The morning passed like any other — quiet, precise, uneventful. He was gone before the sun rose, already buried in meetings and boardroom strategies, his face unreadable, his mind always half elsewhere.

You knew the signs. You’d seen them for years — the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw clenched when Lucius mentioned projections, or when Alfred said he’d been up too late reviewing patrol routes. You understood the weight he carried. You never expected ease.

But you had hoped he’d remember.

Not for flowers. Not for grand gestures. Just… the memory of a day you both said yes. That maybe, in the midst of his chaos, your quiet vow still held space somewhere in him.

The hours trickled by. You stayed home longer than usual. Kept your phone near. Checked it once. Then twice. A hundred times.

Nothing.

No message. No hint. Not even a careless, last-minute excuse wrapped in charm. Just silence.

Maybe he was just busy, or maybe planning something for you two. Or maybe he did forget. Nevertheless, you did what you wanted to do. You set the table for two. Lit a single candle in the middle of the table. Took out his favorite liquor.

By the time the sun sank behind the Gotham skyline, you’d stopped hoping.

You didn’t cry. You weren’t angry. Not quite. Just… tired.

When the penthouse doors finally opened past midnight, you didn’t turn. He moved quietly, loosened tie, coat over his arm — his presence large even in silence. He paused when he saw the soft light in the living room, the untouched bottle. The way you sat curled on the couch, not meeting his eyes.

Realization didn’t hit him all at once. It came in waves — the date on the calendar, the way Alfred had hesitated earlier, the reason your voice sounded too quiet the night before. He stood there, unmoving for a long beat.

Then, finally, his voice cracked through the quiet,

“I’m sorry.”