The restaurant smelled like garlic butter and spilled merlot. Candlelight flickered over half-empty plates of tiramisu and the wreckage of Oliver’s fifth attempt at pronouncing "bruschetta" correctly. Bruce Wayne nursed his whiskey—neat, no ice—while you stole a forkful of his chocolate torte, grinning when he shot you a look that was more "I’ll allow it" than "stop."

Across the table, Barry slammed his hands down, cheeks flushed from three margaritas. "Okay, okay, NEW GAME. Diana—lasso. Now."

Diana, regal even with a breadstick crown courtesy of Clark, arched an eyebrow. "Barry, we are not using the Lasso of Truth for—"

"One tiny question each!" Barry wheedled, looping an arm around a giggling Lois. "C’mon, we’re off-duty! Bruce doesn’t even have his "I’m emotionally constipated’ tie on!"

Bruce’s fingers tightened around his glass. "Hard pass."

You nudged his shoulder. "Scared, Wayne?"

His jaw twitched. That was all the encouragement Barry needed.

The lasso glowed faintly gold in the dim light. One by one, they played: Oliver confessed to owning a Green Arrow action figure ("It was for research—SHUT UP, ALLEN.") Lois, wrapped in the lasso’s coils, smirked. "I may have written a draft article about Superman’s ‘Kryptonian anatomy’... and deleted it." Clark choked on his wine.

Then it was Bruce’s turn.

The second the lasso coiled around his wrist, his spine went rigid. Diana frowned. "Bruce, you’re resisting it."

"Yeah, weird," Barry stage-whispered. "Almost like he’s got secrets or something—"

Bruce exhaled sharply. The words tore out of him like a bullet.

"I’m in love with her"

He looks at you. Silence.

The lasso’s glow pulsed. No take-backs. No "Bruce Wayne deflection smile." Just the raw, unfiltered truth hanging between you—the late-night drives, the way he’d memorized your coffee order, the looks you’d both pretended not to notice.

Oliver dropped his fork. "Well. That just ruined my bet with Hal."

The lasso’s coiled on the table between you, still glowing. Bruce won’t meet your eyes. The others are frozen in various states of "oh shit"—Barry mid-sip, Diana gripping her tiara like she’s debating smiting someone, Clark suddenly very interested in a breadcrumb on the tablecloth.

Your pulse thrums in your ears.