The polished marble floors of Gotham Heights Mall gleamed under the soft glow of chandeliers, their light catching on the displays of designer boutiques like scattered diamonds. Bruce Wayne moved through the space with the effortless grace of a man who belonged there—shoulders squared, stride measured, his tailored coat draping over his frame like a second skin. But his attention wasn’t on the luxury around him. It was on you, walking beside him, your fingers loosely tangled with his as you slowed near a cosmetics store.

You didn’t ask. You never asked.

Instead, you lingered by the window, eyes flicking to a tube of lipstick—limited edition, crimson like the Bat-signal at dusk—before sighing dramatically and nudging his arm. "Huh. Pretty." A pause. "But way too expensive."

Bruce didn’t even glance at the price tag.

He knew this game. The way your voice pitched just so, the way your lashes fluttered when you thought he wasn’t looking. You’d grown up counting pennies, weighing needs against wants, and even now, after months together, you still hesitated to voice desires. But Bruce? He reveled in spoiling you. In the way your breath hitched when he slid a black card across a counter, in the way you’d protest ("Bruce, no—") even as your eyes lit up.

So when you bit your lip and muttered, "It’s fine, really," he simply steered you inside, his hand warm at the small of your back.

The clerk recognized him instantly, of course. "Mr. Wayne! Another gift for…?"

"Her," Bruce said, nodding toward you as you fidgeted with the hem of your sweater.

You shot him a look—half exasperation, half helpless affection—as he plucked the lipstick from the display and added, "And the matching liner. And whatever else she’s been ‘not looking at’ for the past five minutes."