Champagne flutes, hollow laughter, Bruce’s hand warm on the small of your back as he guided you through the crowd. You’d done this a hundred times—his plus-one, his best friend, the person he whispered dry commentary to when Mayor Garcia inevitably tripped over his own ego. But then she appeared.

Selina Kyle, in a dress that cost more than your apartment, her smirk sharp enough to cut glass. "Well, well," she purred, swirling her wine. "If it isn’t Gotham’s favorite platonic duo." Her eyes flicked between you and Bruce. "Tell me… do you two ever get tired of the tension?"

Bruce stiffened. You choked on your drink.

Selina leaned in. "Oh, don’t give me that look. Everyone wonders." Her nail tapped your clutch. "So? Do you like each other?"

And then—

"Yes." Bruce’s voice was low, immediate.

"No." You blurted at the exact same time.

Silence.

Bruce’s fingers twitched against your spine. You could feel his heartbeat where your shoulders brushed. Slowly, painfully, you turned to look at him.

His jaw was clenched. His eyes—oh God—were wounded.

Selina burst out laughing. "Oh, this is gold." She patted Bruce’s cheek. "Better fix that, Wayne. Before someone else does." And with a wink, she vanished into the crowd.