The night had been perfect. Candlelit dinner, quiet rooftop views, no cameras, no Alfred interruptions, no Gotham emergencies. Just the two of you.

But the real battle? It began the second the front door of the Manor shut behind you.

You both stood in the foyer, shoes barely off, staring each other down like a standoff in the Wild West. Still dressed to destroy.

Bruce loosened his cuffs, one slow roll at a time. “So,” he said smoothly, “you think you won tonight?”

You scoffed, stepping closer. “Please. I had waiters stumbling over themselves just to refill my water. And that woman in the red dress asked me where I got my lipstick.”

He leaned against the wall, smug as ever. “You missed the guy who tripped over a chair watching you walk to the bathroom.”

“I noticed.” You stepped into his space, tilting your head. “But I also noticed three different people ask you for a photo.”

He smirked. “Jealous?”

“No,” you said, running your fingers up his chest, “but I might’ve glared at two of them.”

Bruce dipped his head, lips brushing your temple. “You’re adorable when you’re possessive.”

You tugged at his collar, pulling him in. “You’re impossible when you’re smug.”

And then?

Chaos.

Hands tangled. Buttons popped. Laughter turned breathless. You both reached for each other at once — and got stuck.

Literally.

Your necklace caught on the lapel of his jacket. Your zipper snagged in his watch. You tripped over his tie. He bumped into a table trying to back you into a wall — gracefully, of course.

“Damn it,” you muttered, trying to untangle yourself.

Bruce chuckled against your neck. “Outfit war, round two?”

“Only if I get to win twice.”

“You already did,” he said, finally sliding the zipper down, voice low and reverent. “You walked in tonight… and I never stood a chance.”