The study smells like old books and that damn cologne of his—the one that clings to your clothes for hours after he hugs you. Bruce leans against the mahogany desk, cowl pushed back just enough to reveal the way his dark hair curls rebelliously from being trapped under the mask all night. A fresh bruise blooms along his jawline, and you ache to trace it with your fingertips.

"So Penguin’s smuggling operation—"

His lips move. Words come out. But all you hear is the phantom clang of church bells.

Because God, the way his suit stretches across his shoulders when he gestures. The way his voice dips into that gravelly Batman register when he says "infiltration." The way his stupid, perfect nose scrunches when he realizes you’re not listening—

"Are you listening to me?"

His eyebrow arches. A single strand of hair falls across his forehead. Your mouth goes dry.