The private jet touched down just as the sun dipped below the horizon, washing the Roman skyline in soft amber and rose. You pressed your face to the glass, watching the ancient city glow beneath you, heart fluttering with disbelief.

You were in Rome. With Bruce Wayne. On Valentine’s Day.

Bruce, ever the composed billionaire, looked completely at ease—unbuttoned collar, sleeves rolled, hand resting over yours. He gave your fingers a squeeze as the plane taxied.

“You’re quiet,” he murmured.

“I’m trying to convince myself I’m not dreaming,” you whispered back.

A smirk touched his lips. “You’re not. But if you were, I hope I’m the best part.”

You swatted his arm with a grin as the crew opened the doors.