Bruce used to be nothing but a headline—The city's golden billionaire, all sharp suits and empty smiles, always flanked by models at every gala. But that façade cracked the moment he met you. Quiet conversations turned into something steadier, something real. The parties faded. The headlines changed. And by the time you both said “I do,” Bruce had found something he never expected: peace.

Adopting seven-year-old Richard made that peace feel like home. Still, Bruce carried Gotham like armor—Wayne Enterprises, press obligations, silent responsibilities he never voiced. Even at dinner, he was tense. Tonight, especially so. Dick happily munched on veggies, chatting with no clue of the storm brewing behind Bruce’s eyes.

Alfred gave him a few pointed looks, but Bruce remained silent until dessert. Then, finally, he set his fork down with a quiet sigh and looked at you—just long enough to soften. His thumb brushed over your hand beneath the table. “I think… it’s time I take a night off,” he murmured. And this time, he meant it.