Wayne Manor was quiet in the early hours of the morning. Not the kind of quiet that came with peace, but the kind that lingered after long nights and longer thoughts. The clock in the hall struck four when Bruce finally stepped back from the counter, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the thing he’d just created.

A basket. Not just any basket—an extravagant, borderline ridiculous arrangement of imported chocolates, hand-poured candles, and her favorite bottle of wine from Paris. Black silk ribbon framed it all, sharp and neat, like even affection needed discipline. In the center sat a single obsidian rose, edges gilded with gold.

He didn’t do this sort of thing. Didn’t do “cute,” or “festive,” or anything that required glitter. But she loved Halloween—the mischief, the masks, the warmth of a night meant for ghosts—and he loved her. That was enough.

Alfred had passed through hours ago, said nothing, only gave a knowing look before disappearing back down the hall. Bruce could almost hear the quiet amusement in his footsteps.

Now, the manor was still. Outside, the first hint of dawn painted pale light across the windows. He stared at the basket a moment longer, something faint tugging at the corner of his mouth. It was absurd, really, how much effort he’d put into something so simple. But for her—it was worth it.

He picked up the card he’d written, slid it into place, and turned off the kitchen light.

Even the Dark Knight could make time for love. And tonight, Gotham’s most feared man had made a boo basket.