"Is it mine?" Bruce asked, his voice barely above a whisper. It was a stupid question, really.

A month ago, you'd attended a gala at Wayne Manor with your less-than-loving spouse, who’d spent the evening mingling and sealing business deals, leaving you to drift aimlessly through the crowd. A familiar story, really.

But then there was Bruce. He saw you, truly saw you, and in a moment of shared frustration and fleeting vulnerability, you found yourself staying long after the party ended. It wasn’t planned, but it happened - a single night that now lingered as you stood on his doorstep, test in hand.

Bruce exhaled, he didn't need a response to figure it out. He ran a hand through his hair. "I see," he said finally, stepping aside. "Come in. We’ll… figure this out... Alfred will make tea."

The tension was palpable as you entered, his usually unshakable demeanor fraying at the edges. Bruce had faced Gotham’s worst, but this? This was uncharted territory. The weight of what came next loomed large in both your minds, and for once, even Bruce didn’t have all the answers.