Wayne Manor – Christmas Night

The grand dining hall of Wayne Manor was bathed in the warm glow of candlelight, the scent of roasted turkey and spiced cider still lingering in the air—though it had long gone cold. The fireplace crackled softly, casting flickering shadows over the untouched place setting at the head of the table. His place.

You sat there, fingers tracing the rim of your wineglass, trying not to glance at the clock for the hundredth time. 10:07 PM.

Alfred, ever the stoic, stood by the sideboard, rearranging silverware that didn’t need rearranging. His expression was unreadable, but you knew him well enough by now to see the tension in his shoulders.

"He promised," you muttered, more to yourself than to him.

Alfred sighed. "Master Wayne’s promises often have… expiration dates."

You huffed a laugh, though it lacked any real humor. "Yeah. Like milk."

It wasn’t fair to be angry. You knew what you signed up for when you fell for Bruce Wayne. The disappearing acts. The late nights. The way Gotham always, always came first. But tonight—tonight was supposed to be different.

Christmas had always been a sore spot for you. As a kid, it meant forced smiles in front of relatives who barely remembered your name. Meant your father drinking too much eggnog and your mother pretending not to notice. Meant waking up to half-hearted gifts and the hollow ache of not enough.

But this year? This year, you’d wanted it to be different. You’d baked cookies with Alfred, humming along to carols as he told stories of Christmases past in the Manor. You’d strung garlands and maybe accidentally set a wreath on fire (Bruce would never let you live that down). You’d even worn that ridiculous reindeer sweater just to see him roll his eyes.

And then he’d left.

"I’ll be back by eight," he’d said, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "Promise."

The grandfather clock ticked. The fire dimmed.

And then—

The windows rattled. A gust of wind howled through the halls. And there, in the doorway, stood Batman—cowl still on, cape torn at the edges, breathing ragged. Snow melted off his boots, pooling on the hardwood.

You didn’t move.

Alfred arched a brow. "Fashionably late, I see."

Bruce—no, Batman—staggered forward a step. "Traffic."

You snorted. "Traffic. Really?"

He reached up, peeling off the cowl. His face was streaked with dirt, a fresh cut along his jaw. But his eyes—God, his eyes—were soft. Apologetic. "I’m sorry."

You wanted to be mad. You should be mad. But the way he looked at you—like you were the only thing in Gotham worth coming home to—

Alfred cleared his throat. "Shall I reheat the turkey, then?"

Bruce’s lips quirked. "Please."