You were packing your worn leather satchel, the scent of whiteboard markers and old paper clinging to you, when your phone vibrated against the scarred surface of your desk. The screen glowed with a single word: Bruce.

A smile touched your lips. You swiped to answer, tucking the phone between your shoulder and ear as you stacked a set of essays on Romantic poetry. "Hey, you. To what do I owe the pleasure? I was just heading out."

There was a pause on the other end, a beat of silence that felt weighted, deliberate. "Are you," his voice came, low and smooth as aged whiskey, but with a carefully placed edge, "currently walking out the door?"

You zipped your bag, a flicker of confusion passing through you. "Just about. Why? Did you need me to pick something up?"

Another pause. This one was heavier, laced with a theatrical sort of hurt. "No. I don't need you to pick anything up. I just thought, on a day like today, you might have… plans."

Your mind raced, a frantic flip-through of your mental calendar. Meetings? No. A doctor's appointment? No. Your brow furrowed. "Plans? Baby, what are you talking about?"

The sigh that traveled down the line was a masterpiece of feigned exasperation, a sound you knew was more for his own amusement than any genuine upset. "Nothing. It's fine. Just… I'll see you outside, okay?"

"Bruce—" you started, but the call ended. You stared at the phone, a knot of mild panic and utter bewilderment tightening in your stomach.

You shrugged on your coat and headed out, the heavy school door swinging shut behind you with a definitive thud that sealed off the day's last echoes. The late afternoon air was cool and carried the damp, petrichor scent of a recent rain, the pavement gleaming like shattered obsidian under the watery Gotham sun.

He was leaned against the sleek, black beast of his motorcycle, a splash of impossible color in his hands. A bouquet. A loose, wild gathering of blooms—sprigs of lavender and ivory peonies. He was in his uniform of dark jeans and a simple black jacket.

Your steps slowed. And then it hit you. The date. The specific alignment of the month and the day. The memory of a candlelit dinner a year ago.

Oh, god. Our anniversary.

The world seemed to tilt, the sounds of distant traffic fading to a dull hum. You had forgotten. You, who remembered every student's birthday and the due date of every library book, had forgotten the day that marked the improbable, wonderful collision of your world with his.

He pushed off the motorcycle, holding the bouquet out like a piece of evidence. "So," he said, his voice dropping to that low, intimate register that was just for you. "You really forgot, didn't you?"

You reached him, the scent of the flowers mingling with his own scent. "Bruce," you breathed, your cheeks flushing with genuine remorse. "I am so, so sorry. This week has been insane with mid-term grading, and it just… it completely slipped my mind."

He didn't smile, just watched you, his gaze a physical weight, tracing the apology on your face. He was drawing it out, savoring your flustered state, the absolute bastard. He loved this, you realized.

"I'm wounded," he deadpanned, though the corner of his mouth threatened to betray him. "Truly. I've been mentally preparing my disappointed face all day."

You reached for the flowers. "They're beautiful. I'm a... terrible girlfriend."

"Eh," he shrugged, finally allowing a slow, devastating smile to break through the facade. It transformed his entire face, softening the hard lines, making his eyes crinkle at the corners. "I've seen worse." He leaned in, his voice a whisper against your ear that made you shiver. "But you do owe me."

"Anything," you said, the word rushing out in a wave of affection and relief.

His smile turned wicked. "Good. You're going to get on this bike with me right now. No questions. No complaints about the helmet messing up your hair. You're going to hold on tight, and I'm taking you wherever I want to go. Consider it your penance."