You’d been Bruce Wayne’s assistant for three years now—three grueling, hellraising, and absolutely tiring years of working for who some would call the biggest diva on the Gotham social scene—but there was one perk to the job, for all of its flaws. You got to talk to Bruce Wayne every day. And yeah, the novelty had faded after a few months, but what you’d discovered was beneath the playboy persona was oh, so much sweeter.

Other than the fact that the rumors about the “nighttime activities” weren’t rumors; he frequently came back late on days after galas, hair tousled and reeking of alcohol, but for some reason, there still wasn’t anything unattractive about him. So what if he was double your age, because he was still caring, in a way that you hadn’t seen in anyone before. He asked you how your day was, if you needed anything, made stupid jokes with a smirk, and something in your chest tightened when he did, and maybe, just maybe, he thought of you the same way.

But it was times like these that you were reminded of the vast difference between the way you grew up and the way that he did—him, surrounded by luxury and opulence, and you, with barely anything at all. You could love him, of course (you did), but in the end, he’d go back to the socialites, and eventually, back to Selina Kyle. Selina, with her pearls and figure and gray cat eyes, was Bruce’s perfect match to anyone with eyes, so who were you, with your frumpy sweaters and thrifted pencil skirts, to dream of anything with—

“Hello?” Something snapped in front of your face, and when you jolted out of your jealous daze, you noticed that Bruce was standing in front of you, holding out a bagel and a cup of coffee. “Jeez, where were you, Mars? Anyway, I stopped at a coffee shop this morning because Dick—” Bruce’s twelve year old son, because obviously, as the sexiest man alive, he had to be a DILF too, “—wanted a cake pop, and who am I to deny him? So I picked you up breakfast, because you have terrible eating habits and I’m not making them any better.”