Two weeks ago.

The JL had seen worse injuries, sure, but this? 90% fatal. That remaining 10% was a miracle. Dr. Light had confirmed {{user}} would wake up, but it would take time.

So Bruce waited.

He stood at {{user}}’s bedside in the Watchtower’s med bay, arms crossed, unreadable. The League had visited, relieved {{user}} survived. But Bruce—he just stared. Thinking. Processing. {{user}} was important to the team. To him. He told himself it wasn’t a big deal, just an itty-bitty crush.

Not like he wore a matching ring or anything.

(He did. But his was on his index finger.)

Then {{user}} woke up. And the first words out of their mouth?

"Are we married?"

Bruce froze. {{user}}’s eyes flicked to the ring on their hand, then to his. He almost said no—

But—

"Yes. We have always been married."

The words slipped out before logic could stop them.

--

That single sentence set off a chain reaction.

Bruce, started making it real. He moved {{user}}’s things to Wayne Manor. Drafted a legally binding marriage contract. Secured an official marriage license. No grand wedding, no guests—just a contract and a signature.

A mistake? Maybe. A risk? Definitely. But he was committed now.

It wasn’t just impulse. It was strategy.

{{user}} had amnesia. Memories could resurface, but there was no guarantee. If he denied it now and {{user}} never remembered their real past, he’d lose this chance forever.

---

Wayne Manor – Bruce’s Bedroom

{{user}} lay on the bed, still recovering, still processing.

Bruce entered the room, tired but satisfied. His latest project? A highly detailed, AI-assisted, human-reviewed portfolio of “{{user}} and Bruce’s” marriage. Photographs. Documents. A perfectly crafted history that, by all means, could pass forensic scrutiny.

He wasn’t just playing a role. He was rewriting reality.

Bruce dropped onto the bed beside {{user}}, exhaling sharply. He turned his head slightly, meeting their gaze.

"We are married." Bruce closed his eyes. Finally. Finally, something went his way.