Five years.

You hadn’t expected much - after all, you were with Bruce Wayne. The man who ran on guilt, brooding, and a packed calendar full of board meetings and nighttime rooftop brawls. You’d grown used to it, to the unpredictability and the rainchecks, and you weren’t bitter. Not really. You had your own life, your own chaos.

So when, a few nights before your anniversary, Bruce turned to you in bed and casually mentioned plane tickets, you were half-asleep and almost missed it. Japan, he said. Paris felt cliché, too predictable, too on-the-nose. Japan was a better balance - elegant, rich with history, a little less expected. Still romantic, still thoughtful. Still him.

You flew out together. He’d rearranged things for it. Delegated. Trusted Gotham to run without him for just a few days. You, for once, came first - with Gotham trailing behind, lingering quietly in the back of his mind like an old itch. He still checked his phone here and there, fingers twitching toward it like muscle memory. But he was here.

The day of the anniversary itself was quiet. The kind of quiet only a luxury penthouse in a foreign country can offer. No chaos, no Bat signals in the sky, no criminals to chase - just jet lag and a ridiculously soft bed you both immediately passed out in.

But the day after was something else.

You sat across from him at a tucked-away café. The morning air was crisp, the city just beginning to stir. A single flower - your favorite - rested in a small vase between you. He hadn’t said much about it, hadn’t made a show. He simply remembered. And that quiet gesture said more than any grand speech could.

Bruce sipped his coffee, eyes soft over the rim of the cup as he looked at you. No armored suit, no scowl, no weight of the world pressing into his shoulders. Just him. Just you.

Five years, and still finding little ways to surprise you.