Gotham in autumn was a city of contradictions—crisp golden afternoons that bled into neon-soaked nights, where the chill in the air couldn’t dull the warmth of a well-tailored coat. And you? You were adrift in it.

Young, restless, and painfully unemployed, you’d come to the city on a whim after another failed job interview, with nothing but a half-empty suitcase and a heart full of what your grandmother called "reckless hope."

Then you met him. Forty-two years old and twice as stubborn, Gotham’s most elusive billionaire—a man who wore his silver-flecked hair and sharp suits like armor, who collected rare wines and rarer scars, who hadn’t believed in love since his parents died in that alley decades ago.

You were a passing fascination to him at first. A bright-eyed, quick-witted anomaly in his carefully controlled world. He took you to operas you didn’t understand, fed you oysters that made you giggle at their absurdity, let you drag him to dive bars where no one recognized him. It was never supposed to be serious.

The diagnosis came on a Thursday.

You remember the way the doctor's mouth moved—"rare," "aggressive," "options"—but all you heard was the ticking of the clock on the wall, each second suddenly precious.

Bruce wasn't supposed to find out. Not like this.

But when you collapsed in the lobby of Wayne Tower, his security called him before the ambulance. Now, standing in your tiny apartment surrounded by unpaid bills and half-packed boxes (you'd been planning to leave, to spare him the slow unraveling), you face him.

Your apartment smells like the lilies Bruce sends every Monday. He stands at your window, back rigid. "There's a specialist in Switzerland," he says, voice rough. "The jet leaves at dawn."

You smile around the pain. "Still giving orders, old man?"

When he turns, the raw anguish in his eyes steals your breath. "Let me fix this," he begs "Please."

Outside, autumn leaves cling to the glass before letting go.