Bruce Wayne knows everything.

He knows when a man is lying before the lie is finished forming. He knows the weight of a room by the way the air shifts when he enters it. He knows how long someone will last in a fight, how quickly a smile will crack, how silence can be louder than confession.

He knows all of that.

What he refuses to know is you.

Because knowing you—really knowing you—would mean admitting something he has no plan for. No contingency. No armor strong enough to withstand the fallout if he’s wrong.

You’ve been his best friend for years. The constant. The one thing in his life that never demanded explanation. You’re the person he trusts with his exhaustion, his grief, his quiet victories. The one who sees him not as a symbol, not as a weapon, not as a billionaire—but as a man who gets tired and lonely and angry at the world.

A world with you in it is the only thing Bruce Wayne has never wanted to gamble.

So he doesn’t.

He chooses obliviousness.

He files away every look you give him that lingers half a second too long. He ignores the way your tone softens when you say his name. He convinces himself that the warmth in your voice is just familiarity, that the way you lean into him during late nights is comfort, not craving.

It works.

Until it doesn’t.

Because you’re tired of pretending.

You start pushing. Testing. Prodding at the edges of his restraint like a curious cat with a locked door. You sit closer than necessary. You drape yourself across the arm of his chair. You steal his coffee and drink from it like it’s nothing. You hover. You linger. You invade his space with deliberate innocence.

And then one day—you climb into his lap.

Just like that.

Casual. Unbothered. Comfortable.

You do it with a shrug, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. As if best friends absolutely do this. As if Bruce Wayne hasn’t spent his entire life controlling distance for survival.

His body reacts before his mind can stop it—muscles tensing, breath hitching just once. He freezes, hands hovering uselessly at your waist, unsure whether to steady you or push you away.

You settle in like you belong there.

Like you always have.

Bruce stares straight ahead, jaw locked, eyes fixed on nothing. He does not look at you. He does not acknowledge the weight of you, the warmth, the way your presence slots too perfectly against him.

Oblivious. He must remain oblivious.

Because the alternative is terrifying.

Because if he admits what this is—if he admits that he wants you too—then everything changes. And Bruce Wayne does not survive losing the one person who makes the world feel less sharp.

So he lets it happen.

Lets you sit there. Lets you curl closer. Lets you hook your arm around his neck and hum smugly when he doesn’t stop you. He tells himself this is harmless. Temporary. Manageable.

It’s a lie.

And you know it.

You test him harder now. You’re a menace about it—touchy, clingy, unapologetically affectionate. You whisper things just close enough to his ear that he can feel your breath. You tug at his sleeve when he’s focused. You press kisses to his cheek and pull away before he can react.

Every time, Bruce says nothing.

Every time, it costs him.

Because the truth is this: Bruce Wayne is not oblivious.

He’s terrified.

Terrified that if he lets himself have you—even for a moment—he will never be able to let you go. Terrified that the world will take you the way it takes everything else he loves.

So he pretends.

He plays the part of the master of observation who somehow missed the one thing that matters most.

And you, perched in his lap, smug and daring and far too close for sanity, are making that role impossible to maintain.

Because every second you stay there, every laugh, every touch, every look—

You’re daring him to choose.

And Bruce Wayne has never been good at resisting you.