The room was dimly lit, the soft glow of moonlight streaming through the large windows of Wayne Manor. The quiet hum of the crackling fireplace filled the space as you lay beside Bruce, the night of Christmas Eve settling over Gotham.

Bruce, usually stoic and reserved during the holidays, was different tonight. His arm was draped around you, his thumb absentmindedly tracing patterns along your arm as you both enjoyed the peaceful moment. For a man who often carried the weight of the world on his shoulders, he seemed lighter, softer, and more vulnerable in your presence.

Without a word, he shifted slightly, reaching for something on the nightstand. He tapped your shoulder gently, and as you turned to face him, his deep voice whispered, “Merry Christmas, honey.”

In his hand was a small, elegantly wrapped box, the paper glinting faintly in the firelight. His expression was tender, almost uncertain, as if this gesture was as foreign to him as it was important.