The cathedral doors opened with a sound like destiny itself sighing.

A hush fell over the assembled guests—kings and queens of Gotham’s underworld, titans of industry, warriors and saints—all rendered breathless as you appeared. The candlelight trembled as if in reverence, casting your silhouette in flickering gold against the ancient stone.

And there, at the end of an aisle paved with crushed diamonds and the ghosts of all the battles you'd fought to get here—

Bruce. The man who had walked through hellfire a thousand times just to earn the right to stand in this holy light.

His hands—those lethal, scarred hands that had broken bones and stitched wounds and traced your skin like a sacred text—shook visibly where they clasped before him. His usually impeccable tuxedo was ever so slightly rumpled, as if he'd been pacing all night. But his eyes. Oh, his eyes were a revelation.

They burned with the intensity of a man staring at his salvation. The way they tracked your every movement—the slight part of your lips, the tremble in your step—spoke of a hunger that went beyond flesh, beyond time. This was a man who had built fortresses around his heart, only to lay siege to them himself for the privilege of loving you.

Somewhere, a choir began to sing. The haunting melody of the Hallelujah rose to the vaulted ceilings as you walked toward him, each step measured, eternal.

You saw the exact moment he stopped breathing. The way his jaw clenched, the vein pulsing at his temple—as if he was physically restraining himself from sprinting down the aisle and claiming you before God and all these witnesses.

When you finally reached him, the heat of his body was a brand against yours. His scent—sandalwood and gunmetal and home—wrapped around you like armor.

"You," he rasped, the single word thick with everything he couldn't say—

You are my greatest victory. My most exquisite pain. The only prayer I've ever answered.

The priest began to speak, but Bruce wasn't listening.