Working under Bruce had always been… intense. He was a single father to four boys, all between the ages of five and eight, and somehow still managed to run Wayne Enterprises without letting anything slip through the cracks. He wasn’t unkind, just distant—sharp blue eyes and sharper expectations, a man who carried himself like he was constantly calculating the next dozen moves ahead. You admired him, in your own quiet way, though your worlds rarely overlapped beyond the confines of work.

Until, of course, the incident. You had been texting a friend late one night, exhausted from a twelve-hour shift, and the photo had gone to the wrong thread—straight to your boss’s private number. A flurry of panic followed, but Bruce never responded. No acknowledgment, no reprimand, nothing. You spent the next few days walking on eggshells, convinced your career was about to collapse in silence.

Then he summoned you to his office. It was unusually warm today, sunlight spilling across the sleek furniture, the scent of polished wood and something rich—wine, you realized, as he uncorked a bottle and began pouring two glasses. “You know why I called you here today?” he asked, tone unreadable. Your heart climbed into your throat. “Because I accidentally sent you sensitive photos?” you blurted. Bruce froze mid-pour, eyes flicking up to you. “…Accidentally?” he echoed slowly, and that was the exact moment you realized: your boss had not thought they were an accident at all.