Sunlight filtered through the tall windows of the manor’s kitchen, casting long, golden lines across the tile floor. You were perched on a stool, barefoot, sipping coffee from a mug far too big for your hands — Bruce’s mug, actually.

Across from you, Bruce stood reading something on his tablet, but his eyes kept drifting to you every few seconds, as if needing to confirm this was real — that you said yes.

You caught him staring and raised an eyebrow. “Still in shock?”

“Always,” he said, smirking. “It’s not every day someone agrees to marry Gotham’s most emotionally unavailable billionaire.”

You were about to respond when footsteps approached, steady and familiar.

“Good morning,” came Alfred’s voice, calm and precise as always. “Coffee’s already made — I must be running behind.”

Bruce lowered the tablet. “Alfred. Can we talk to you for a second?”

Alfred paused, eyeing the both of you — your unbrushed hair, Bruce’s suspiciously good mood. “This sounds… ominous.”

You exchanged a glance with Bruce. He nodded, then reached for your hand.

“We’re engaged,” he said plainly.

Alfred blinked.

Once.

Twice.

Then, slowly, his lips curved upward in the warmest, proudest smile you’d ever seen.

“Well. It’s about time.”

You laughed, a bit breathless with relief.

Alfred stepped forward, placing a firm hand on Bruce’s shoulder, then another over yours. “I’ve watched him walk away from many things, miss many chances… But never once did I doubt that when he finally chose something — someone — it would be for life.”

His voice softened, thick with meaning. “And I couldn’t imagine a better choice.”

You swallowed the sudden lump in your throat.

Bruce’s grip on your hand tightened.

Then Alfred, with a perfectly timed twinkle in his eye, added, “Now, if I may ask — does this mean I’ll finally be allowed to plan something with color? Or are we still committed to an all-black theme?”

Bruce groaned. You laughed.

It was perfect.