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Mr & Mrs Wayne - The Perfect Lies

Pairing: Bruce Wayne x Reader

Summary: Five years of blissful marriage. Five years of lies. Neither knows the other is living a double life — until their worlds collide.

A/N: Insp. from Mr & Mrs Smith but with a twist

Gotham was a city of shadows, and yet your life with Bruce Wayne had always felt like light.

Five years married. Five years of luxury and late-night rooftop kisses. Of charity galas and coffee in bed. Of subtle touches at Wayne Enterprises board meetings, and quiet evenings curled on the velvet sofa in Wayne Manor.

To the world, you were the golden couple. Bruce Wayne’s graceful, kind, beloved wife — adored by the media, loved by the Batboys, and doted on by Alfred like the daughter he never had.

To Bruce… you were everything he’d never known he needed. And he’d kept his secret tightly locked away — not just the mask, but the mission. He was Batman. You were innocent. Gentle. Sweet. You didn’t need the burden of his darkness.

He would never let it touch you.

The irony, of course, was that he had no idea you had your own shadows.

Because when the night fell and Bruce Wayne claimed late-night board calls, you too slipped into something darker.

You were a vigilante. An assassin. A ghost of the underground. You had a code, yes — never harm the innocent — but you were efficient, feared, and never seen. The underworld whispered your name like a curse: Luna.

And Bruce? Bruce had no clue.

“Bruce, stop hogging the covers,” you murmured with a sleepy grin as your husband — six-foot-something of warm muscle and grumpy billionaire — curled tighter beside you in bed.

“I’m not,” he muttered.

“You are.” You laughed softly, nudging his side. “I love you, but I will start a war over these sheets.”

“I’d like to see you try.” He cracked one eye open, his voice rough and deep with sleep. “You’re too sweet to go to war, darling.”

You smiled, kissing his bare shoulder, and rested your head against his chest.

If only he knew.

At the same time, Bruce was thinking the exact same thing. If only you knew. If only you knew what Gotham had made him become. What he still did in the dark when you thought he was just a CEO working overtime.

“Do you think they’ll like the casserole?” you asked, peering into the oven. “I followed Alfred’s recipe to the letter.”

Damian appeared in the doorway with a skeptical glare. “I refuse to eat peasant food.”

“Damian,” Bruce warned from across the room.

“Ignore him,” you said, ruffling Damian’s hair. He recoiled on instinct, but didn’t quite escape the affection. “I made your favorite too. No peas.”

“…I’ll allow it,” he mumbled, clearly struggling not to smile.

Dick came in next, tossing his jacket over a chair. “Casserole night? It’s official. I love you more than Bruce.”

Jason followed, grabbing a beer. “Please, we all do. Sorry, B.”

Bruce just smirked. “I get the honeymoon perks. You all can fight over casserole scraps.”

Even Tim emerged from his cave of tech. “I paused tracking a black-market arms deal for this. It better be cheesy.”

You beamed. God, you loved them all.

If only they knew you’d been tracking that same arms deal… from the other side of Gotham. In full tactical gear. With blood under your nails.

It started small. A mission gone sideways.

You came home with a bruise on your arm.

Bruce frowned, noticing it in the mirror as you pulled off your dress.

“Walked into a cabinet,” you lied easily, smiling. “Don’t laugh. The cabinet won.”

He hummed, unconvinced, but didn’t push.

Later that week, he came home limping. Claimed he twisted his ankle on the treadmill.

You kissed his forehead and didn’t question it.

You both pretended not to notice the blood that didn’t match your stories.

It happened on a rainy Thursday night.

You were chasing a high-level arms dealer through Gotham’s industrial district — silent, focused, blades gleaming. You cornered him. Interrogated him. And just as you were about to knock him out—

Batman crashed through the skylight.

You both froze.

His white lenses locked onto yours. You were masked, but not sloppy — you knew how to shield your presence. He couldn’t see your face. But you felt his gaze drill into your soul.

“You’re not League,” Batman said lowly.

“No,” you replied, voice modulated and calm. “I’m not your enemy.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

You fought.

Hand-to-hand. Strike for strike. Not to kill — just to get away. And as your blade slid against his gauntlet, sparks flying, you realized something horrifying:

You knew that body. That weight. That rhythm.

Bruce?

And then he said it — a quiet mutter under his breath as he caught your wrist:

“…you move like her.”

Your blood turned cold.

That night, you were already home when he returned.

Bruce entered the manor dripping with rain, his jaw tense.

You looked up from your book on the couch, pretending nothing had changed.

“You’re late,” you said gently.

“Got caught up,” he murmured. “You?”

You smiled. “Just a quiet night in.”

You both stared at each other.

Both lying.

Both wondering.

Could it be?

Location: Gotham Docks — 11:47 PM

The rain came down in sharp needles, bouncing off steel containers and slick rooftops.

You were a phantom — black suit, dual blades, mask hugging your face — crouched like a shadow atop a rusted crane. Target: Sergei Markov, arms trafficker. Deal scheduled for midnight. You had ten minutes to intercept and get out.

Easy job. Clean hit.

Except… something felt off.

You weren’t alone.

You could feel it — the tension in the air, like static before a lightning strike.

And then, you saw him.

He dropped from the shadows with no sound. Cape fluttering like wings. Mask smooth. Chest marked with a symbol that made your stomach twist.

The Bat.

He’s real.

You stayed low. Watching.

He moved like a god. Efficient. Powerful. Every strike calculated as he took down the outer guards. You watched him disable three men in five seconds — didn’t even blink.

And something in your body tensed with recognition.

The way he stood. The way he held his weight. The exact rhythm of his movements.

No. That’s impossible.

You’d sparred with your husband a hundred times in the gym — playful, flirty, sometimes leading to breathless make-outs against the mat.

But this? This felt the same. Too familiar.

You moved closer.

He caught your shadow instantly.

Without hesitation, he turned — batarang flying at your head.

You dodged.

Landed silently behind him.

Blades drawn.

He pivoted, fists raised.

“Who the hell are you?” Batman growled.

You tilted your head. “Guess that depends. Who the hell are you?”

And then?

You fought.

It was ballet and brutality. Silent fury beneath the rain.

You came at him with dual knives — feints and spins. He blocked with gauntlets, countered with grapples and knee strikes. You were evenly matched, which was… wrong. No one matched you.

Except him.

You swept his legs. He caught you midair and slammed you into a container wall — hard. You groaned, not from pain, but from disbelief.

“Jesus,” you hissed. “What do you bench? A damn rhino?”

“That voice…” he muttered, holding your wrists against the wall. “Why do I—”

You twisted.

Freed one hand. Flipped him with a grunt.

Now he was pinned beneath you.

Straddling his chest. Blade at his throat.

His hands on your hips.

You both froze.

This position… this grip…

The blade shook slightly.

Your breath caught in your throat.

“…Bruce?” you whispered before you could stop yourself.

Batman’s eyes widened behind the mask.

You bolted.

You beat him home by seconds. Tossed your gear in the laundry chute. Scrubbed blood from your neck and reapplied lip balm like you hadn’t just fought your soulmate on a shipping container.

When Bruce walked in, drenched and disheveled, you were already curled on the couch with a throw blanket and a cup of tea.

“Late night?” you asked casually.

He paused in the doorway.

Dripping. Breathing uneven.

“…Car broke down,” he muttered.

You smiled sweetly. “That’s strange. You took the Rolls.”

He hesitated.

So did you.

The silence between you stretched thin and dangerous.

Then:

“You okay?” you asked, like it wasn’t a war zone beneath your skin.

“I’m fine,” he said, like he hadn’t just nearly killed his wife.

You looked away. So did he.

Neither of you noticed Damian standing on the second-floor balcony above — holding a muffin and squinting suspiciously at your matching bruises.

“…Tt.”

Bruce replayed the fight footage on loop.

He enhanced the image. Slowed the frame. The woman’s stance. Her spin. Her voice, modulated but still soft and sharp.

He couldn’t be sure.

But something in his chest said he already was.

“Alfred,” he said slowly. “Do we have any intel on an assassin codenamed Luna?”

Alfred poured tea without flinching. “Plenty. But I believe she’s off-duty tonight.”

“…What?”

“Perhaps sipping chamomile upstairs and pretending she didn’t just stab her husband in the shoulder.”

Bruce stared at him.

Alfred took a sip. “I did warn you not to marry someone out of your league, sir.”

Wayne Manor Dining Room – 7:02 PM

Roast chicken. Garlic mashed potatoes. Candied carrots. A perfectly normal dinner.

For a perfectly abnormal family.

You sat at the long dining table, posture perfect, napkin in your lap. A faint, polite smile curled on your lips. You were quiet — too quiet — eyes fixed on your plate, cutting your chicken with methodical aggression.

Slice. Slice. Slice.

Each movement was too precise, the blade trembling slightly in your grip. No one had said a word about last night’s “late meetings.” No one had acknowledged the matching bruises you and Bruce wore like wedding rings.

But they felt it.

The tension in the room was electric. Pressurized.

Bruce sat across from you, calm. Silent. A slight smirk at the corner of his mouth like he knew something.

He knows, you thought. But does he know it was me?

You smiled wider. Too wide. It didn’t reach your eyes.

“Isn’t this nice?” you said sweetly. “A quiet family dinner. Where there is absolutely no attacking or threatening anyone?” you stabbed your food emphasizing your last sentence.

Damian’s fork paused halfway to his mouth.

“…She’s going to snap,” he murmured to Tim.

Tim didn’t look up. “Give it a minute.”

Bruce passed the gravy.

You didn’t take it.

You just exhaled… long and slow… and then launched your steak knife across the table straight at his head.

THWIP.

He caught it between two fingers, unfazed.

The table went dead silent.

“Wow,” Jason said, slowly lowering his fork. “That’s one way to ask for more salt.”

You stood, slow and smooth, hands trembling as you gripped the table edge. Your voice was still sweet. Still polite.

But your eyes?

Murder.

“I don’t like being lied to, Bruce.”

“Then we have something in common,” he replied coolly, setting the knife down like this wasn’t the third time you’d tried to stab him in twenty-four hours.

Your breath hitched. “You smug, two-faced—”

You threw a fork. He caught that too.

You picked up your water glass and chucked it at his chest.

It shattered.

He didn’t flinch.

“Is this about last night?” he asked, still maddeningly calm.

“You mean the night my husband tried to put me in a chokehold on a shipping container?!”

“Oh my god,” Dick muttered. “They do know.”

“She’s Luna,” Damian said, smug.

“I knew it!” Tim cried.

“Pay up,” Jason told Alfred, who quietly handed over a folded twenty.

“You stood over me in a mask, Bruce,” you hissed, voice shaking, “with your hands on my throat. You looked me in the eye and didn’t even know it was me.”

“You threw a blade at my heart.”

“You told me you were in finance!”

“You told me you worked at a charity!”

“I DO!”

“You run guns under the Gotham Opera House!”

“I donate the profits!”

You picked up the mashed potato bowl.

Bruce narrowed his eyes. “Don’t.”

SMACK.

Mashed potatoes exploded across his suit.

Jason spit out his drink.

You were panting, chest heaving, hands clenched in fists.

“I cooked for you. I slept next to you. I watched your damn cape dry in the laundry room and thought it was a Halloween costume—”

“You stabbed me in the ribs!”

“I kissed those ribs the same night!”

“You bit me! In a fight!”

“You liked it!”

Bruce stood up, fast.

You both stared at each other — furious. Raw.

And aching.

The Batkids sat in stunned silence.

Jason: “I’m scared and impressed.”

Dick: “I think this is what love looks like for emotionally repressed assassins.”

Tim: “I want to go home.”

Damian: “Earth to Idiot Drake, we are home.”

You and Bruce were still locked in your standoff, chest to chest at the end of the table. Breathing heavy. Glaring.

And then—

You leaned in and whispered: “You wanna go another round, sweetheart?”

Bruce smirked.

Alfred appeared with a towel and a fresh pitcher of tea.

“If you two are quite finished attempting to kill each other over chicken,” he said with the serenity of a man who’d raised four vigilantes and survived it, “dessert will be served in the other room. Far away from sharp objects.”

The Batcave – 1:23 AM

The Batcave was supposed to be sacred.

A cold cathedral of secrets, steel, and shadows — silent but for the hum of the Batcomputer and the occasional flutter of wings.

But tonight?

It was a war zone.

You launched a roundhouse kick that Bruce barely dodged.

He grunted, catching your ankle mid-air and twisting, sending you spinning across the mat.

You rolled. Landed. And came back swinging.

“You’re holding back,” you snapped, panting.

“So are you,” he growled, blocking your knife with his gauntlet. “Why? Scared you’ll kill your husband?”

“I’d make it look like an accident,” you hissed.

Steel clashed. Fists flew. Boots scraped against the cave floor, echoing like thunder.

Alfred had wisely activated sound dampeners.

The Batkids had not been so wise.

“Are they still going?” Tim muttered, poking his head toward the staircase that led down to the cave. A distant crash echoed up through the floor.

Jason was sipping whiskey. “Yup. Forty minutes now.”

“Should we intervene?”

Dick raised an eyebrow. “And die? No thanks.”

“They’re trying to kill each other,” Damian muttered.

“They’re trying to bone,” Jason corrected. “Just with more foreplay.”

Your arm was bruised. His lip was bleeding. Both of you were panting, wild-eyed, and soaked in sweat. Your clothes clung to you, your knuckles raw, heart hammering.

Bruce threw a punch. You ducked. Slammed him against the glass case holding Jason’s old Robin suit.

“Don’t you dare pretend like this is all on me,” you hissed, face inches from his.

“You lied to me for five years!”

“So did you!”

“I protected Gotham!”

“So did I!”

You shoved him. Hard.

He hit the table behind him, knocking over a tray of batarangs.

You stood there, heaving. Hands trembling. Chest rising and falling.

The silence stretched like a wire between you.

Then—

“You drive me insane,” he said, voice low and rough.

You stared at him. “Good.”

And before either of you could think—

He grabbed you.

You kissed him.

It wasn’t sweet.

It was violent.

Teeth clashing. Hands tangled in hair. You pulled him down by the collar of his suit. He crushed you against the edge of the Batcomputer console, hands sliding beneath your shirt, desperate and greedy.

You moaned into his mouth. He groaned into yours.

The cave lights flickered as your back hit the metal.

You tore at his armor, mouth never leaving his.

“You’re infuriating,” he muttered against your lips.

“You’re smug,” you whispered back.

“You threw a knife at me.”

“You caught it.”

He kissed you again, deeper this time. Slower. Like maybe — just maybe — the war between you was all just a prelude to this moment.

2:06 AM

Forty-three minutes after the first punch was thrown, Alfred finally descended the stairs with a fresh pot of tea.

He paused at the edge of the cave when he saw you both.

Half-clothed. Pressed against the Batcomputer. Kissing like it was the end of the world.

He sighed softly, turned around, and went back upstairs.

“About time,” he murmured.

The Morning After – Wayne Manor Bedroom

The sun filtered in through the massive windows of the master bedroom. Soft, golden. Peaceful.

Except you woke up feeling like you’d been run over by a Batmobile. Twice.

Your limbs ached. Your knuckles were bruised. And you were definitely only wearing Bruce’s button-down — half-open — with your underwear missing somewhere in the cave.

You groaned, pushing yourself up on sore arms.

Bruce was sprawled beside you on his stomach, one arm flung across your side, the sheets barely covering him. Muscles slack. Hair tousled.

Smug even in sleep. God you hated it.

You looked at him.

You remembered the yelling. The knives. The screaming. The making out against the Batcomputer.

You sighed and whispered under your breath:

“…I still hate you.”

Then you rolled out of bed, grabbed your robe, and stormed into the hallway barefoot like an angry queen emerging from battle.

Wayne Manor Kitchen – 9:12 A.M

The kitchen was full of Batboys and bad decisions.

Jason was making waffles. Tim had two Red Bulls cracked open. Dick was pouring cereal into orange juice because he had no brain cells before noon.

Damian, sharp-eyed and freshly dressed, turned the moment you entered.

You looked like hell — hair messy, legs bruised, eyes tired. And furious.

“Good morning,” you said, overly bright, tying your robe with a sharp tug.

Dick blinked. “You okay? You look like you—”

“Don’t finish that sentence unless you want this spatula in your neck,” you chirped, grabbing it from the stove.

Jason held up his hands. “Not touching it.”

You cracked eggs. Slammed the pan down. Smiled through gritted teeth as you plated food for everyone — eggs, toast, waffles, even hand-cut fruit — and handed it all out.

Everyone got breakfast.

Except Bruce.

He walked in ten minutes later, half-dressed, limping slightly. His hair was still wet from the shower. There was a faint scratch down his collarbone.

“Morning,” he said, voice rough.

You didn’t answer.

You poured coffee.

Stirred in exactly one drop of a fast-acting laxative and a tiny dose of sedative.

Set the cup on the table.

Made direct eye contact.

And slid it just out of Bruce’s reach.

“Your coffee’s getting cold,” you said sweetly, before sitting on the counter and sipping your own.

Bruce narrowed his eyes.

Damian’s lips twitched.

“She’s still angry,” Tim whispered.

“She poisoned that coffee,” Jason whispered back.

“I hope it hurts,” Damian muttered, sipping his tea proudly.

Bruce finally reached for the mug, took one sip — paused — and set it down.

“Really?” he said flatly.

You smiled like sunshine.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

You crossed your legs on the counter and clapped your hands once.

“Okay, everyone — new rule.”

The Batkids froze.

“If I’m upset, no one’s allowed to be productive.”

They stared.

“No patrol. No missions. No crime fighting. No rooftop lurking. That includes you, Nightwing.”

Dick put down his spoon slowly.

“If I’m emotionally suffering, we all are. You hear me?”

Jason choked on his waffle.

Tim raised his hand. “What if Gotham is literally on fire?”

You shrugged. “Then it burns.”

Damian nodded sagely. “She is correct.”

Bruce dragged a hand down his face. “You’re being irrational.”

You threw a fork at his head.

He caught it. Again.

The Batkids applauded.

The Batcave – 7:13 AM

Bruce stormed toward the Batmobile, jaw tight, cowl in hand. He needed to get out. Clear his head. Escape the five-alarm hellfire that was his wife on a warpath.

Except—

The Batmobile wouldn’t start.

He paused.

Checked the engine.

Tried again.

Nothing.

“Alfred!” he bellowed.

Alfred appeared calmly, holding a croissant and tea.

“Yes, Master Wayne?”

“Why is the Batmobile disabled?”

“I believe someone rerouted the ignition trigger to play an audio recording of Beyoncé’s ‘Irreplaceable’ instead, sir.”

Bruce blinked.

He turned.

Pressed the ignition.

“To the left, to the left…”

“…You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“I assure you, I am not.”

Plan B: the Ducati in the hidden garage.

Bruce yanked the cover off, mounted it, helmet in hand.

The tires? Flat.

The gas tank? Empty.

The seat? Duct-taped with a note:

“You’re not going anywhere, Batsy 💋 –XOXO”

Bruce stared at it.

He turned toward the nearest camera and said.

“…You sabotaged my entire cave.”

Upstairs, in the kitchen, the security feed played as you sipped coffee in silk pajamas.

You raised your cup.

“Checkmate, darling.”

That Night – 9:47 PM

You waltzed into the Manor like a hurricane in heels. Champagne-slicked lipstick. Hair wind-tossed. Laughing faintly as you kicked off your shoes in the foyer.

Selina Kyle’s perfume still clung to your dress. The scent of rooftop rebellion and expensive liquor followed you like smoke.

Bruce was waiting at the bottom of the stairs, arms crossed.

“Where were you?” he asked tightly.

You looked at him — amused, radiant, untouchable — and said coolly:

“Smiling. Something I can’t do around you.”

Then you walked past him. Your shoulder brushed his as you passed.

His jaw locked.

His fists clenched.

And for the first time in years, Bruce Wayne had no idea what the hell to do.

Midnight – The Blanket Raid

You crept into the master bedroom barefoot. Quiet. Intent on a single goal:

Blanket extraction.

Bruce had the good one — the heavy cashmere throw that didn’t itch. Yours was in the wash, and you refused to sleep cold just because he was being a stubborn emotionally constipated vigilante.

You crept across the floor.

You reached for the edge of the blanket.

And a low voice murmured in the dark:

“You’re stealing from me now?”

You froze.

Bruce sat up slowly, shirtless, shadowed in moonlight. Eyes dark. Watching you.

You straightened slowly. “I need a blanket.”

“You need an attitude adjustment.”

“Then get a new wife.”

“I tried.” He stood, slowly. “But apparently she’s smarter than me, trained in seven forms of assassination, and has excellent taste in wine.”

“Champagne,” you corrected coldly.

You turned to leave.

He caught your wrist.

And in one breath, one heartbeat, everything snapped.

He pushed you gently but firmly against the wall, caging you in with his arms. Your eyes met — furious. Unblinking.

“You really want to do this again?” you breathed.

He leaned in. “No. I want to finish it.”

Your pulse thundered.

His fingers traced the inside of your wrist, the same one that had once held a blade to his throat.

“You think I’ll break first?” you whispered.

He pressed his mouth against your ear. “You already did. Last night. Against the Batcomputer.”

Your breath hitched.

“I hate you,” you whispered.

He kissed your throat. “No, you don’t.”

You shoved him.

He gripped your thighs and lifted you onto the dresser.

You bit his shoulder. He groaned.

And then you were kissing again — deeper this time, rougher, his hands sliding under your nightshirt, your nails clawing down his back. Mouths open. Breaths desperate.

You knocked a lamp to the floor.

You didn’t care.

Later, you lay tangled in sweat and sheets, facing each other.

Bruce stroked your hip absentmindedly. “So… are we still trying to kill each other?”

You smirked, breathless. “Only if you leave the toilet seat up again.”

He laughed — actually laughed — and pulled you closer.

You let him.

For now.

The Morning After

The Wayne Manor kitchen was filled with the scent of fresh pancakes, sizzling bacon, and dread.

You stood at the stove — smiling.

Actually smiling.

Cass was the first to notice. She didn’t sign anything. She just stared, suspiciously.

Jason whispered, “Do we think she’s planning a murder again, or is this a post–hookup glow?”

Tim didn’t look up from his tablet. “Why not both?”

You twirled back to the table, sunlit and chipper. “Patrol’s back on tonight, kiddos! Aren’t we so happy?”

Everyone blinked.

You kissed the top of Damian’s head. He immediately stiffened like a cat being touched for the first time, but didn’t stop you.

“…You’re glowing,” Dick said warily. “Did you kill someone or…?”

“Nope!” you sang. “Did something better.”

Jason raised a brow. “Better than murder?”

“I poisoned Bruce’s coffee again,” you said with a little wink. “But this time I told him.”

Bruce sat at the head of the table, stirring his mug calmly.

“She used nightshade extract and trace amounts of zolpidem tartrate,” he said, taking another sip. “It’s mostly sedative. Tastes like vanilla.”

“WHAT.” Tim choked.

“I diluted it!” you protested. “God, I’m not a monster.”

Bruce glanced at you mid-sip. “She sweetened it. I appreciate that.”

You smiled proudly your hands resting on your chest. “Love you, too.”

Jason stared between you both. “This is, like, psychotic. But in a soulmate kind of way.”

Five Minutes Later

Bruce’s eyes blinked slower. His posture sagged.

You casually slid the mug out of his hands.

“Why did you finish it if you knew what it was?” you asked.

He blinked again. “You… said it wasn’t lethal.”

“It’s not, but you’re gonna fall asleep face-first in your eggs.”

“I trust you.”

“…Idiot.”

Bruce slumped forward.

You caught his head before it hit the table.

Cass signed: “Do you want help?”

“No. He’s my husband. He’s my problem.”

Damian stood from the table, wiping his mouth. “You’ll never get him to bed alone.”

“I could, but I’ll throw my back out. Ugh. Fine. Help me.”

Jason cackled as he pulled out his phone. “I gotta film this.”

You and Damian hauled Bruce toward the grand staircase like he was a rolled-up carpet. His arm was around your shoulders, his legs dragging, combat boots thudding every two steps.

“Bruce Wayne, you insufferable tank of a man,” you grunted. “You couldn’t just fall for someone with a yoga instructor’s body, huh?”

Damian exhaled. “Tt. That would never happen. My father has… standards.”

“Great. Standards in women. Zero in coffee decisions.”

Cass followed silently, filming.

“Do not put that on the internet!” you barked.

You flopped Bruce onto the bed with a loud thump.

He landed spread-eagle, hair a mess, dress shirt half-untucked, smiling faintly in his sedated state.

You threw a blanket over him and kissed his forehead with mock venom.

“There. Your royal brickhouse has been returned to his tower.”

Damian leaned against the doorway. “Mother would’ve just left him on the floor.”

You shrugged. “Well, I’m nicer than your mother.”

He frowned. “…That’s not a compliment.”

“It is to me.”

Bruce mumbled into his pillow. “Still love you…”

You rolled your eyes.

“Shut up and sleep, you overgrown Labrador.”

You returned to the kitchen, poured yourself some juice, and sat down at the table like nothing happened.

Everyone stared.

You beamed. “So. Who wants to help me hide the rest of the sedatives?”

Jason blinked. “…I’m calling Selina.”

Tim nodded. “Yeah. Definitely both post-hookup and murder vibes.”

Cass signed: Welcome back.

You winked.

You couldn’t bring yourself to kill Bruce just yet. Was it love? Maybe—but that didn’t mean you weren’t willing to try. And he could say the exact same thing.

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