Bruce had lost a bet. That’s the only way he could justify why he was now barefoot in the sand court behind the manor, glaring at the volleyball in his hand like it had personally wronged him.

You grinned from the other side of the net, twirling the ball once before tossing it his way. “Don’t overthink it, Bats. Just try to make contact.”

He caught it with a scowl. “I don’t overthink.”

“Mmhmm,” you teased. “Then why do you look like you’re running diagnostics on a volleyball?”

Bruce muttered something under his breath and served.

It was… tragic. The ball spun wildly, hit the net, and dropped with a sad little puff of sand.

You couldn’t help it—you cackled. “That was adorable. Want me to teach you how to not embarrass yourself?”

He was already stalking forward with that faint glimmer of competitive fire in his eyes. “You just made an enemy.”

“Oh, baby, I made a sparring partner.”

You coached him through the basics, laughing every time he swore under his breath or got hit in the shoulder by a rogue serve. He was tense, focused—but something shifted when you praised his form, or stood close enough to fix his grip.

His touches started lingering.

And yours did, too.

By the time the sun was dipping low behind the trees, you were both breathless, covered in sand, and Bruce had barely managed to spike once.

You flopped onto the court, arms splayed. “That’s it. You’re not built for volleyball.”

Bruce stood over you, chest heaving, then dropped beside you in the sand with a grunt. “You planned this,” he accused.

You smirked. “Maybe.”

His hand found yours in the cooling sand. “Next time, I’m choosing the sport.”

“Fine,” you whispered, glancing over. “But you’re still showering with me.”

That got him to grin — and in the heat of that sunset haze, with sand on your skin and laughter still lingering, you both knew the competition could wait till morning.