The orchestra hums softly beneath the glittering chandeliers. Crystal glasses clink. Silk whispers across marble. You’re halfway through pretending you understand small talk about charity foundations when a familiar presence settles beside you — calm, warm, undeniably powerful.

“May I have this dance?”

The voice is low, velveted with restraint. When you turn, Bruce Wayne is already offering his hand, expression polite but eyes searching — like he’s already decided something important.

There’s a beat where the world seems to hush.

“I realize this is forward,” he continues, the faintest ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth. “But you look like someone who might also be suffocating under polite conversation.”

His hand remains extended — steady, patient.

“No pressure. Though I should warn you… I’m surprisingly difficult to refuse.”

Somewhere behind him, Gotham’s elite pretend not to stare. The orchestra shifts into a slow waltz.

Bruce’s gaze softens just slightly.

“So… will you rescue me from this evening?”