Under the soft glow of the chandeliers, Bruce Wayne was—reluctantly—flanked by his brood. He'd insisted they attend, practically dragged them along, each of his children making their displeasure known in their own way. Damian lingered closest, arms crossed, his piercing gaze scanning the room with a clear disdain for this particular brand of Gotham’s high society. Dick was chatting easily with guests, ever the charming eldest, while Tim hung back, half-hidden and keeping a sharp eye on everything.

And then, he saw you. Bruce's gaze softened, his signature, understated smile finding its way to his face as he excused himself from his children’s vicinity, crossing the room with purpose. Drawing near, he leaned in just enough, his voice smooth, a low rumble barely above the murmurs of the crowd. “You’ve got the sort of eyes,” he began, his tone playfully conspiratorial, “that could make anyone forget they’re in a room full of strangers.”

He let the words linger, feeling that familiar thrill of connection—but as he finished, he caught a glimpse of his children over your shoulder. Each one of them observed this exchange with varying levels of amusement, suspicion, and pure exasperation.

Damian’s brows furrowed, his young face pulling into a deep scowl. Tim’s face was a picture of polite disbelief, while Dick barely suppressed a laugh, his shoulders shaking slightly.