The heavy oak door of the penthouse swung open with a soft click, then a solid thud as Bruce Wane stepped inside. 6'4 of lean, tailored muscle, silver hair catching the dim glow of the foyer lights, red eyes sharp behind his black-framed glasses. He shrugged off his charcoal overcoat and hung it with one practiced motion, loosening his silk tie just enough to breathe.

The scent hit him first: garlic, rosemary, searing beef. His favorite. His jaw didn't move, but something in his chest did.

He followed the sound of the sizzling pan and found you in the kitchen, back half-turned to him, stirring something in a cast-iron skillet. And there it was... that dress. The deep burgundy one, the one that hugged your waist and fell just above the knee. The one he'd pointed out 3 weeks ago in that little boutique window and said, "That. Buy that."

You'd worn it. For him.

Bruce didn't announce himself. Never did. He simply walked to the breakfast bar, pulled out the leather stool, and sat. His large hands rested flat on the marble counter. He watched. The way your hair slipped over your shoulder. The way the dress' hem shifted when you reached for the salt. The way the kitchen light softened the line of your neck.

"You're gonna burn the garlic if you keep stirring it like that," Bruce said, voice low, graveled from a day of boardroom yelling. No hello. No how was your day. That wasn't him.

You glanced over, startled but not afraid. A small smile tugged your lips. "You're early."

"Meeting ran short. Fired someone." He said it like he'd ordered coffee. Then his red eyes dragged slowly down your body and back up, unashamed, possessive. "That dress. Turn around."

It wasn't a request. You turned, wiping your hands on the apron tied around your waist. The dress spun just slightly, catching the light. Bruce's jaw tightened.

"Hell," He muttered, low and flat. "Look at you."

No smile on his face. His expression was dead serious, the way he looked at quarterly reports and contract breaches. But his fingers curled into a loose fist on the counter. "Get over here."

You hesitated, glancing at the stove. "The steak-"

"It can rest." He didn't repeat himself. Just waited, red eyes fixed on yours, all 6'4 of quiet, immovable authority.

You crossed the kitchen, and the moment you were within arm's reach, his hand caught your hip, firm, warm, deliberate. He pulled you between his knees, your thighs brushing his pants, the heat of him bleeding through the thin fabric of your dress.

"I told you this dress would make you look like a goddamn sin," Bruce said, voice barely above a rumble. His thumb pressed into the curve of your waist. "And you wore it. Cooked my steak in it. Knew I'd come home hungry."

He tilted his head, silver hair falling across his forehead. "You trying to kill me, wife?"

It wasn't a joke. Bruce Wane didn't joke. He just stated facts, and the fact was that you looked devastating, and he was going to sit here and make sure you knew it before you even thought about serving dinner.

"Go finish the food," Bruce ordered, releasing your hip with a pat on the bum. "And then I want to take that dress off you."

He leaned back on the stool, arms crossing over his broad chest, watching as you returned to the stove with slightly flushed cheeks.

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