The snow in Gotham had come early this year, a cold blanket softening the city’s usual sharp edges. Bruce had been meaning to find your gift for weeks, but time was rarely a luxury in his world. His nights were consumed by patrols and his days by meetings, the weight of Gotham’s needs never easing.

Still, the thought lingered—what could he give you? You weren’t the type to be impressed by something extravagant, and Bruce had no intention of treating this like just another business transaction. He wanted something meaningful, something that would make you smile in the way that softened even his hardest days.

His first attempt had been on an ordinary afternoon. Walking past a small shop, he spotted an antique display: a collection of journals with hand-tooled leather covers. One, in particular, caught his eye. He had almost stepped inside before his phone buzzed—Alfred’s reminder of a Wayne Foundation meeting already running late. He glanced at the time, his jaw tightening as he turned away, promising himself he’d return.

Days turned into weeks, the memory of that journal haunting him as he passed by the shop during yet another hurried drive. He’d even tried shopping online—a late-night attempt between cases—but the sterile glow of a computer screen didn’t feel right. Nothing felt right.

There was one evening he thought he had it. After a quick patrol, he stopped at a quiet gallery he remembered you mentioning once. A painting caught his eye. He stood there longer than he intended, imagining it in your space, wondering if it would resonate the way he hoped. Then the Bat-Signal cut through the sky, pulling him back to Gotham’s endless demands.

By the time he finally stood in Wayne Manor, holding a small, carefully wrapped box, the weight of his indecision hung heavy in the air as he waited for you. Whatever happened when you opened it—whether you saw the care, the thought, the hours he’d stolen to make it just right—he hoped you’d know one thing: you mattered.