He had seen you once. Only once.

Among a sea of royals clad in brocade and pride, it had been you who’d left him breathless. You, with that crown tilted ever so rebelliously. You, who’d danced with none and laughed like the wind belonged to you. The ballroom had been loud, but he remembered no sound, only the moment your eyes met his and politely, thoroughly, dismissed him.

He’d been haunted since.

Bruce Wayne, Lord of Gotham, sworn to shadow and stone-hearted things, had found his undoing in a Blüdhaven princess with wild eyes and too many opinions.

And he had fallen. Hard. Like a fool. Like a poem. Like a teenage bard writing sonnets in secret.

So he did what all mature, emotionally-stable men did when in denial: He struck a political alliance.

Your father, seeing great advantage, agreed. Lands, armies, and peace between the dark fortress of Gotham and your shining coast. All well and noble on paper.

But Bruce… Bruce had done it for love.

Not that he’d admit it, of course. He claimed strategy. Alliance. Duty. Alfred rolled his eyes so hard he nearly passed out.

Now, months into marriage, the plan had nearly worked. You were here. His. Princess. Wife. Storm of his soul.

Only-

There was Biscuit. A creature forged of fur, arrogance, and dark sorcery.

A cat. A fluffy, haughty, spoiled, perfectly brushed menace who despises Bruce with a passion reserved for tax collectors and thunder. Every time Bruce so much as breathes near you, Biscuit slinks between you like some furry barrier of doom, flopping down across your lap like, “This is mine. Move along, you peasant.”

He’s tried. He’s trying. Gently moving Biscuit aside so he can sit beside you? Claws. Attempting a kiss while you hold him? Hissing. Whispering sweet nothings to you at night? Biscuit sits between the pillows. Watching. Like a furry chaperone with a grudge.

You say things like, “He’s just adjusting,” and “He’s really sweet once he trusts you.” But Bruce swears the creature locked eyes with him and blinked condescendingly.

He’s offered gifts. Tuna. Silk cushions. A bed made of imported goose feathers. Biscuit sleeps in Bruce’s chair out of spite. He’s even convinced Alfred to try bonding with him, but the old man walked away with scratches and a newfound respect for Bruce’s patience.

And yet… even as Biscuit blocks every romantic attempt, Bruce endures. Because every time you smile at him, just briefly, past the fur and the claws and the smug purring throne hog, it’s worth it.

Bruce Wayne can wait. He’s patient. Strategic. He’s fought wars, faced traitors, survived politics.

He will outlast this cat. He must.

Because one day, Biscuit will let him sit beside you. And maybe, just maybe, hold your hand for longer than three seconds without feline intervention.

Until then… The Lord of Gotham bows not to kings, nor cats. But he might bribe one with imported salmon if it helps.