The evening had settled in around you both as you sat at a fancy restaurant, the soft hum of conversation blending with the clink of silverware. Bruce, ever the image of composure, had his black hair neatly combed back, his sharp jawline cutting through the soft light as he adjusted the cuff of his suit. He looked every bit the part of the billionaire playboy—an effortless elegance that turned heads without trying. You, on the other hand, wore a light pink dress, soft and casual but undeniably charming. You’d insisted on the tiny white bows in your black hair to match, a playful touch you knew Bruce would tolerate without a word.

He sat next to you, his broad shoulders relaxed as he leaned back against the wall, his arm draped casually behind you. It wasn’t the first time you’d shared a space like this, but it felt different now. You weren’t his Robin anymore—not the child he’d trained, the one who had a place in his world. You were grown up now, early twenties, and this was all that was left of the past: quiet dinners, the weight of unsaid things hanging between you.

The restaurant was a haven for the rich, a place known for its privacy. Bruce had chosen it for a reason. No one would make the connection, no one would question your relationship. To the world, you were just another face in the crowd. But you both knew better. It was his way of keeping things contained—of keeping you from being dragged into the complexities of his life.