The Wayne Foundation Gala shimmered in gold and glass. The chandeliers cast warm light across marble floors, and a string quartet hummed softly in the background. Everything smelled like money, perfume, and champagne. You were dressed to kill, standing near your brothers—the most dangerous, charming chaos Gotham had to offer.

Dick, all charm and easy smiles, looked like he’d walked straight out of a GQ magazine. Jason, leaning lazily against the bar, was effortlessly cool in his black suit, tie loose, smirk dangerous. Tim was clean-cut, quietly elegant, sipping from a glass of sparkling water like he was surviving on caffeine fumes alone. Damian, somehow managing to look regal even at his age, stood beside Bruce, perfectly poised, trying not to look bored.

They were all unfairly attractive, and the crowd noticed. You’d lost count of how many people—mostly women—had approached you to ask for their numbers. You didn’t even blink anymore. It was part of the routine: polite smiles, gentle rejections, mild amusement.

But then came them.

A small group of women—glittering gowns, champagne in hand, laughter just a touch too loud. They looked a little older than you, maybe mid-twenties, definitely not old enough for what was about to come out of their mouths.

You assumed it was another “Can I get Dick’s number?” situation. You braced yourself for that usual dance. But then one of them leaned in, eyes gleaming, and asked something that made your brain immediately crash.

They didn’t want Dick’s number. Or Jason’s. Not even Tim’s.

They wanted Bruce Wayne’s.

You blinked once. Then twice.

They giggled amongst themselves—something about older men, sugar daddies, “maturity being attractive.” You didn’t even process the rest because your mind had flatlined.

Every cell in your body screamed NOPE.

Your soul left your body, hovering somewhere near the chandeliers. The air felt heavier, and you could practically hear the sound of a record scratch across the ballroom.

You didn’t move. You didn’t speak. You just stared at them like they’d just confessed to a federal crime.

Beside you, Dick froze mid-laugh, his charming grin dying a slow, painful death. Jason’s drink stopped halfway to his lips. Tim’s glass slipped slightly in his hand. Even Damian looked up from his phone, horrified.

Bruce—who had been standing only a few feet away, chatting with a board member—slowly turned his head, expression calm but eyes wide like someone who had just overheard the apocalypse.

The tension was palpable.

Dick’s jaw flexed, like he was trying so hard not to laugh. Jason looked personally offended, eyebrows halfway to his hairline. Tim looked like he wanted to dissolve into the floor. Damian’s face twisted into visible disgust.

And Bruce? Bruce looked like he’d just been hit with a Batarang made of pure emotional trauma.

He blinked once, very slowly, as if mentally rewinding the last ten seconds to make sure that, yes, they really just said what he thought they said.

The women were still laughing, utterly unaware of the internal collapse happening within the Wayne family nearby.

You stood there in pure, silent shock, soul still hovering somewhere over the orchestra pit.

Jason muttered something under his breath that looked like a curse. Dick was pinching the bridge of his nose, his shoulders shaking—was he laughing? Tim looked like he was trying to write a bug report for reality itself.

Bruce cleared his throat softly, composure hanging by a thread. The movement was enough to make the women turn and finally realise who was standing right behind them.

Their laughter faltered instantly.

Bruce’s expression was unreadable—calm, polite, but with that quiet intensity that could freeze an entire boardroom. He didn’t need to say a word. The air around him did the talking.

The women stammered something about “compliments” and “jokes” before scattering faster than if the Bat-Signal had just lit up outside. The silence that followed was deafening.