"Two weeks till we give this presentation. We are officially in crisis mode."
"I wouldn't call it crisis mode." He said.
"Well, you should."
Bruce smiled to himself.
They'd met up half a dozen times in the last month, and he was beginning to pick up on her quirks.
Anya bit her lip when she was nervous or particularly concentrated. She liked to sit slouched in her chair, but if she noticed you staring, she sat significantly straighter. She wasn't fond of tea, but she drank it anyway, because she thought it was rude not to take Alfred's offer.
He'd told her she could simply tell Alfred, and he'd surely bring her something else, but she'd responded: "That's incredibly disrespectful in my culture."
With each quirk he noticed, the more his feelings deepened.
He looked for signs that perhaps she felt similarly, but every time he thought he saw romantic interest (a particularly long look, a particularly flirtatious conversation), he convinced himself Anya was only being nice.
Alfred had taken it upon himself to act as Bruce's "wingman," much to Bruce's own displeasure.
"So Anya," he'd asked, setting another tea cup in front of the woman. "What does your boyfriend do?"
"Your guess is as good as mine, Alfred." She'd laughed. "I don't have one."
"Oh, come on. A woman like you? Single?" He'd turned to Bruce then. "Isn't it unbelievable that she's single, Master Wayne?"
Anya blushed, and Bruce did his best not to follow suit.
"I'm not big on dating." Anya responded.
"Neither is Master Wayne."
Bruce shot him a glare, and the butler had excused himself, satisfied with his meddling.
Presently, Bruce looked down at the laptop in front of them.
Since they'd began making the slideshow, Anya had dragged her chair from the opposite side of the desk to Bruce's. They sat side by side, close enough that Bruce could smell her perfume: jasmine and vanilla.
"The slides look fine. Nearly ready to go."
"But are they good enough? These people see hundreds of applications. How are we supposed to know ours is the best?"
Bruce nearly reminded the woman his last name was the foundation's name, and that he seriously doubted the board would go against them, but he figured that would drudge up something he didn't want to get into.
"Are you always like this?" He asked.
Anya shot him a look. "I'm a perfectionist."
"You're a pessimist."
"And you aren't?"
"Touché."
Anya sighed. "I just don't want this to fail."
"It won't." Bruce promised.
"It's just." She slumped back in her chair, looking over to Bruce, who sat with perfect posture, per usual. "I've never done anything for the hospital without guidance. All the surgeries I've done, they've been under guidance. The fact Dr. Shorts gave me this project, one that means so much to him, that means something right?"
Bruce nodded. "He trusts you."
"I wish he didn't." She admitted.
"I trust you." Bruce offered.
She smiled at him. "I wish you didn't either."
"We'd be fools not to."
Silence.
"Why do you trust me? I mean, I pretty much called you a rich douche at the banquet."
"Well, you didn't say it in those exact words, but close enough." He shrugged. "I don't know."
"I'm sorry, by the way." She shook her head. "I overstepped, and I didn't know anything about you. It was wrong of me to make assumptions."
"Well, it got us where we are today. You know, if it weren't for you, none of this would have happened. Maybe that's why Dr. Shorts gave you this assignment. Maybe he realizes that your passion and drive and pure love for this community, it's infectious."
Anya gave the man a good look, and Bruce returned it.
He'd memorized her face by now. He could carve a replica from marble: every laugh line, her sharp cheekbones, her eyes: wide and full of ambition, full of ideas.
Without his permission, he began to lean in his chair, and maybe he was crazy, but he thought Anya was leaning in his direction as well.
Before anything significant could happen, before their lips could meet:
"Sorry to interrupt,"
The two pulled back.
Alfred stood in the doorway.
"Will you be staying for dinner, Anya?"