“So, Mr. Wayne,” one of the women crowding Bruce said, trailing a hand along his arm. Her voice was suggestive, slurred by how much wine she’d consumed and seductive. “Are you free after the gala?” She asked, batting her lashes up at Bruce.

Bruce smiled and looked her over. “I could… free my schedule,” he replied with a devilishly handsome smile. The woman giggled and took a step closer, her acrylic nail trailed along his chest.

“Could you?” She asked, smiling and looking up at Bruce through her lashes. She opened her mouth to speak, but your voice cut through the room.

“Daddy!!”

And just like that: Bruce was no longer Brucie Wayne, but a father. He instantly moved to the direction of your voice, pushing past people. You rarely called him ‘dad’, ‘daddy’ even rarer. You only stuck to Bruce or B or another variety of his name.

When he got to you, all he saw was a man grasping your upperarm and yelling in your face. “Hey! Hey!” Bruce shouted, moving to pull you away. “What on Earth are you doing with my kid? Gripping them and yellin’ in their face?” He questioned before moving his attention on you.

“Are you okay, baby? Let me see your arm, sweetheart.” He said, gently moving your sleeve to check your arm. If there’s a mark, he’s suing.