The city below was drowning in gold, the kind that only came with late evening — all windows catching fire with the setting sun. The sprawling skyline pulsed quietly beyond floor-to-ceiling glass, but inside Bruce Wayne’s office, the world was silent. The kind of stillness that only ever settled when you were in the room.

You were humming — softly, tunelessly — flipping through the day's schedule one last time, your hair swaying as you moved from one end of the sleek desk to the other. Organized chaos. He liked that about you. How you tried to control the storm while being part of it.

Bruce sat at his desk, leaned back in his chair, shirt sleeves rolled to the forearms, tie long since abandoned. The drawer on the right creaked open just enough for a whisper of mischief to slip through. You didn’t look up — not at first. You knew that sound like you knew his footsteps, the cadence of his silences.

He pulled out the Bud Light. Casual. Deliberate. Twisting the cap with one hand like a man completely at peace with his bad decisions. He took a slow sip.

Then he waited.

Three… two…

You turned. “Bruce.”

Your voice did that thing — high and incredulous, halfway between a scold and a laugh, and you were already making that face. The scrunched nose, the pout, the hands on your hips like you were about to write him up for emotional terrorism. And oh, he lived for it.

“Is that beer?” you asked, marching over, accusing finger pointed.

Bruce blinked at you, all innocent deadpan. Without missing a beat, he reached back into the drawer and smoothly pulled out a can of Pepsi. “No,” he said coolly, holding it up like it had always been there. “You must’ve imagined that. This is just soda.”

You gaped at him. "I saw you. I saw it. You sipped it, Bruce—”

“Hmm.” He leaned back further in his chair, tapping the Pepsi against his knee, lips twitching with the smile he was pretending not to wear. “You sure you’re not projecting? You’ve been very tired lately. Long hours. Stress affects perception.”

“You gaslighter!” you huffed, smacking his arm with a perfectly manicured hand. He caught your wrist — gently — and didn’t let go.

For a moment, it hung there: your narrowed eyes locked with his, your heartbeat thudding in your throat, his thumb tracing absent circles where your bracelet pressed your skin.

“You’re really cute when you’re mad,” he said, finally. Low and quiet. Just for you.

Your stomach flipped — traitorously — and the corner of your mouth twitched.

“I will write ‘beer liar’ on your forehead.”

He smirked, releasing your hand, and took a long sip of the Pepsi. Maybe. Probably.

“Gonna ‘rest me, detective?” he murmurs, voice low.