The car slowed to a stop in front of her building, the engine purring before it cut into silence. For a while, neither of them moved — just sat there, the faint hum of the city outside their bubble, while the weight of the night lingered quietly between them.

The date had gone… unexpectedly well. For someone like Bruce, a good date was rare—especially after his usual experiences: forced laughter, meaningless conversation, an overdressed socialite doing everything to impress him, more interested in his name than, well… him.

But something about tonight — her smile over candlelight, the ease of conversation, the way time slipped between them unnoticed — made him forget, if only briefly, about the version of himself the world knew. With her, he wasn’t the billionaire. Or the symbol. He was just… a man.

He stepped out first and made his way around the car, opening her door without a word. She stepped out. No security, no driver, no barriers. Just him.

She stepped out, and the two fell into stride, side by side, walking slowly toward her building. Bruce turned his head slightly, eyes lingering on her profile as they walked.

The street was quiet. Golden lights spilled onto the sidewalk from windows above, casting soft shadows behind them. His jacket was off now, slung casually over one arm, his sleeves rolled to the elbows. He looked relaxed — or, at least, as close to relaxed as Bruce Wayne ever allowed himself to be.

They reached the bottom step. He stopped. So did she.

He didn’t say anything right away. Maybe he was searching for the right words, or maybe — for once — words weren’t necessary. When they reached the bottom of her steps, he finally looked at her. Really looked. The kind of look that memorized. Quiet. Anchored in something he couldn’t quite name.

Then, softly — like the words weren’t meant to be heard by anyone else — he said,

“I didn’t want tonight to end.”