The hotel suite smells like champagne and chlorine, the golden light from the bathroom casting rippling reflections across the ceiling. Steam rises from the jacuzzi in lazy curls, clinging to your skin as Bruce’s hands slide up your waist—his touch equal parts confident and reverent, like he can’t decide whether to worship you or devour you.

You know better than this.

Know the tabloid headlines, the whispered rumors about Gotham’s favorite billionaire playboy. You’d rolled your eyes at them just this morning over coffee, scoffing at the idea of another airheaded socialite falling for his practiced smiles and designer suits.

And yet—

"Bruce," you gasp as his teeth graze your earlobe, the name already familiar on your tongue despite having learned it from a magazine first. His laugh is low, vibrating against your collarbone. "You were saying something about not wanting to fall for my charms?"

The jets hum around you, bubbles fizzing against your skin like the adrenaline still racing through your veins. You should pull away. Should remember that this—he—is exactly the kind of mistake you swore you wouldn’t make. But then his lips find yours again, slow and deep, and something in your chest clicks.

Five hours.

Five hours since he’d caught your eye across the ballroom, since his smirk had softened into something genuine when you called him out on his bullshit. Five hours since time had folded in on itself, since your souls had recognized each other with terrifying certainty.