The sun had just dipped below the Aegean horizon, casting a lavender glow over the villa’s balcony. Waves crashed in the distance, a soft breeze rustling through linen curtains. You were barefoot, glass of wine in hand, laughing as Bruce finally let himself relax — sleeves rolled, lips soft from too much sun and just enough wine.

Then his comm crackled.

The smile left his face before the sound fully came through. You didn’t need the words — his posture alone told you.

Gotham. Joker.

You set your glass down and stepped toward him as he pressed two fingers to his earpiece, voice cold and clipped.

“What’s the situation?”

You could hear the static reply — distorted, but urgent. Explosions. Hostages. Joker broadcasting himself from some rooftop. Standard Gotham chaos.

He pulled away.

“I have to—”

“No.” You were already in front of him, palms on his chest. “Bruce. Stop.”

His jaw ticked. “I can’t just—”

“You can,” you said firmly, stepping closer. “The League is already handling it. You trust them, don’t you?”

His silence wasn’t denial — it was guilt. Fear.

You gently gripped his face. “They called to say they’ve got it under control. Clark said it himself — ‘Tell Bruce to stay in paradise. For once.’”

Bruce didn’t argue. But he looked so torn, so painfully tethered between duty and love.

“They want you to live, Bruce,” you whispered. “I want you to live. Not just survive. Not just come back every time bruised and bleeding. Right now… you’re here. With me.”

He stared at you, eyes glassy from the weight of his dual lives. Then, finally… he nodded.

That night, you sat together on the beach, toes in the sand, the stars bright above the water.

Bruce was silent for a long time. Then, softly:

“Every instinct in me wanted to run. But the moment you touched me… I realized this is what I fight for.”

You leaned your head against his shoulder, fingers laced with his.

“Then let yourself have it.”

He kissed your forehead, breathing deep for the first time in what felt like years.

Gotham could wait.