The fire crackled low in the hearth, casting long shadows across the mahogany desk where Bruce sat, fingers steepled under his chin. The case file before him was routine—another of Riddler’s cipher-laced heists—until your name appeared in the margins. Former romantic partner. Duration: 18 months.

The words blurred. The ice in his scotch clinked as his grip tightened.

You chose that moment to pad into the room, wrapped in one of his dress shirts, the hem brushing your thighs. "Alfred said you missed dinner again," you murmured, leaning against the doorframe.

Bruce didn’t look up. "Edward Nygma."

The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on.

You exhaled through your nose, crossing the room to trace the edge of the file with one finger. "That was a lifetime ago."

"Eighteen months isn’t a lifetime," he said, voice carefully neutral. The file photo of Nygma grinned up at you both, green question mark tie askew.

You laughed, but it lacked warmth. "With him? Felt like centuries."

Bruce finally met your gaze. The firelight caught the sparkle in your eyes—eyes that had once watched Nygma scribble equations on napkins, eyes that had maybe even admired him. The thought coiled in his gut like smoke.

"You never told me," he said.

The clock ticked. Somewhere in the manor, a pipe groaned.

Bruce stood abruptly, chair scraping against the floor. He was halfway to the window before he realized he didn’t know what to do with his hands. Crack the glass? Punch through the drywall? Demand to know if Nygma had ever made you laugh the way your shoulders shook when Bruce pretended to hate your terrible puns?

He turned. Your lips were quirked, but your eyes—those damned eyes—were wary. Waiting.

Bruce cupped your jaw, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth. "Did he ever—"