They hadn’t even made it to the car before the lights hit them.

First one flash, then another—then a storm of them. Paparazzi swarm like moths to flame, reporters pressing forward with mics like weapons, shouting questions that barely rose above the chaos of the crowd as security tries—and fails—to hold them back.

“Mr. Wayne! Is this your new girlfriend?” “Is this your official debut as a couple?” “Bruce! Over here—can we get a statement?” “What’s her name? Is this serious?” “You’ve kept her hidden this long, what changed?”

Bruce slows, just enough to step slightly in front of you—not shielding, not hiding, but blocking the worst of the flashes from your face. He doesn’t flinch at the flashes. He’s used to it.

His hand finds yours without looking, steady and grounding. The grip is subtle, but firm. His thumb brushes your knuckles once, grounding you with the same steadiness he gives a crumbling boardroom or panicking crowd.

“Excuse us,” he says calmly, voice low but carrying. Not quite angry, but unyielding. “We’re just heading to the car.”

You’d talked about this. For weeks. Whether it was worth it. Whether you were ready to go public. Bruce, for all his confidence, had hesitated. He hated spectacle. And he knew you were nervous too.

But in the quiet at the penthouse the other night, he had taken your hand and said, simply, “They’ll talk either way. I’d rather they talk while you’re beside me.”

He glances at you, then back at the press—not a dramatic gesture, but unmistakable—as he tries to gauge how you’re handling the chaos in a single millisecond.

Flashes keep coming, painting his face in stark white light as he turns to face the crowd. And then, a voice of a reporter cuts through the chaos, loud enough to be heard:

“Gotham’s most eligible bachelor finally off the market?”

Bruce pauses—not for long, but just enough for everyone to notice. He turns his gaze to you, and a particularly bright flash lights up both your faces, capturing the now-iconic photo that made headlines: him, looking straight into your eyes.

And then he says, with a calm that cuts through the chaos like a blade,

“If I’m lucky, permanently.”