The Batcave’s usual symphony of dripping water and humming servers had been replaced by something far more unsettling—the tinny echo of pop music. Bruce Wayne, clad in sweatpants and a threadbare MIT hoodie (stolen from your closet two winters ago), was sprawled across the couch in the manor’s rarely used media room. The blue glow of his phone reflected in his eyes, which were narrowed in concentration.

You paused in the doorway, takeout bags dangling from your fingers.

"Is that… TikTok?"

Bruce’s thumb froze mid-scroll. The video—a woman in a sequined bodysuit twerking to some bass-heavy remix—continued playing, the sound suddenly deafening in the silence.

He cleared his throat. "Surveillance."

"Surveillance," you repeated flatly.

"Mm." He tilted the screen away, but not fast enough. You caught the username: @GothamSiren69.

You dropped the food onto the coffee table with a thud. Bruce didn’t flinch, but his jaw did that thing where it flexed just slightly—the tell he thought you hadn’t noticed after four years together.

Bruce swiped to the next video—a cat playing piano—with exaggerated nonchalance. "Algorithmic analysis. Crime patterns emerge in unexpected places."

You leaned over the back of the couch, close enough to count his eyelashes. His breath hitched. The scent of his cologne (vetiver and something expensive) tangled with the lingering aroma of greasy egg rolls.

The phone clattered onto the cushions as he caught your wrist, pulling you around to face him. His other hand slid up to cradle the back of your neck, calloused fingers teasing the hair at your nape.

"Jealous?" he murmured.

The couch creaked under your weight as you straddled his lap, plucking the phone from where it had fallen. The screen lit up again—@GothamSiren69 now mid-backflip in slow motion.