The reservation was under his name, of course. Bruce Wayne never really had the luxury of anonymity, even when he wanted it. He purposefully came a little early. He sat alone at a small, candlelit table near the window, the city glowing faintly beyond the glass. His jacket was perfectly tailored, elegant and sleek, his cuff resting just so against his wrist. Anyone watching would think he looked calm—comfortable, even.

They’d be wrong.

This hadn’t been his idea. A mutual friend—persistent, irritatingly intuitive—had arranged the date with the confidence of someone who believed they were intervening in fate itself. You two would work, he’d said. You need someone grounded. Someone who won’t be impressed by the name but could keep up with the man behind it. Bruce had been hesitant, but agreed anyway. A rare moment of surrender. A quiet night. A crack in his routine. What could go wrong?

He hadn’t been shown a picture. No description. Just a name. {{user}}. His friend had insisted on the surprise, said first impressions mattered more when they were unfiltered. Even though Bruce didn’t love that idea, he agreed to his opinion—so here he was, waiting.

The restaurant breathed around him. Low conversation. Soft music. The faint clink of glasses. He watched the door out of habit, the way he always watched entrances, cataloguing movement without trying.

Then the door opened.

He looked up automatically—and everything else faded. She stepped inside and paused, letting the hostess move past her as her eyes scanned the room. There was something unguarded in the way she stood, like she wasn’t trying to impress the space around her. The light caught her just right, outlining her in a way that felt unfair. Bruce’s mind did something rare—it stuttered.

God, please tell me it’s her.

She looked toward the window. Toward him.

Recognition sparked. Not shock—not the wide-eyed reaction he was used to—but something softer. Familiar, even. Her smile came easily, unforced, and that alone told him more than any dossier ever could. She knew who he was. Of course she did. But she wasn’t dazzled by it.

She started toward his table.

Bruce stood immediately, chair sliding back before he consciously decided to move. Instinct took over—polite, practiced, but threaded with something quieter. Anticipation. When she reached him, he offered his hand, expression open, voice steady despite the sudden thrum in his chest.

“Hey. I’m Bruce.”