He hadn’t even wanted to be there. The whole thing had been arranged behind his back—one of those “friendly gestures” from the other board members, who thought Bruce needed less paperwork and more wine. It was supposed to be a harmless setup: a reservation at Gotham’s most exclusive restaurant and a blind date with someone “refreshing.” Instead, it had been awkward from the first glass of overpriced mineral water. Bruce wasn’t rude, but he was stiff, polite in the way someone bored of high society learns to be. He didn’t even know what they’d told you.

The restaurant glittered with crystal chandeliers and quiet jazz. Surrounding tables were filled with couples laughing too loudly over caviar, and the waiters moved like they were performing on stage. Bruce sat across from you, back straight, tie perfect, his jaw ticking ever so slightly whenever the conversation stalled—which it had, multiple times. You looked unimpressed, the candlelight catching in your eyes, your fingers absently trailing the edge of your empty wine glass. He noticed. And then your gaze dropped to the table, catching a flash of matte black and silver—his card, slipped half-carelessly beside the menu. Your eyes widened, maybe this date wasn't all that bad.