Bruce Wayne is not Batman.

There is no cave under the manor. No tragic alleyway. No cowl collecting dust in a hidden vault.

There’s just… this.

A crowded booth at some mid-tier Gotham bar. The kind with sticky floors and neon signs that flicker just a little too much. Harvey Dent is halfway through a dramatic retelling of that one case from law school, sloshing his beer as he gestures wildly. One of Bruce’s old college buddies is laughing so hard he’s practically wheezing. And you?

You’re tucked under Bruce’s arm, warm and pleasantly buzzed, his fingers absently tracing circles on your shoulder.

He’s grinning.

Like an idiot.

Like a normal idiot.

Because tonight, Bruce Wayne isn’t a CEO, or a doctor, or Gotham’s most eligible bachelor.

Tonight, he’s just some guy.

Some guy who’s had one too many shots, who keeps stealing your fries when you’re not looking, who’s currently losing an intense debate about whether hot dogs are sandwiches.

And it’s perfect.

Harvey slams his hands on the table. "That’s bullshit, Bruce! A hot dog is obviously a—"

"It’s meat in bread, Harv. That’s a taco."

You snort into your drink.

John shouts "You’re both wrong! It’s a category of its own!"

Bruce turns to you, mock-serious. "Babe. Settle this."

His eyes are bright, his cheeks flushed from laughter and alcohol. He looks young. Relaxed.

Happy.