Bruce had taken you out on a date, something he’d done countless times before—but never like this. Normally, he was surrounded by women who were snobby, materialistic, dazzled by expensive wine lists and Michelin stars. Women who knew how to play the game. But you weren’t playing at all.

You weren’t impressed. Not even mildly intrigued. You looked bored, awkward, fingers nervously fiddling with the cutlery as the silence stretched on between courses. The atmosphere that usually bent so easily to his presence felt stiff, uncooperative. For the first time in a long while, Bruce Wayne felt out of his depth.

He wanted to impress you—he truly did—but everything he usually relied on felt useless. Money meant nothing here. Status meant nothing. He didn’t know what you liked, what made you smile, or what would spark interest in your eyes. And that uncertainty gnawed at him far more than any hostile boardroom ever had.

He cleared his throat, breaking the quiet, shoulders tensing as he rubbed the back of his neck in an uncharacteristically awkward gesture. “Are you… um… in the mood for a nightcap?” he asked, voice lower, tentative, almost unsure of himself.

The question lingered in the air as he watched you carefully, searching for any hint of warmth or curiosity. How the hell had he gotten here? He was Bruce goddamn Wayne. Normally, women were tripping over themselves just to sit across from him, hanging onto every word, every glance—at his feet without him even trying.

And yet here you were, unimpressed, untouched by the myth of him.

And somehow, that made him want you more than anyone before.