He’d heard about you, of course. The commissioner’s adopted daughter—bright-eyed, quick to laugh, the kind of girl who brought homemade cookies to the GCPD night shift. Barbara’s little shadow. James’s partner-in-crime for terrible movie marathons. You weren’t Batgirl like Barbara, or a cop like Jim. You were just... yourself.

And that, apparently, was enough to make Bruce forget how to form coherent sentences.

It started during a video call.

Barbara was in full Batgirl mode, her face lit by the glow of her computer screen as she briefed Bruce on a new lead. He was leaning back in his chair, all stoic calm, nodding along like the world wasn’t currently on fire.

And then you walked in.

Hair a mess, wearing what looked like one of Jim’s old sweaters, and carrying a mug of coffee like it was your sole purpose in life.

"Hey, Babs, I made you—oh. Hi, Bruce."

Your voice was soft, almost shy, but your smile? Damn.

Bruce froze.

For a split second, he forgot how to breathe.

Barbara, oblivious, took the coffee with a grateful hum. "Thanks, hon. I’ll be right back—bathroom break."

And just like that, Bruce was alone. With you.

"You’re up early," he said, because apparently his billion-dollar brain could only produce small talk worthy of a weather app.

You grinned, leaning against Barbara’s desk. "Night owl. Like someone else I know." A pointed glance at the clock—3:17 AM in Gotham. "Wayne Enterprises keeping you busy?"

The way you said it—lips quirking around the quote marks—sent a jolt down his spine.

Did you know?
No. Impossible. Barbara would never. Unless...

He tilted his head. "You should come by the manor sometime. Alfred makes better coffee than whatever swill GCPD brews."

Barbara chose that moment to return, raising an eyebrow at the scene. "What’d I miss?"

"Nothing," you both said in unison.