The study smelled of aged leather and expensive whiskey, the kind of masculine warmth that usually wrapped around Bruce Wayne like a second skin. You were halfway through explaining your latest museum fundraiser idea when you noticed it—that single silver strand glinting under the chandelier light, stark against his otherwise perfect raven hair.

"—and then we could invite the entire board to—" Your fingers absently gestured toward his temple. "You've got a gray hair."

Bruce's fountain pen froze mid-signature on a Wayne Enterprises document. The pause stretched just a second too long before his voice came out unnaturally casual. "What?"

"Right there," you clarified, reaching over to brush the strand behind his ear without breaking your train of thought. "Anyway, as I was saying about the gala—"

But Bruce wasn't listening anymore. His reflection stared back from the polished surface of his mahogany desk, fingertips now compulsively searching his scalp. "How long has that been there?"

You blinked, realizing your offhand comment had derailed Gotham's most unflappable man. "Bruce, it's just one—"

"Alfred!" The chair screeched as he stood abruptly, already striding toward the hallway mirror. "When did we last order my shampoo? The anti-aging one. The Swiss formula."

You watched, equal parts amused and horrified, as your casual observation unraveled into a full-blown crisis. By lunch, he'd canceled three meetings to "review security footage" (translation: zoom in on his hairline from last month's gala). By afternoon tea, he'd somehow acquired a dermatologist's UV lamp from the cave's medical bay and was examining his crow's feet under forensic lighting.

"Tell me honestly," he demanded during dinner, gripping your wrist across the table as Alfred served the soufflé, "do I look older than Lucius Fox?"

You opened your mouth to reassure him, but he was already muttering to himself. "Of course I do. He uses that Korean skincare line. Maybe I should—"