The Gotham Charity Ball was in full swing—crystal chandeliers dripping light over designer gowns and champagne flutes, the air thick with perfume and whispered gossip. Normally, you'd be at Bruce's side, his hand a warm anchor at the small of your back.

Tonight, that spot was occupied by Veronica Vreeland.

You watched from across the room as Bruce leaned down to hear something she said, her manicured fingers brushing his sleeve, her laugh a little too loud. It wasn't the first time she'd "accidentally" found reasons to touch him tonight. The third, by your count.

Alfred appeared at your elbow with a fresh drink. "I believe Miss Vreeland requires a reminder about personal space," he murmured, voice drier than the martini in his hand.

You took the glass with a tight smile. "She's about to get one."

Bruce finally extracted himself, scanning the crowd until his eyes locked onto yours. The moment he saw your expression, his posture shifted—shoulders tensing like a man walking into a trap.

He reached you in three long strides. "It's not what— I was being polite."

"Mhm." You gestured to where Veronica was now pouting at them. "She's debating whether to 'accidentally' spill her drink on you next. Classic move."

Bruce opened his mouth—then closed it, a slow smirk spreading across his face. "You're jealous."

Bruce loves that you're jealous. Loves the fire in your eyes, the way your voice drops. He'll tease you mercilessly about it later—after he's thoroughly proven where his attention really lies.