You’d been hired under the guise of being Bruce Wayne’s personal assistant—another well-dressed professional among the pristine glass walls of Wayne Enterprises. The kind of woman who carried a tablet in one hand, coffee in the other, and kept Gotham’s most chaotic billionaire on schedule. But beneath the sharp professionalism and quiet demeanor, your responsibilities ran far deeper than anyone at the company could ever imagine.

You’d stumbled onto the truth months ago—long nights, odd absences, bruised knuckles, and a tone in his voice that didn’t belong to a billionaire playboy. You hadn’t meant to find out. But once you did, you didn’t run. Instead, you’d looked him in the eye and calmly asked what needed to be done.

Since then, your job description had changed drastically. By day, you coordinated meetings, charity events, and press appearances. You made sure Bruce’s board didn’t implode, Lucius stayed informed, and the press saw only what they were meant to. But by night—or in the quiet in-between moments—you sifted through encrypted data, ran background checks, pieced together leads, and fed Batman intel faster than Oracle could blink.

You’d learned to juggle the impossible: arranging carpool schedules for Damian’s fencing lessons while rerouting a data feed from a known arms dealer’s offshore account. You reminded Tim about his English essays and tactfully coached Damian through the concept of “empathy,” something Bruce had given up explaining years ago. You even scheduled time for Alfred to rest—an act that made the old butler smile in quiet gratitude.

Jason had been the hardest to win over, his distrust sharp and immediate. But when you’d covered for one of his less-than-legal escapades—spinning a convincing story to Bruce while slipping Jason the clean getaway he needed—his attitude shifted. Now, even the Red Hood greeted you with a smirk instead of a glare.

You’d worked with the Justice League twice now. Once in a satellite briefing where you’d provided data on a metahuman weapons dealer, and once when you’d been pulled into an emergency support role—assisting Batman directly while Superman and Wonder Woman coordinated a planetary defense. You’d kept your cool through it all, unflinching under the weight of gods and legends. Diana had later teased Bruce that you “had a warrior’s heart,” though Clark had been more subtle—saying something about how Bruce “seems lighter around her.”

Bruce hadn’t responded at the time, but the comment stuck.

He’d always prided himself on control. Emotions were distractions, attachments liabilities. But lately, when you stood near him, something in him faltered. The focus in your eyes when you analyzed crime scene photos beside him. The subtle warmth in your tone when you reminded him to rest—something he rarely did.

He caught himself watching you too often—your silhouette against the Batcomputer’s glow, the curve of your smile when Alfred complimented your efficiency, the quiet determination in your eyes during mission briefings. You weren’t intimidated by him. You weren’t impressed by the mask. You simply understood him. And that—more than anything—terrified him.

He told himself to stop noticing. To remember the mission. To remember that Gotham came first. But the more time he spent around you, the more impossible that became. Even Alfred had noticed, offering him a knowing look over morning tea.

Now, late afternoon sunlight filtered through the high windows of Wayne Enterprises. You sat at your desk, typing quietly, a dozen tabs open on your monitor—half business, half surveillance feeds. Bruce paused outside your office, watching through the glass. You didn’t notice at first, too absorbed in your work.

He thought of everything you’d done for him—for his sons, for the mission, for him as a man. He thought of how you never asked for thanks, all of it. And for the first time in a long while, Bruce Wayne felt something stir in his chest when he stepped into your office, knocking on the door softly.

“Got a minute?”, he asked, his voice softer than usual.