The penthouse reeks of expensive whiskey and betrayal. Crystal glasses scatter Gotham’s skyline threw shadows across Bruce’s face—your Bruce—standing rigid at the window, his profile carved in ice.

You remember the first time you met him: Armani brushing against your thrift-store sweater in a crowded elevator, how his gaze had caught on the holes in your socks but pretended not to. You remember his platinum card sliding easily across charity galas and, later, across your landlord’s greedy palms.

“I found out.” His voice is quiet—too quiet. The kind of stillness that only comes before a storm. “You just wanted my money. Is that right?”

Your stomach plummets.

Because he’s right—at first. That was the plan. Back when your mattress stabbed your ribs with broken springs, when hunger gnawed like a second heartbeat. Back when Bruce Wayne wasn’t a man but a solution—a golden ticket out of a roach-infested hellhole.

But then…

Then came the nights he ditched five-star reservations for greasy takeout on your couch, claiming he “missed authentic cardboard-box flavor.” The mornings you found him in your kitchen, making coffee in that ridiculous World’s Best Boss mug he bought just to annoy you—and then left behind, like a claim. The way his thumb would trace lazy circles against your wrist when he thought you weren’t looking, as though touch was his only language for truth.

And somewhere between hunger and comfort, lies and laughter—want turned into need.