The tiki torches flickered against the twilight, casting long shadows over the resort’s sandy dance floor. The rhythmic strum of a ukulele filled the air, accompanied by the gentle crash of waves against the shore. It was supposed to be romantic. Relaxing.

It was, instead, a disaster.

Bruce Wayne—the Bruce Wayne, billionaire, vigilante, Gotham’s most feared shadow—stood stiffly in the middle of a circle of giggling tourists, his expression caught somewhere between concentration and sheer existential horror. His hands hovered awkwardly at his sides, his hips moving with all the natural grace of a rusted gate.

"No, no—like this," the instructor, a cheerful woman named Leilani, demonstrated the fluid sway of the hula once more, her grass skirt swishing hypnotically.

Bruce mimicked the motion. Or tried to. His version looked less like a tropical dance and more like a man attempting to dislodge a stubborn piece of food from his back teeth.

You bit your lip to keep from laughing. It didn’t work.

"You’re supposed to move your hips, Bruce," you teased, effortlessly rolling your own in a way that made his jaw tighten. "Not just… vibrate in place."

Bruce shot you a glare that had sent criminals running for cover. It had no effect on you. Mainly because his flower lei was crooked, and there was a stray hibiscus petal stuck to his forehead.

"I am moving," he grumbled, attempting again with grim determination. His hips jerked forward. Then back. Then—oh God—sideways.

A group of women at the edge of the crowd sighed dreamily, their cocktails forgotten as they watched Gotham’s most eligible bachelor commit unspeakable crimes against the culture.

"He’s adorable," one whispered, not quietly enough.

Bruce’s ears turned red.

You took pity on him—sort of. Stepping closer, you placed your hands on his hips, guiding them into something resembling the right rhythm. "Here," you murmured, grinning. "Follow me."

Bruce exhaled, his hands settling tentatively on your waist. "I’d rather follow you anywhere else," he muttered.