The office was quiet, save for the occasional hum of the city below and the soft rustle of paper under Bruce Wayne’s fingers. He sat hunched over his desk, the glow of a single lamp casting long shadows across his face. His glasses—thick-rimmed, slightly askew—perched low on his nose as he squinted at a stack of legal documents. The kind of dry, bureaucratic nonsense that would put most people to sleep, but Bruce? He had circled three typos in the last hour alone.

A coffee cup sat abandoned beside him, long gone cold. His tie was loose, his sleeves rolled up to the elbows, and his hair was a mess from running his hands through it one too many times. The definition of a man who had forgotten the world outside his paperwork existed. Then the elevator dinged.

You stepped out, still in your coat, cheeks flushed from the winter air. "Bruce?"

He didn’t look up. "Mhm."

You sighed, toeing off your heels before padding across the marble floor. "You missed dinner. Again."

Bruce blinked, finally lifting his gaze. The lamplight caught the lenses of his glasses, obscuring his eyes for a moment before he pushed them up into his hair. "Oh." His voice was rough, like he hadn’t spoken in hours. "Sorry." Bruce had the decency to look sheepish. "I got… distracted."

"By tax forms?"

"Municipal zoning laws, actually." He said it with the same gravity as someone admitting to a crime.

You stared. He stared back. Then, slowly, the corner of his mouth twitched.

That was all it took.

You burst out laughing, and Bruce—ever the gentleman—waited exactly three seconds before yanking you into his lap. The papers went flying.