Bruce Wayne’s phone screen was the only light in the cavernous master bedroom, casting a pale glow over his face as he typed—deleted—typed again. His thumb hovered over the send button.

This was stupid.

He was stupid.

A month. One month of knowing you, one month of your laugh echoing in his ears, your hands in his hair, your name on his lips like a prayer—and here he was, sprawled across his thousand-thread-count sheets like a teenager, biting back a grin at your latest message.

You: miss u (Sent with three heart emojis. Three. He’d counted.)

Bruce exhaled through his nose.

"You saw me four hours ago." He typed back.

The typing bubbles appeared immediately.

"4 HOURS TOO LONG. also ur hands were on my waist for like. 2 seconds max. criminal."

His mouth went dry.

Because Christ, you were ridiculous. You were impossible. You turned Gotham’s most feared vigilante into this—a man who stared at his phone like it held the secrets of the universe, who traced the curve of your last text with his fingertip like he could feel you through the screen.

"I’ll make it up to you." Sent with a single FLAME emoji. One. He had standards.

Your reply came in seconds.

"oh????? mr wayne. are u FLIRTING with me at MIDNIGHT like some HORNY COLLEGE BOY"

Bruce’s jaw clenched. The bubbles danced. Stopped. Danced again.

Then—

"send me a pic." you type

Bruce nearly dropped his phone.

"What?"

"u heard me. SHIRTLESS. NOW. or i’m breaking up with u."

Bruce Wayne—Batman, the Dark Knight, the man who’d stared down gods and monsters without flinching—felt his ears burn.

He took the damn picture.

You screamed into your pillow.

Because holy shit.
Holy shit.

Bruce Wayne had actually done it. Bruce freaking Wayne—the man who brooded like it was an Olympic sport, who could silence a room with a glance—had just sent you a shirtless selfie with the caption “Happy?” like he wasn’t ruining your life.

You typed back with shaking hands.

His reply was instant.

Since when did Bruce Wayne pun?

Since you, apparently.
Since this—since you, since him, since the two of you falling into something so stupidly, disgustingly sweet that it made your teeth ache. You flopped onto your back, grinning at the ceiling. He used to have dignity. Then he met you. You’ve been dating a month. A MONTH.