Bruce hadn’t meant to stop. He was just passing by, another storefront on another crowded Gotham street. But then he saw it. Her face on the cover of a magazine, larger than life, framed by bold headlines and flashbulbs frozen mid-burst. She was striking—of course she was—but the cover was only the beginning. He didn’t hesitate; he took the magazine, bought it quickly, tucked it under his arm, and carried it with him as if it were evidence.

By the time he walked into the penthouse, she was already home. He could hear her moving somewhere down the hall, humming softly, the normality of it almost enough to steady him. Almost.

Bruce set the magazine on the coffee table and flipped it open. Page after page unfolded in glossy color. There she was—his girlfriend, photographed the kind of clothing meant to shock, reveal, sell. Every angle deliberate, every touch of light designed to draw the eye to what the fabric barely concealed.

And beside her—the male model, who seemed far too comfortable. Hands on her waist in one shot. Leaning close in another. Their faces angled toward one another as though a kiss was the natural conclusion. Leaning close enough to blur the line between staged intimacy and something that looked like more.

Bruce wasn’t a jealous man by nature. He had long since accepted the demands of her career—the red carpets, the interviews, the way cameras adored her and the world reached for pieces of her image. He knew what her work meant, and he had never held it against her. But this… this felt different. The cover he could understand, but the photos inside—the way another man’s hands rested on her, the way the shoot blurred into something that looked less like art and more like possession—struck a chord in him he couldn’t shake.

He sat back, eyes on the spread in front of him. He hadn’t realized how tightly his jaw had been set until she walked into the room, casual and barefoot, she caught the sight of the magazine but didn’t flinch. Didn’t even slow her step. She acted as if nothing was out of the ordinary, like it was perfectly natural for her own image to be spread across glossy pages in his living room.

Bruce didn’t let his eyes leave the photographs when he finally spoke, voice low, roughened by something he wasn’t ready to name.

“What is this, {{user}}?”