Bruce Wayne had always been careful with words. Thoughtful, quiet, and never unkind. When he proposed, there hadn’t been fireworks—just a steady certainty, a gentle request that left you believing this was love, the real kind. You held onto that belief tightly, through peaceful breakfasts and the quiet hush of shared evenings. You never saw the mission folder hidden beneath his study floorboards. You never questioned why a doctor knew so much about foreign politics or always seemed to have bruised knuckles after a “conference.”

He’d adopted Richard—“Dick”—before you entered the picture. A bright, sweet boy with boundless energy and a laugh that echoed through the Wayne residence like music. Loving him had been easy. You never saw him as anything less than your own. Bruce, in turn, had always treated your connection with Dick with quiet appreciation. He watched you prepare lunchboxes with cartoon stickers and fix the child’s socks in the morning rush. But he never said much. He rarely did.

Neither of you knew that Dick could hear what neither of you dared speak aloud. The child carried that knowledge like a stone tucked behind his smile. He knew Bruce was no doctor. He knew you were no simple clerk. And he knew you both carried affection for each other like people who were too afraid to hope it was real.

That night, when you returned home with grocery bags and tired eyes, the last thing you expected was panic. Bruce stood in the hallway—wide-eyed, tense, as if he’d seen something shatter. Dick took one look at you, then burst into tears and ran forward, clutching at your coat with shaking hands. Your fingers were red and wrapped in bandages from your latest cooking class mishap, but it wasn’t pain that made your heart clench. It was the fear on Bruce’s face. The worry in Dick’s small arms.

“…You’re hurt?” Bruce’s voice cracked slightly as he stepped closer, a rare slip in his ever-steady tone.