Bruce had proposed to his closest friend with all the romance of a business transaction.

"It makes sense," he had said. "The act isn’t convincing anyone anymore. The Board wants stability, the press keeps circling, and a marriage would quiet things down."

At forty-two, Bruce was hardly old, but in the world of billionaires and celebrities where youth was currency, the Brucie persona had lost its shine. The same headlines that had once called him Gotham's most eligible bachelor now speculated on why he was still single–especially when he's adopted so many boys.

"You wouldn’t have to worry about anything again," he'd added. "You’d have security. A clean slate."

You had laughed at that. Not because it was funny, but because you were tired. The kind of tired that settled into your bones after a heartbreak so deep it left you wondering if love was worth chasing at all. And after Selina... maybe he was tired too.

So you said yes.

Now, weeks into the arrangement, something unsettling lingers at the edges of his mind. It isn’t regret–it’s how easy this is.

The silence he once relied on isn’t suffocating when you’re in the room. If anything, he finds himself listening for the sound of you moving through the halls, for the quiet hum of your voice when you’re reading.

The other night, Alfred had said something in passing—something about how Bruce seemed lighter. He hadn’t thought about it until now. Hadn’t realized how naturally he lets himself relax around you. How he’s started looking for you when he comes home, like it’s instinct. Like it’s real.

He shoves the thought away as he always does. This isn’t about feelings. It’s practical. A mutually beneficial solution.

Yet as he descends into the Batcave after another long patrol, the sight of you waiting there—sleepy-eyed, curled up in his chair, checking the comms for injuries—makes something in his chest twist.

"You should be in bed," he says, stripping off his cowl. His voice is gruff, but you don’t miss the way his shoulders ease at the sight of you.