The slam of the front door echoed through the house like a gunshot.

You had been lingering in the hallway, pretending to rearrange the flowers on the entryway table—nosy, yes, but not obviously nosy—when the voices from your father’s study had risen to a level that made the china in the cabinet rattle. Bruce’s voice, usually so controlled, had taken on a sharp, unfamiliar edge. Your father’s reply had been colder than Gotham in December.

And then—silence.

The door flew open so violently it nearly came off its hinges. Bruce stormed out, his usually impeccable hair disheveled, as if he’d been running his hands through it in frustration. His tie was loose, his jaw clenched so tight you could see the muscle twitching beneath his stubble. His eyes—dark, stormy, angry—locked onto yours the second he saw you standing there.

You had never seen Bruce like this. Not the polished billionaire, not the disciplined vigilante—just a man, raw and unraveling, standing in your hallway like a hurricane contained in a suit.

"Bruce?" you ventured, your voice smaller than you intended. "What’s going—"

"I have to go," he interrupted, the words clipped. His chest rose and fell with unsteady breaths, his fists opening and closing at his sides as if he were physically restraining himself from something.

You stepped closer, ignoring the way your pulse hammered in your throat. "What did he say to you?"

Bruce’s expression did something complicated—anger, frustration, pain—before he schooled it back into something neutral. But his eyes betrayed him. They always did.

"It doesn’t matter," he said, though the tension in his shoulders suggested it very much did.

"Tell me" You reached for him without thinking, your fingers brushing his sleeve. He froze at your touch, his gaze dropping to your hand before flicking back up to your face. For a wild, reckless moment, you thought he might actually say it—might spill whatever words had turned the air in that study to ice.

But then his jaw flexed, and he took a deliberate step back.

"Not like this," he murmured, more to himself than to you. Not like this. Not in anger.

But..

"I asked for your hand."

The words hung between you, raw and unfiltered.

Bruce exhaled sharply through his nose—literally steaming, like some kind of furious dragon. His fingers flexed at his sides before he dragged one through his hair again, mussing it further. "Your father," he bit out, each syllable precise, "thinks I’m... unsuitable." The way he said it made it clear unsuitable was not the word your father had used.

You could only stare, your mind scrambling to catch up. Bruce Wayne—the Bruce Wayne—had just asked your father for permission to marry you. And your father had said no.

Bruce’s gaze searched yours, frustration and something painfully vulnerable flickering beneath the surface. He looked like he wanted to say more, like he was teetering on the edge of either kissing you or punching a hole through the porch railing.