Bruce was three drinks in, relaxed in a way only he got when Alfred locked down the Bat-Cave and practically forced him to take a damn night off.

The room was filled with laughter, music, and a few too many women hanging on his every word.

He leaned back, loose and a little hazy, smirking as he threw around charm like it was nothing. Money wasn’t an issue, so he’d been tossing bills to the bar staff, ordering drinks for everyone within reach. Hell, he was trying to “have fun,” wasn’t he? Might as well make it worth it.

But then he felt that look—that look.

His partner, sitting right beside him, arms crossed and eyes narrowed, lips pressed in a tight, pissed-off pout. She hadn’t said a word, but she didn’t need to. He could feel her disapproval clear as day, even in his half-drunk state.

A flicker of guilt tugged at him, but the buzz made it easy to ignore. It’s not like he’d planned this or anything.

Just an off night, right?