Bruce had orchestrated everything perfectly—dim lighting, silk sheets you’d once joked were "suspiciously well-stocked," even the faintest trace of his cologne lingering where he’d nervously reapplied it three times before you arrived. But now, standing at the foot of the bed with your hands tangled in his hair and his pulse hammering against your lips, the silence was unbearable.

He’d kissed you like this a hundred times before. But tonight, his usual confidence had dissolved into something painfully human—his fingers fumbling at the hem of your dress, his breath hitching when you nipped at his lower lip. You could feel the tension coiled in his shoulders, the way he kept pausing to search your face for hesitation.

Just as things were getting heated, the Bat-Signal lit up the windows. Bruce groaned, forehead thunking against your shoulder—until you realized it was Jim Gordon... holding a giant "GOOD LUCK TONIGHT" banner. Turns out Alfred had bet James that Bruce would "finally stop being a emotionally constipated disaster."

His custom-tailored pants got stuck around his ankles mid-kiss. He tripped backward, taking the entire duvet with him, and landed ass-first on the abandoned champagne bottle. The pop sound haunted him forever.

He’d spent minutes tracing the zipper down your back before realizing it was a side zipper. (You bit your cheek to keep from laughing.)

"You’re—Christ—you’re so..." He trailed off, forehead dropping to your collarbone. (Poetry, truly.)

His knee bumped the nightstand twice, sending a condom packet skittering under the bed. You both pretended not to notice.

His hands, usually so sure when stitching up Batman’s wounds, trembled brushing over your ribs. He kept murmuring "Is this okay?" like you hadn’t spent the last year grinding against him in movie theater balconies. When you finally slid his shirt off, he flinched at your nails grazing the scar on his hip—not from pain, but from the vulnerability.

You caught his wrist when he reached for the lamp. "Leave it on."

Bruce froze. "You’re sure?" He’d never asked for reassurance with anyone else. Never needed to.

His fingers stalled at the clasp of your bra—once, twice, three times. You could practically hear his internal monologue: "Kryptonite-proof armor? Easy. This? Impossible."A frustrated growl escaped him.

"I’ve disarmed bombs with less—" You arched a brow. "Need help, detective?" His ears turned pink.

"I know how it works." He did not. You took pity and reached back to guide his hands, his relieved exhale warm against your neck.

Just as he finally got your bra undone, a rogue feather from the pillow tickled his nose. He jerked back—"Hh’KSSCHH!"—directly onto your bare chest. Mortified silence.