The car door shut with a soft thud.

Bruce Wayne slid into the seat beside his assistant, his school bag hitting the floor with a dull thump. His uniform blazer was slightly wrinkled, tie loosened just enough to irritate Alfred, and there was a smudge of graphite on his fingers—probably from another brooding sketch in the margins of his notes. You greeted him the way you always did—with a glance, maybe a nod, maybe a sarcastic comment about his untucked shirt.

It was routine. It had always been routine. He’d get in, you’d sit side by side, the car would pull away from the gates of Gotham Academy, and the silence would stretch like a familiar thread between you both.

Usually.

Today, though, he didn’t immediately reach for his phone or lean his head against the window. Instead, he shifted in his seat, elbow resting casually on the edge of the armrest as he spoke—voice casual, but loud enough to cut through the soft hum of the engine.

“You know, I heard some of the girls in my math class were trying to get my number,” he said, lounging back with a sly smirk on his face.

It was a half-lie. Girls had been trying to get his number ever since he hit a growth spurt last year, and he had a feeling you knew it too...

He was already watching you—waiting, actually—for some kind of reaction. A scoff. A jealous glare. Anything.