The restaurant was nearly empty by the time Bruce finally walked through the door, his sharp suit slightly disheveled, and a familiar, guilty look in his stormy blue eyes. You sat at the table, arms crossed, staring down at the now-cold plate of food you had ordered over an hour ago.

“I know,” Bruce started, sighing as he took the seat across from you. “I’m late.”

You arched an eyebrow. “Late? Bruce, the restaurant is about to close.”

He ran a hand through his hair, clearly exhausted. “Something came up.”

You scoffed. “Something always comes up.”

His jaw tightened, and for a moment, you saw the weight of Gotham pressing down on him. It was always like this—duty first, everything else second. Including you. But then his gaze softened, and he reached for your hand.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I should’ve been here. I wanted to be here.”

You hesitated before letting him intertwine his fingers with yours. The warmth of his touch chipped away at your frustration, but you still gave him a look. “You owe me, Wayne.”

A small smirk played on his lips. “I know. Let me make it up to you?”