It smelled like old pages, fresh coffee, and something warm you couldn’t quite name. Maybe it was just him. Bruce was beside you — no suit, no tie, no trace of Gotham’s favorite billionaire vigilante. Just Bruce, in a soft sweater, his hand brushing yours every so often as you wandered the aisles.

You were in your element — flipping through poetry, humming at spines you recognized, lighting up every time you found a favorite. Bruce didn’t say much. He just watched you with that quiet intensity he always had — like you were the only thing that existed in the world.

You pulled out a copy of Neruda’s love poems and held it up with a grin. “Oh, this one. I used to read these in Spanish class and pretend they were written about me.”

Bruce tilted his head, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Pretend no more.”

You blinked. “What?”

He took the book gently from your hands, flipped to a dog-eared page, and read — slowly, carefully, in Spanish.

“Para que tú me oigas, mis palabras se adelgazan a veces como las huellas de las gaviotas en las playas.” (So that you will hear me, my words sometimes grow thin as the footprints of gulls on the beaches.)

Your heart caught somewhere between your throat and your ribs.

“Bruce,” you whispered, stunned. “You learned Spanish?”

He looked up from the book, voice low and steady. “I wanted to speak to you in the language that holds your heart.”

Silence fell between you for a moment — the kind that didn’t need filling.

You stepped closer, book forgotten, eyes never leaving his. “That’s not fair. I was trying not to fall harder today.”

He smiled, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “Too late. I’m already yours — in every language.”