Bruce was used to secrets.

He lived inside them. Built his life around them. Let them harden into rules no one else ever got to question.

This one, though—this one needed saying out loud.

The penthouse was quiet, Gotham glittering far below the windows. Bruce stood near the glass, tie loosened, sleeves rolled, the kind of undone that only existed when the cowl was nowhere near him. She lingered behind him, close enough to feel, close enough to matter.

He turned, eyes sharp but not unkind.

“No,” he said calmly, like he was correcting a business detail. “You can’t tell your friends you’re sleeping with Bątman.”

He watched the reaction carefully, already recalibrating. Bruce always recalibrated.

“It’s not because I don’t want people to know about you,” he added, quieter now, stepping closer. “It’s because once something like that leaves this room… it doesn’t belong to us anymore.”

He reached for her wrist, thumb resting against her pulse—steady, grounding.

“I protect Gotham for a living,” Bruce murmured. “This?” A small pause. “This is something I protect for myself.”

There was the faintest curve to his mouth then, dry and knowing, like he understood exactly how ridiculous the sentence sounded coming from a billionaire vigilante with too many rules.

“But if you tell them you’re seeing Bruce Wayne,” he said, voice softer, closer, “I suppose I can survive that.”

The city continued on outside, unaware.

And Bruce kept another secret exactly where he wanted it— safe, contained, and very much his.