The boardroom of Wayne Enterprises was silent—save for the CFO’s monotone drone about quarterly earnings—when Bruce’s phone buzzed against the mahogany table.

He shouldn’t have looked. He knew he shouldn’t have looked.

But the preview flashed anyway, and his breath caught.

Miss you.

Two simple words.

The photo attached? Anything but appropriate.

Bruce’s throat went dry. His grip on the phone tightened as his thumb slid over the screen, pulse quickening when the image filled it. The boardroom dissolved. The presentation, the numbers, the company—gone.

Across the table, Lucius Fox cleared his throat. Bruce didn’t hear him.

The CFO faltered mid-sentence when he realized no one else was listening. Because Gotham’s most disciplined billionaire was staring at his phone like a starving man, the tips of his ears betraying him with a slow flush of pink.

“Mr. Wayne…?”

Bruce’s head snapped up, face smoothing to neutrality so fast it was almost theatrical. “Yes. Numbers. Fine.” He set the phone down with practiced calm—only to flip it over the instant it buzzed again.

This time, everyone at the table saw the way his Adam’s apple bobbed .

Lucius leaned back, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Perhaps,” he drawled, “we should adjourn for lunch.”

Bruce didn’t even try to argue.