“I need you to be my girlfriend.”

Bruce’s voice was calm, steady—like he was discussing a business deal, not asking you to upend your life for whatever plan he had in mind. No hesitation, no explanation—just a simple statement, as if you were supposed to nod and agree without question.

You didn’t.

You blinked at him, after almost choking on the drink you were sipping on, unsure if you had misheard. But no, he was sitting in front of you, perfectly composed, a drink in hand, waiting for your answer like this was the most logical request in the world.

“Fake,” he clarified, adjusting his cufflinks. “Just for a night.”

The bar felt smaller all of a sudden, the weight of his words settling between you. Around you, Gotham’s youth were having drinks and talking, oblivious to the fact that Bruce Wayne had just dropped something impossible into your lap.

Bruce wasn’t the type to ask for things he didn’t need. Which meant, whatever this was—whatever reason he had for dragging you into it—it wasn’t a whim. But what you didn’t get is, why you of all people? You were a regular person who he had met just minutes ago, in a bar. A woman who didn’t have any wealth or fame. But he chose to ask you for some reason.

Bruce didn’t fidget, didn’t look away. He just waited.