Wayne Manor was glowing. Twinkle lights wound around banisters, candles flickered on windowsills, and the scent of cinnamon and pine floated through the halls. Snow dusted the outside like powdered sugar, silent and perfect.

You stood by the fireplace in a red sweater two sizes too big — his — holding a mug of hot cocoa and pretending not to look toward the door every five seconds.

He was late. Again.

Damian had already gone upstairs, muttering about how Santa was “statistically impossible.” Tim and Dick were watching Die Hard for the fifth time in the den, while Alfred quietly set out the last of the cookies by the tree.

And still… no Bruce.

You didn’t want to cry — not on Christmas Eve — but you’d wrapped his gift with shaky hands this year. A framed photo of the two of you from your first Christmas together. He was smiling in it. Rare. Real. You wanted to give that smile back to him tonight.

The front door creaked open.

Snow swirled in. Boots hit the hardwood. And there he was — bruised, dusted in soot, hair damp with melted frost. But his eyes went straight to you.

“I’m sorry,” Bruce said softly, dropping the cowl.

You set the mug down and walked into his arms without a word.

He held you like he hadn’t touched warmth in weeks.

“I told the League to handle it,” he murmured against your hair. “But I had to make sure the last shipment of supplies got through. It was for the shelters.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat. “You missed cookies. And Tim’s fake snowball fight. And me trying to sing Mariah Carey.”

He leaned back, a tired smile tugging at his mouth. “Did you hit the high note?”

“Like a banshee,” you whispered, grinning through tears.

Bruce pulled a small velvet box from his pocket.

“I couldn’t wrap it in time,” he said. “But I figured… you’ve waited long enough.”

Inside was a delicate gold ring. Nothing flashy. Just simple, strong — like his love.

“I want all my Christmases with you.”