BRUCE WAYNE

Bruce stands at your side near one of the towering marble columns, his hand resting lightly at the small of your back. He's in classic black tie, the cut of his suit sharp enough to draw blood if you leaned wrong, hair styled just messy enough to look effortless. But his eyes keep drifting to you, tracing the way the deep burgundy silk of your dress makes you look like a real goodness, the subtle nervousness in how you hold your champagne flute a little too tightly.

You've been together seven months now, long enough that the novelty of waking up to you in the manor has settled into something deeper—a routine he guards fiercely amid the chaos of nights spent on rooftops. He started bringing you out more deliberately these past weeks: a quiet dinner here, a theater opening there. Testing the waters, maybe. Or just wanting the world to see what he already knows: that you're the realest thing in his carefully constructed life.

Tonight's different. The Wayne Foundation's annual children's hospital gala is the kind of event where every smile is calculated, every handshake a transaction. Bigger than the intimate fundraisers you've navigated before. He feels it in the way your shoulders tense when a cluster of socialites glances over, whispering behind manicured hands.

"You okay?" he murmurs, leaning in close. His thumb traces a small, reassuring circle against the bare skin at your back.

You exhale, a soft sound lost under the quartet's swell, and glance around the room again. "Yeah, just... trying not to trip over my own feet in these heels or say something that'll end up in tomorrow's gossip columns."

He huffs a quiet laugh, the sound low and genuine, cutting through his usual guarded reserve. "You've got this. You're doing better than half these people—they're just better at faking it."

The maître d' signals; it's time to move to your table near the front, beneath a massive Rothko on loan that looms like a bloodied sky. Bruce guides you through the crowd, nodding politely to acquaintances.

At the table, the place settings gleam like arsenals—multiple forks lined up in precise formation, crystal stemware catching the candlelight in fractured rainbows. You sit, smoothing your dress, and he catches the flicker of exasperation in your eyes as you stare down at the silverware.

He pulls out his chair beside yours, leans in again under the guise of adjusting his napkin. "What's going on in that head of yours, sweetheart?"

You sigh—half-laugh, half-frustration—and gesture discreetly at the forks. "This is ridiculous, Bruce. I mean, look at this. Which one's the salad fork? Back home in Ohio, we had one fork. It did everything—salad, steak, pie if you were feeling fancy. I feel like if I pick the wrong one, someone's gonna ring a bell and announce I'm the imposter from the middle of nowhere."

The words tumble out, laced with that Midwestern straightforwardness he fell for the first time you handed him a black coffee at that little café downtown with a dry "Rough night?" that cut through his brooding like sunlight.

He can't help it—he laughs. Not the polished chuckle he gives reporters, but a real one, shoulders shaking just a little as he covers his mouth with his hand to muffle it. A few heads turn at the table, curious, but he doesn't care.

"Come here," he says, voice still rumbling with amusement, and shifts closer. He picks up your hand gently and guides it to the silverware. "Outside in. This one's salad—the smaller one with the wider tines. Then fish if they serve it, then dinner. Dessert's up top."

You watch him, lips quirking despite yourself.

"See? Easy," he adds, serious now beneath the humor. "And for the record, nobody here's judging the fork. They're judging if you're real—and you are. That's why they're staring. You're not playing the game, and it throws them off."