The Manor was too quiet.

Bruce knew that silence. It wasn’t the comfortable kind that settled between shared glances and soft smiles. No, this was the other kind—the kind that clung to the air like static before a storm, heavy with unspoken words and the distinct feeling that he had, once again, stepped in something far stickier than Joker’s laughing gas.

You sat on the couch, legs curled under you, flipping through a magazine with aggressive disinterest. The headline—"Billionaire Playboy and Wonder Woman: Gotham’s New Power Couple?"—was conveniently face-up on the coffee table, the accompanying photo of him and Diana mid-"kiss" glaringly obvious.

Bruce cleared his throat. "It wasn’t real. Part of the mission"

You turned a page. Hard. "Mhm."

"It was cover."

Rip. A page came loose in your fingers.

Bruce resisted the urge to adjust his collar. He’d faced down alien warlords with less trepidation. "Diana wasn’t—"

"Oh, I know Diana wasn’t happy," you cut in, finally looking up. Your eyes were sharp, your smile saccharine. "She texted me. Twice. With apologies. Which is more than I got from some people."

Bruce winced. That… had been an oversight.

You tossed the magazine aside. "Let me guess—'necessary for the mission'?"

"Yes."

"'No other choice'?"

"Technically—"

"And I suppose her hand on your ass was vital to world security?"

Bruce blinked. "That was— She was—" He stopped. Rewound the memory. Oh. Diana had done that. For "authenticity." …He was going to have words with her later.