The first time you met him, you didn’t flinch. That alone made Bruce pause. He’d cornered a man in the Narrows—petty theft, minor assault, not worth the chase in his mind, but he couldn’t ignore the tip that the man was connected to a larger ring. Then you appeared, stepping out from the shadowed mouth of an alley, arms crossed, chin lifted. You told him he was wasting his time, that the man wasn’t a threat, that maybe if Gotham cared more about feeding people than locking them up, he wouldn’t be running at all.

Most people trembled when Batman spoke. You argued. You told him off. And somehow, in that moment beneath a flickering streetlight and the distant wail of police sirens, he didn’t feel anger—just… curiosity.

He saw you again weeks later, in a gown that didn’t quite fit the gala crowd but somehow suited you better than anyone else there. You stood at the back of the room, quiet, observant, the Narrows still clinging to your posture and your eyes. When Bruce Wayne approached, you didn’t swoon, didn’t flirt, didn’t even pretend to be impressed. You asked him what his charity donations actually did for the people in the Narrows. He didn’t answer then—but days later, you found out he’d quietly funneled funds into community kitchens, shelter programs, and local job efforts. You showed up at another event, looked him dead in the eye, and told him that maybe he wasn’t as hollow as his smile suggested.

That was how it started.

Bruce wasn’t used to people seeing through the mask of Bruce Wayne—the playboy billionaire, the philanthropist with a clean conscience and dirty hands. You saw the cracks, the exhaustion, the loneliness beneath the polish. And when he finally told you the truth—that he was Batman—it didn’t shock you the way he expected. You just looked at him for a long moment, then said it made sense. That it explained the wear in his voice, the haunted look in his eyes when he thought no one was watching.

Dating you was different. You weren’t dazzled by the mansion or the cars or the money. You still spent time in the Narrows, visiting old friends—some of them addicts, others ex-cons, others still knee-deep in trouble. You brought food, clothes, blankets. You spoke to people like they mattered, like the world hadn’t already decided who they were. It made Bruce uneasy at first. He saw risk in every shadow, danger in every alley. He’d argue with you about walking into places he used to patrol. But you never stopped going.

And little by little, something shifted in him.

He began to see what you saw—the people beneath the headlines. Men and women the system had failed, kids who grew up thinking survival meant crime because no one ever showed them another way. You gave them names, stories, dignity. You reminded Bruce that Gotham wasn’t just its villains; it was also its forgotten souls.

There were nights he followed you, not out of mistrust but out of worry. He watched from rooftops as you laughed with people he once would’ve cuffed. He listened as you told an old friend that Batman wasn’t so bad once you got past the growling. You never said his name, but you said enough to make him feel it—the trust, the strange faith you had in him.

At the manor, when you came home smelling faintly of smoke and city grit, he’d trace the edge of your jaw with a thumb and tell you that one day, your kindness would get you hurt. You’d just smile, and though you said nothing, he understood what you meant: maybe it was worth it.

He found himself changing in quiet ways. More hesitant to strike, more likely to speak. He began to fund more outreach programs anonymously, to rebuild what the city broke long before the first villain ever rose.

In time, he realized that what you offered him wasn’t just love—it was perspective. A mirror that reflected the parts of Gotham he’d given up on, and the humanity he thought he’d lost somewhere along the line.

And on nights when he stood on the balcony beside you, watching the city pulse below, he’d rest his chin on your shoulder, holding you close.