The next morning, Bruce was already dressed and waiting when you stumbled into the manor’s sunlit kitchen. Black fitted long-sleeve, gray joggers, that familiar glint of smug determination in his eye.

You rubbed your eyes. “You’re suspiciously chipper for someone who got spiked on by their girlfriend yesterday.”

He slid a smoothie your way, leaned against the counter, and said smoothly, “Get dressed. I picked the sport.”

Your brow arched. “Is it chess? Because if it is—”

“Grappling. Hand-to-hand. No armor. Just you and me.”

You choked. “That’s not a sport, Bruce. That’s foreplay.”

He didn’t even blink. “Exactly.”

**

The training room was cool, quiet — the mats already set. You rolled your shoulders, stretched, and shook out your limbs while Bruce stood across from you, all six-foot-something of muscle and restraint.

“You sure about this?” you teased. “You’ve seen what these thighs can do.”

His lips twitched. “Count on it.”

The match started slow, playful. You danced around him, quick jabs and light taps, trying to throw him off balance. He was patient. Calculated. Letting you get cocky.

Until he wasn’t.

One twist, one counter move, and suddenly your back was to his chest, his arm around your waist, his breath warm against your ear. “Still think this was a bad idea?”

Your pulse stuttered.

You turned, slipped out of his hold, and shoved him just hard enough to throw him off balance. “I think you want me to pin you.”

He smirked — but the moment you lunged again, he caught your wrists and swept your legs out from under you in one smooth motion.

You landed with a soft oof, Bruce hovering above you, holding his weight just barely.

His gaze dropped to your lips. “Say it.”

You blinked. “Say what?”

“That I won.”

You stared, chest rising and falling beneath him, your own smirk creeping back. “You wish you won.”

He leaned in, lips brushing your jaw, voice low and wrecked. “Oh, sweetheart. This was never about winning.”

**

The match technically ended with you tapping out.