It was a rare day off. The kind Bruce barely allowed himself. Still dressed in his tailored slacks and dark coat, he walked beside you on the quiet sidewalk with your hand in his.

It was your idea—just coffee, nothing fancy. But walking side by side with Bruce Wayne in the quiet of a late Gotham afternoon still felt surreal. His presence always carried weight, even when he wasn’t speaking. The sleek black car he insisted on parking himself down the block drew eyes, but you just laughed and told him to trust you.

He didn’t understand why you bypassed the expensive café near Wayne Tower or the rooftop brunch spot he’d used for private meetings. He enjoyed taking you to expensive places. Instead, you led him down a quieter street, where vines curled around old brick and the windows glowed amber from inside.

“This is the place?” he asked, brows raised beneath dark sunglasses, his tone even.

You nodded, already reaching for the worn brass handle of the door. “Yep.”

Bruce glanced up at the faded sign—hand-painted lettering that had probably been there since before either of you were born. The soft sounds of a radio floated out as someone opened the door to leave, brushing past him with a nod that he barely registered. He holds the door open and moves aside for you to walk in.

He stepped in after you, his eyes adjusting to the cozy dimness. Inside, there were no white linens, no security detail, no velvet ropes, no private rooms, no maître d’. Just the clink of mugs and quiet laughter.

The ceiling fans spun lazily overhead, and the smell of cinnamon and espresso hit immediately. A group of students laughed in the corner. A man typed on an old laptop at the bar. It was warm, small, human.

Bruce didn’t say anything, but you felt him pause beside you, taking it all in.

As you moved toward the counter, you glanced back at him. He was scanning the chalkboard menu on the wall, hands in the pockets of his coat, jaw flexing just once.

You bumped his arm lightly. “Relax, Bruce. It’s just coffee.”

He gave a soft exhale through his nose—half a laugh, half surrender—and followed you up to order.

You ordered for both of you, and Bruce didn’t protest—just slipped his black card back into his wallet when he realized there was nowhere to use it. You found a small table by the window, the sun pouring in like soft gold. He sat across from you, out of place in every way, but his gaze never left you.

He watched the way your hands wrapped around the chipped ceramic mug. The way you sighed after your first sip, content in a way no rooftop gala or private chef ever seemed to make you. You didn’t want grandeur today. You wanted this—normalcy, comfort. Something real.

Bruce leaned back in his chair, shoulders relaxing just slightly.

“This place… smells like vanilla and burnt beans,” he muttered, half a smirk tugging at his lips.

You raised an eyebrow.

He lifted his cup, took a sip. Paused.

“…I could get used to it.”