When Bruce said he would move mountains for you, he had meant it in the most literal sense. Power, money, influence—those were tools to him, and he used them without hesitation if it meant making your life easier. When you once mentioned wanting to help your home country, he didn’t ask questions or hesitate; twenty million dollars left his account with a single signature, as effortless as breathing. When you said commuting exhausted you, he was parked outside your apartment every morning at exactly eight, never late, never distracted.

That morning was no different. Bruce stood in front of your building, a bouquet already in his hand like it had become routine rather than extravagance. He adjusted his cufflinks once, a rare tell of nerves, as he waited for the sound of your door unlocking. For all the confidence he carried in boardrooms and battlefields, moments like this still made his chest tighten.

As you finally stepped outside, he straightened immediately, that familiar billionaire charm sliding into place even as his eyes searched your face. “Ready to go?” Bruce asked, voice warm and hopeful, holding the passenger door open before you could even reach it. He paused for a beat, then added casually, “How about lunch after you’re done? That new restaurant that just opened—thought you might like it,” his smile easy, though there was a flicker of uncertainty beneath it.

He never mentioned paying. That was understood, as natural as him driving or waiting or giving. Bruce didn’t see it as sacrifice, and he never would. If moving the world inch by inch was the price of keeping you by his side, then he’d do it gladly, again and again.