You weren’t sure if this was supposed to be a date — Bruce Wayne doesn’t say things plainly. He invited you to an art gallery opening with no flourish, no pretense. But when he arrives, wearing a dark charcoal suit, open collar, and that quiet gravity that follows him everywhere, it becomes obvious.

It is a date. At least to him.

He walks beside you like a shadow that knows you. Hands in his pockets, eyes scanning the art, and then you. Always you.

You stop in front of a painting — a woman cradling something invisible. The grief in the colors hits you hard.

“It hurts in the right places,” you murmur.

He watches your profile for a second longer than he should. “You’re not afraid of pain.”

You glance at him. “No. But I don’t think it should be the price of love.”

He doesn’t smile. But something softens — some lock inside him clicking open.

You talk the entire night. About literature. About poetry. You share your favorite museum in Europe. He tells you about a sculpture in Kyoto that nearly broke him. His voice gets low when he talks about the things that matter — quieter, like the meaning’s too big to say out loud.