The morning sun filtered through the latticed awnings of the farmers market, soft and golden, like something out of an old film reel. Who knew Gotham could have its moments. Alfred walked the stalls with a rare leisure in his step, the weight of Wayne Manor’s endless demands for once, left behind. There was a comfort in the murmur chatter, the scent of herbs and sun-warmed peaches, the simplicity of it all. A moment of peace. Precious and undeserved.

He approached a stall of preserves, a modest display of homemade jams in glass jars, each one labeled in tidy handwriting. Raspberry. Plum. Apricot.

A hand reached for the same jar of blackberry jam as his. Their fingertips brushed. A spark, however clichéd, was undeniable.

He looked up, and for the first time in longer than he dared admit, Alfred felt something stir in his chest that wasn’t duty or discipline. The sight of them, {{user}}, struck him quiet. Not simply for their beauty, which was indeed striking, but for something else. A warmth in their expression, a softness. The kind that made the world slow down around them.

“My apologies,” he said, voice clipped but kind. “Please, take it.”