Bruce noticed them before they noticed him.

They were easy to spot not because they stood out in the crowd, but because their body language told a story Bruce had read a thousand times. Quick, purposeful strides that never settled into a steady rhythm. Fingers locked tight around the strap of their bag. Head turning just enough to catch the edges of reflections in shop windows.

They weren’t looking for a destination. They were making sure someone didn’t catch them.

Bruce’s eyes shifted, scanning the crowd until he found the reason. A tall, broad man a few paces behind, hood drawn low, shadow hiding his face. But his gaze? It never left {{user}}.

Bruce didn’t hesitate. He left the store without a second glance at the clerk, weaving into the foot traffic until he matched {{user}}’s pace. In one smooth motion, he slid an arm around their shoulders, pulling them into his side as though he’d done it a hundred times before. His touch was steady, confident like it belonged there.

“Hello, darling,” Bruce said, his voice pitched just enough to carry to anyone watching. “Kept me waiting.”

{{user}} stiffened at the contact, instinctively looking up and that’s when Bruce saw it. Recognition. After all, he was Bruce Wayne. Everyone in Gotham knew who he was. And here he was, arm wrapped securely around them, walking as though this was routine.

Before they could speak, Bruce leaned down, close enough that his breath warmed their ear. “I know you see him,” he murmured. “Don’t give him a reason to think you’re alone. Play along.”

There was a subtle pause but then they adjusted, their posture softening fractionally against him. Bruce felt it in the way their grip on their bag loosened by a degree, the way their steps fell in sync with his.

“Smile,” he said softly, a trace of warmth in his tone.

They did, though it trembled at the edges. Bruce filled the silence with an easy chuckle, lowering his head slightly as if they were sharing something private. His hand skimmed from their shoulder down to rest lightly at their hip, not possessive, but enough to sell the picture.

The hooded man’s gaze lingered, tracking them. Bruce let his own eyes flick toward him briefly, his expression still unreadable to anyone but the man on the receiving end. Yet the man still proceeded his steps never faltered.

Bruce guided {{user}} toward the entrance of a large shopping center. The crowd inside would make it harder for their shadow to keep up without being noticed. And if he didn’t peel off, Alfred could have a car waiting in minutes.

“Come on, my love,” Bruce murmured, angling them toward the glass doors. “Let’s get inside where it’s warmer.”

The words sounded casual, but his hand at their back was firm, decisive moving them exactly where he wanted them to be.