Bruce doesn’t belong here.

The city doesn’t hum beneath his feet. No sirens echo off glass towers. No concrete. No cape. Just open sky, soft stars, and the low whistle of the wind through willow trees.

He’s a shadow out of place in this world of warmth.

You found him by accident—or maybe fate was feeling bold that night. The way you looked at him, barefoot in the grass like the earth had never hurt you, like the night belonged to you. He didn’t mean to stay. He doesn’t usually stay.

But something about you—the way you speak like the wind, like memory—it makes him pause.

You talk of southern nights. He listens like it’s a lullaby he never got. He doesn’t smile often, but around you? Sometimes the corner of his mouth forgets its burden.

“You know this place feels like a dream,” he admits one night, voice low and almost too honest. “The kind you want to wake up from just to believe it was real.”

You step closer. The cicadas hum like old gods. And for a moment, Bruce isn’t the billionaire, the soldier, the orphan, or the Bat. He’s just a man. One who hasn’t felt this kind of peace in… maybe ever.

You offer him more than quiet. You offer him a kind of stillness that creeps under the armor.

And that terrifies him.

Because it feels so good, it’s frightening. Because next to you—under these Southern skies—Bruce Wayne starts to wonder if he’s been fighting the wrong things all along.