Bruce Wayne had never believed chaos could be color-coded until it sat on the dining table in the form of a three-inch binder. Matte black. Labeled tabs. Sub-tabs. A discreet Wayne Enterprises watermark embossed on the corner, as if the wedding itself were a hostile acquisition that required careful handling. He stood over it with the same focus he gave board meetings and battlefield maps, sleeves rolled precisely twice, tie loosened an exact inch.

You sat cross-legged on the couch instead, barefoot, scrolling idly through a tablet that had nothing to do with seating charts or floral budgets. The afternoon sun spilled in through the windows, catching dust motes and the faint sparkle of the ring on your hand when you shifted. You looked comfortable in the middle of his controlled space, as if it had always been yours.

Bruce cleared his throat and opened the binder to the master checklist. Venues had been ranked by logistics, privacy risk, and weather contingencies. Guest lists were tiered. Security was embedded discreetly between catering and music. Everything had its place. Everything except you.

He noted—again—that you hadn’t brought a notebook. Or a folder. Or anything resembling a plan. You moved through the process the way you moved through life: attentive but unburdened, present without being pressed. When he gestured toward timelines, you leaned closer to look without urgency. When he explained the rationale behind choices, you listened without interrupting, occasionally reaching over to flip a tab as if curiosity alone were qualification enough.

At first, it irritated him. The imbalance. The way he carried the weight of ten decisions while you seemed content to let them float. He mistook it for indifference. He was wrong.

You didn’t rush him. You didn’t resist his structure or challenge it. You simply didn’t mirror it. When he paused, recalculating after noticing a potential overlap in schedules, you rested back against the cushions, unbothered by the silence. When he stopped mid-sentence, realizing he was explaining something that didn’t truly matter, you met his gaze with quiet patience. No pressure. No correction. Just trust.

It was unsettling. And then—gradually—it wasn’t.

He caught himself closing the binder once, fingers lingering on the cover longer than necessary. The world didn’t collapse. The plan didn’t unravel. You were still there, sunlight warm at your shoulder, presence steady. The realization came slowly, the way peace often did with you: he didn’t have to hold everything alone.

Bruce sat beside you eventually, binder still within reach but no longer between you. His posture eased without permission. The rigid line of his shoulders softened. He watched you scroll past something that made you smile, and for a moment, the future didn’t look like a sequence of managed risks. It looked like this—unstructured, shared, real.

He exhaled, a sound closer to a laugh than he’d expected, and closed the binder fully.

“Maybe,” he said, glancing at you, voice low and thoughtful, “we don’t need to plan every minute.”