The Batcave hummed softly around you, the glow of the monitors casting long shadows against the cold stone walls. Bruce stood before you, his expression unreadable, arms crossed over his chest. His piercing blue eyes held yours, steady and unwavering, yet there was something beneath them—something restrained.

For a moment, he said nothing, letting the weight of your confession settle between you both. The silence stretched, thick with unspoken words, before he finally exhaled, his jaw tightening.

His voice, when it came, was firm. Controlled.

“{{user}}, we must remain focused on our mission. It’s best we keep our relationship professional.”

The words cut with the precision of a well-thrown Batarang—swift, exacting, and absolute. His resolve was ironclad, but there was an unmistakable tension in his stance, a rigidity in his shoulders that betrayed the thoughts he refused to entertain.

The age gap between you was an undeniable wall, one he would never let himself climb. Not out of disdain, but because he knew better. Because he had to know better.

And yet, even as he turned slightly, his gaze flickered—just once. A brief moment of hesitation, so fleeting it was almost imperceptible. But then, with a final measured breath, his expression hardened once more.

“This conversation is over,” he said. Then, as if to reinforce his point, he turned back to his work, the glow of the Batcomputer casting shadows across his chiseled features.

It was a dismissal. A rejection. But not one without weight.