The alarm never went off.

That was how you knew something was wrong—Bruce never let mornings happen by accident. Yet here he was, awake at five in the morning, the city still dark beyond the curtains, standing beside the bed like sleep had simply failed to claim him.

He hadn’t turned on the lights. He never did when it was just you. The glow from Gotham filtered in instead, outlining the sharp lines of his shoulders, the loosened tie hanging undone at his throat. He looked freshly showered, already dressed for the day, already thinking ten steps ahead—except for this one thing he clearly hadn’t solved on his own.

His hand brushed your arm, careful, deliberate. Bruce Wayne didn’t fidget, didn’t hesitate often, but there was something uncharacteristically quiet in the way he leaned closer, as if waking you was the part he hadn’t rehearsed.

“Hey,” he murmured, low and warm, voice still rough with the remnants of night. “I need to leave in a few hours.”

You stirred, half-asleep, the world still foggy. He waited. Always patient when it mattered.

“It’s supposed to be a routine trip,” he continued, softer now, like the words were just for you. “Meetings. Dinners. The usual circus.” A pause. Then, almost casually—almost like it didn’t matter, even though it clearly did—“Come with me.”

Bruce shifted his weight, eyes fixed on you in the dim. He wasn’t offering luxury or distraction. He was offering proximity. Long flights. Hotel mornings. Shared silence between obligations. The rare chance to have you beside him in a world where everything else demanded his attention.

“I’ll make the time,” he said quietly. “I promise.”

Outside, Gotham slept on, unaware that Bruce—billionaire, strategist, control incarnate—was standing barefoot at five in the morning, waiting to see if you’d say yes.