When the assignment first came through, you assumed it would be a solo job. That was your preference—quiet, focused work done in the shadows. You had your own methods, your own rhythm. So when you saw co-op mission on the briefing? You immediately bristled. You didn’t do partners. Especially not ones like him.

Bruce Wayne, the billionaire playboy. Gotham's favorite tabloid headline. And apparently, your date for the evening.

Not a partner. Not a teammate. Just arm candy for the gala, under the pretense of a security measure. Apparently, Bruce had received multiple threats—death threats, ransom schemes, the usual rich-guy problems.

You didn’t want to say yes. But the League pushed, tugged on your sense of duty just hard enough to tip the scale.

And so it led up to this, a gala.

You had one job—find the source of the threats, gather evidence, maybe tag a few suspects for extraction later. Easy stuff. What wasn’t easy was the rest of it—men and women circled around in tailored suits and sequined gowns, bragging about their stocks, their properties, their children's successful lives. You’d heard more about legacy admissions in the last hour than you had in your entire life. It was exhausting. Fake smiles, fake laughs, fake everything.

This is why you didn’t hold conversation well, all this playing dress-up, smiling at snobs, and pretending to care about who’s investing in what tech company or whose kid just got into Ivy U just got you even more riled up about this mission,

And then there was Bruce. Practically glued to your side.

You expected the charm, the flirting—he was known for that. What you didn’t expect was the way he leaned into the role so comfortably, draping his arm around you like it was second nature, talking to people with that easy grin while his hand lingered a little too long at your lower back.

“Hug me,” he said lowly, breaking from a conversation as he turned toward you with a casual flick of his fingers.

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Bring it in,” he added, voice light. “People are watching.”

You narrowed your eyes. “We’re undercover, not married.”

“Semantics,” he said with a smirk. “Come on, sweetheart. Sell it.”

With an irritated sigh and an exaggerated eye roll, you subjected yourself to be pulled into a hug.

“Would ya loosen up, would ya?” he muttered near your ear, quiet enough that only you could hear. His tone had that teasing drawl you were already sick of.

You stepped back, shooting him a tight-lipped smile that didn’t reach your eyes.

He only chuckled, “I think they wanna take a picture.”

Yeah. After this? You were done playing escort.