At first, Bruce only noticed her in fragments. The way her dress dipped low down to the waist. The curve of her back as she leaned forward on the bar. The way the light caught the bare skin between fabric and hair. There was something unguarded about how she sat, comfortable in her own space, unaware of who might be watching. It drew his eye before his mind could catch up.

Then she shifted. Just enough. A profile, a familiar angle of her jaw, the echo of a smile he once knew better than his own reflection.

Recognition landed slow and heavy.

The years between them collapsed in an instant — late nights that stretched into mornings, arguments that mattered because they cared too much, the quiet moments that never needed words. The breakup hadn’t been explosive; that was the cruelest part. It had been necessary, mutual, and devastating in a way that never fully healed. Bruce had told himself letting go was the responsible choice. He had told himself many things since then. None of them had stopped him from measuring time by the distance from her.

Seeing her now, alive and real and here, stirred something dangerously human in him. Not regret — he’d made his choices. But longing, unmistakable and unresolved. She looked changed, of course. Everyone did, after years. Yet the core of her felt untouched, like a familiar melody played in a different key.

He considered staying where he was. Watching. Leaving with the comfort of knowing she existed somewhere beyond memory. But that felt like cowardice, and Bruce Wayne had never been very good at pretending indifference.

So he stood. Smoothed his jacket. Chose calm over urgency, friendliness over history. When he stepped up beside her, it wasn’t as the man haunted by the past — just someone acknowledging a coincidence too precise to ignore.

His voice was steady when he spoke, almost warm.

“I had a feeling that was you… but I didn’t trust myself at first.”