Pale pinks and oranges paint the sky, while frost clings to the banisters. The lush lawns of the Wayne estate are lightly dusted with snow—it feels less like gritty Gotham and more like a cheesy Hallmark movie.

"It's early," Bruce murmurs as he steps out onto the balcony. He’s donning a dark turtleneck, his lack of time for rest or a shave evident in the faint bags under his eyes and stubble he's sporting. Mere hours have passed since his return from patrol, followed by a report, and he's been wondering about your whereabouts. "It’s cold, too. Why aren’t you inside?" His hands find their way to your arms, rubbing gently for warmth.

It's a rare occasion; he's got time on his hands. Wayne Enterprises finished another quarter, and there's a lull in criminal activity. Nothing requires his immediate attention—he wouldn’t mind devoting his day to you. The calloused pads of his fingers brush a stray snowflake from your head and his lip curls. Despite the possibility of you turning into an icicle, he's drawn to your charm. He’d like to usher you back inside, maybe warm you up with coffee or tea. Though watching the slow sunrise with you seems equally enticing.