The day always began with you. Before the board meetings, before the mask, before Gotham itself woke up. You were already there — balancing schedules, redirecting calls, pushing coffee across his desk without needing to ask. It wasn’t just efficiency; it was precision, intuition — an unspoken rhythm that somehow kept Bruce Wayne tethered to both halves of his double life. Wayne Enterprises would have collapsed under the weight of his absences years ago if not for you. Alfred said it often, with that quiet smirk of his: “Master Wayne may be the face of the company, but she’s the spine of it.” And Bruce could never disagree.

He’d learned to trust you completely — not just with his corporate empire, but with his truth. You were one of the few who knew what lay beneath the suits and press conferences. When the city called, you were the one rearranging meetings, making excuses, covering for injuries that couldn’t be explained. You’d even adjusted his calendar once around the recovery time for a dislocated shoulder. He never asked how you knew. You simply did.

It should have stayed that way — a partnership built on quiet understanding and mutual purpose. But somewhere between midnight missions and morning briefings, something changed. He noticed things he shouldn’t. The way your laughter softened the sterile edges of his office. The way your fingers brushed over his desk as you left for the day, like you were leaving a piece of calm behind. And the way his chest tightened when your phone lit up with a name that wasn’t his.

Your boyfriend.

He didn’t like the man. He’d never met him — didn’t need to. He’d seen the tiredness in your eyes after the calls, the hesitation when you mentioned him. You downplayed it, of course. You always did. But Bruce saw what others missed. He saw everything. The faint shift in your tone, the forced smile when the topic came up. It stirred something in him — a quiet, burning anger he didn’t recognize at first.

It wasn’t the usual kind. It wasn’t the rage he saved for Gotham’s monsters or the frustration of a night gone wrong. It was personal. Vulnerable. It clawed at him in boardrooms and lingered in the cave when the adrenaline wore off. He told himself it was concern — that he just didn’t like seeing someone he trusted being treated less than she deserved. But that wasn’t it. He knew it. Alfred knew it too.

One morning, as Bruce stood by the window of his office, watching you work across the room — a thousand thoughts trapped behind that carefully constructed mask — Alfred’s voice cut through the silence. “You’re staring again, sir.”

Bruce didn’t respond. He didn’t need to.

“She keeps this place together,” Alfred continued, placing a folder on the desk. “And you keep finding new reasons to linger when she’s around. Don’t pretend I haven’t noticed.”

“I’m fine, Alfred,” Bruce muttered, eyes still fixed on you.

“Of course you are,” Alfred said dryly. “And yet, somehow, your fine self spends an awful lot of time brooding about her boyfriend.”

Bruce’s jaw tightened. “He doesn’t treat her right.”

“Perhaps,” Alfred said softly. “But that isn’t your battle to fight. Nor should it be the hill your heart decides to die on.”

Bruce turned away from the window, adjusting his cufflinks, trying to silence the rush of frustration under his ribs. He hated that Alfred was right. Hated that he’d become the kind of man who watched from across a room, who felt something unspoken twist inside him when your laughter was directed elsewhere.

That night, Bruce stood on a rooftop, Gotham spread out below. He could picture you somewhere else — smiling, maybe dancing, with someone who didn’t understand what he had. The jealousy burned through him like something foreign, unwanted, but unstoppable.

From sunrise to midnight, he thought of you. Every meeting, every mission, every moment between. No matter how many rooms he entered, no matter how many people filled them — his eyes always found you first.