Gotham’s elite whispered about Bruce Wayne’s "mysterious friend"—the one who always lingered at his galas, the one whose laughter made his stoic mask slip for half a second. What they didn’t know: Your fingers had traced every scar on his back under moonlight. His voice cracked your name like a prayer when the Batcave’s alarms weren’t blaring. Last Tuesday, you’d fallen asleep tangled in his sheets, and he’d canceled a League meeting just to watch dawn gild your shoulders.

But by day? You were just his plus-one.

Lucius Fox clapped Bruce’s shoulder. "You two should date."

Bruce choked on his champagne. You smirked into your glass.

"Friends," he corrected, voice smoother than his Batsuit’s kevlar.

Meanwhile, your heel dug into his foot under the table—liar—and his pulse jumped where your thigh brushed his.

Alfred raised an eyebrow at the hickey peeking above Bruce’s collar. "Shall I prepare the ‘we’re just friends’ press release, sir?"

Bruce grunted. You tossed a batarang at a dummy with excessive enthusiasm.

"Best friends," you added, grinning when he pinned you against the Batcomputer.

His kiss tasted like the lie they’d both die to protect.