Even Bätman needs a night off.

Wayne Manor was quiet for once—no alarms, no crime reports, no calls from Gordon with that edge in his voice. Just the crackle of the fireplace, the faint clink of glass against glass, and the rare sound of Bruce Wayne… laughing.

He sat on the balcony with her, the city lights sprawling out below like a galaxy trapped in concrete. He’d traded kevlar for a black button-up, cape for candlelight, and for the first time in weeks, the weight on his shoulders didn’t feel quite so heavy.

She leaned into him, her head on his shoulder, and he let himself relax. Not as the Bat. Not as the billionaire. Just Bruce.