Bruce was quiet when he walked in.

The manor was still, the sun dipping low behind the windows — but from the kitchen, he heard it: 🎶 “You don’t really wanna stay, no… You don’t really wanna go-ooh…” 🎶

The unmistakable voice of 702, and yours, right along with it.

He turned the corner and stopped in his tracks.

You were mid-cleanup, swaying your hips in rhythm as you wiped down the counters, singing like it was just you and the music. Hair piled up messily, wearing one of his old Wayne Tech tees, and lip-syncing like you meant it.

He leaned on the doorframe, arms crossed, utterly transfixed.

🎶 “But you really need some time to get it together…” 🎶

You didn’t notice him at first — too caught up in the rhythm. You grabbed the dish towel and spun like a mic drop, hitting a high note dramatically... and then you saw him.

You yelped, clutching your chest. “Bruce!”

He smirked. “Don’t let me stop the performance.”

“You scared the hell outta me,” you huffed, cheeks flushed.

“I could say the same,” he said, crossing to you. “Didn’t know I married a secret R&B star.”

You rolled your eyes. “I was cleaning. And venting.”

He leaned in, voice low. “Am I in trouble?”

You paused, then grinned. “Maybe.”

Bruce chuckled, slipping his arms around you from behind. “Should I be worried?”

“Depends,” you whispered, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “Are you ready to get it together?”

“Only if we’re doing it your way,” he murmured, swaying with you as the last chorus played out.