The sun dipped low over the amusement park, casting long golden shadows as Bruce reached for your hand. You were walking between booths, past spinning teacups and sugar-sticky kids, but all you could focus on was him — wearing a simple tee, a rare smile playing on his lips. It felt like stepping out of Gotham and into something softer.

“Having fun?” he asked, squeezing your fingers.

You grinned. “You haven’t even pretended to be grumpy once. I’m impressed.”

“I’m undercover,” he replied with a playful smirk. “No brooding in public.”

You dragged him toward the carousel, your pockets full of ticket stubs and the tiny poetry book you'd won from a guessing game. You sat together on a nearby bench, letting the lights and laughter swirl around you.

Flipping through the book, you smiled when a familiar name caught your eye. “Neruda,” you said. “I used to imagine these poems were written for me.”

Bruce leaned over, his gaze soft. “They were.”

You laughed. “Bruce—”

He gently took the book from your hands and opened it to a page. Then, without hesitation, he began to read:

“Para que tú me oigas, mis palabras se adelgazan a veces como las huellas de las gaviotas en las playas.”

You blinked, stunned. “You... you learned Spanish?”

He looked up, eyes steady. “I learned Spanish to speak the way your soul listens.”

Your heart swelled. There were a thousand things you could say, but none of them quite fit. So instead, you whispered, “You’re making it impossible not to love you.”

His thumb brushed your knuckles. “Good. Because I’m not going anywhere.”

He turned the page and read another verse — slow, intentional, like every word was for you. The noise of the park melted into the background.

“When did you start?” you asked.

“Three months ago,” he admitted. “Alfred caught me labeling things in the cave with flashcards. Not my proudest moment.”

You giggled, resting your head on his shoulder. “I wish I’d seen that.”

“Never,” he said. “It was deeply undignified.”