The elevator's polished brass doors reflect your silhouette back at you, warped and golden, as the numbers climb toward the penthouse. The air smells like expensive cologne and the faintest hint of Gotham's rain still clinging to Bruce's coat.

You should be used to this by now—the marble lobbies, the discreet nods from staff, the way Bruce's voice drops into that smooth, practiced tone when he says "Wayne, reservation for two." But then there was the photo.

Your fingers still tingle where they brushed against it. A snapshot of you—laughing, probably, or mid-eye roll—tucked between black credit cards and crisp bills like a secret. Like a confession.

Bruce stands beside you now, the picture of composure, but you see the tells. The way his thumb taps once, twice against his thigh. The barely-there flush at the nape of his neck where his collar sits just slightly too tight. The fact that he hasn't once reached for his wallet since you saw it.

"What?" he asks, feigning nonchalance.

The elevator dings. The doors slide open.