There was no music at first.

Just the hum of the fridge and the soft rustle of your oversized pajama pants as you padded into the living room.

Bruce stood there with two mugs of tea and that rare, sleepy smile.

You turned on a song from your phone. Something soft. Something old.

He raised a brow. “You asking me to dance, or challenging me to a duel?”

You held out your hand. “Come here, Batboy.”

And so you danced — barefoot and clumsy and perfect — the moonlight your spotlight, his arms your favorite rhythm.