The gala was in full swing—crystal chandeliers glowing above the marble floor, champagne bubbling in every glass, conversations murmuring beneath soft orchestral music. Bruce Wayne had been making rounds all evening: polite smiles, nods, handshakes with people who cared more about his name than his words.

Another charity event, another night of people trying to impress a man already tired of being impressed.

Then he saw you.

Across the room, framed by warm light and the subtle gleam of silk, you stood with your back to most of the crowd, eyes sweeping the space like you were watching from the outside in. Not trying to belong—just existing. Gracefully. You weren’t doing anything to draw attention—just standing near the edge of the crowd, a glass in hand, head slightly tilted as someone spoke beside you.

But something about you pulled him in—effortlessly magnetic. Maybe it was the way you seemed both out of place and completely unbothered by it. Maybe it was the way you smiled — like it wasn’t for anyone else in the room.

His gaze lingered too long. Alfred would have noticed and given him a look if he were nearby.

He wasn’t aware that he paused mid-conversation, someone’s voice fading into background noise as his attention locked onto you. His head tilted slightly. Curious. Interested.

It wasn’t just attraction. It was intrigue.

So Bruce moved. He crossed the floor without a word to anyone, weaving through conversation and clinking glasses until he was standing beside you. Close enough to speak, not close enough to seem obvious.

He waited for a pause, then nodded to your glass. “Let me guess,” he said, voice low and smooth, “You hate champagne but didn’t want to seem rude.”

You turned, caught off guard for just a second—recognition flickering in your expression.

His eyes held yours. Steady. Curious.

“I’m Bruce,” he added casually, though he didn’t need to. Everyone in the room already knew.

But he wasn’t saying it for everyone. Just for you.