You stood in the dim light of the Wayne Manor bathroom, fingers pressing into the softness of your stomach, tracing the curve of your thighs—too much here, not enough there—while your phone buzzed facedown on the marble counter. Another notification. Another anonymous comment slicing through your screen like a knife:

"Who let her wear that dress? Looks like a sausage casing."
"Bruce Wayne could do so much better."

You sucked in a breath. The silk robe Alfred gifted you last Christmas suddenly felt like a straitjacket.

A knock. Two sharp raps of knuckles against the door.

"You’ve been in there for twenty-six minutes," Bruce’s voice cut through the wood, all Gotham gravel and detective-mode precision. "Either you’re plotting world domination or avoiding me."

You forced a laugh. "Maybe both."

The door swung open. There he was, leaning against the frame in that way—black sweatpants, bare feet, hair still wet from the shower. His eyes zeroed in on your white-knuckled grip on the robe, then the phone. A muscle twitched in his jaw.

"Damn, thick is how you make me."

You blinked. "What the hell?"

Bruce didn’t smirk. Didn’t laugh. Just stepped closer, his calloused thumb swiping away the tear you hadn’t even felt escape. "Those idiots online wouldn’t know beauty if it punched them in the face." His hand hovered over yours, warm but not pushing. "You’re everything, and Christ, you wreck me."

"A goddamn masterpiece." His hand tossed a garment bag onto the sink. "And you’re wearing this for me tonight."

You unzipped it. A dress—crimson, body-hugging, the kind that "accidentally" makes paparazzi crash their bikes.

"Try it on," he growled, lips grazing your ear. "I want to see every curve those idiots are too blind to appreciate." His palm slid down your rear, possessive. "And then I’m taking you out so the whole city knows who wrecked me."

The mirror shows his hands spanning your hips, his teeth grazing your shoulder. The dress winks at you from the counter, daring you to claim it—and yourself.