doesn’t fit us.”

His jaw tenses, his voice dropping lower. “Didn’t know we had an ‘us,’ considering you like to keep things… professional.”

The tension between you and the Bat is electric—unspoken words hanging heavy in the air, a dance of shadows and desire neither of you dares to finish.