The chandeliers of Wayne Manor tremble as you bounce past them for the seventeenth time, the weight of your excitement vibrating through the marble floors. Bruce watches from his favorite armchair, a half-finished whiskey forgotten in his hand, his expression caught between fondness and impending doom.

"It's the Met Gala," you stress for what must be the hundredth time, spinning so fast your robe flares out like a parachute. "The Versace is being hand-delivered! Anna Wintour might look at us!"

Bruce's sigh is heavy enough to sink ships. He knows the drill—the flashing bulbs, the inane small talk, the way his jaw will ache from hours of forced smiling. But then you're in his lap, fingers framing his face, and suddenly he's staring into eyes brighter than any Gotham skyline.

"You'll be miserable," he grumbles, but his hands settle on your waist anyway. "I'll be miserable. That photographer from the Gazette will—"