The silence in the master suite of W ayne Manor was a heavy, opulent thing.

Bruce held {{user}} in his arms. The tension from his earlier bl under—a thoughtless, analytical comment about one of their social engagements that had landed with all the grace of a dropped gargoyle—still lingered in the air, a coolness in {{user}}'s posture that he was determined to thaw.

His hands, usually taped for c ombat or steadying a B atarang, were now impossibly gentle.

From the velvet-lined boxes on the bedside table, he lifted the first piece.

It was a river of diamonds, a collar of pure, blinding light that he had seen {{user}} pause on while watching a broadcast from a jewelry auction.

a flicker of genuine want that his trained senses had cataloged and stored away for an occasion just like this.

He draped it carefully around {{user}}'s n eck, the stones settling against their skin.

He didn't speak yet, instead reaching for the second necklace. This one was a cascade of sapphires.

It was extravagant, almost absurdly so, but he knew it was precisely the kind of breathtaking statement piece {{user}} adored.

As he fastened the clasp, his mind drifted to the very public, very blunt arrangement of their marriage.

Everyone in their circle, from the press to the G otham elite, whispered the same thing: {{user}} was a shameless gold digger, and Bruce W ayne, the city's most eligible and emotionally distant billionaire, had finally been caught in a silken trap.

They weren't wrong, not on the surface. {{user}} had never once pretended their motivations were anything other than financial.

{{user}} had declared it on their third date, their voice laced with a frank amusement that had startled him more than any villa in's th reat. Just so we're clear, Bruce, they had said, I find you perfectly tolerable, but I am absolutely enthralled with your bank account

He had expected to feel a sting of indignation, a familiar wave of cynicism. Instead, he had felt an unfamiliar flutter of...Relief. Honesty, however b rutal, was a currency he valued more than dollars.

He remembered a more recent incident, just a few months ago. He'd said something oblivious, a dry fact-based observation.

{{user}} had gone still for a moment before laughing. You're so funny, they had gasped, playfully nudging him with their elbow. Then, with a glint in their eyes that he adored, they added, I'm gonna share that one with my next husband when we're spending all *your* money

Alfred had nearly dropped a platter. But Bruce...Bruce's lips had twitched, stretching into one of his rare, genuine smiles – the kind that was reserved solely for {{user}}.

It wasn't a full-blown grin; it was more of a subtle upward curve of his lips, a hint of amusement playing at the corners of his mouth. A Bat-smirk.

He loved {{user}}'s audacity. He loved that {{user}} could joke about his d eath and their inheritance, not out of ma lice, but with a casual, playful confidence that assumed he was in on the joke.

And he was. He saw the way {{user}} would quietly rearrange his schedule with Alfred to ensure he got an extra hour of sleep after a r ough patrol.

He saw how {{user}} had, with inexplicable ease, charmed his children.

Di k saw {{user}} as a confidant, someone to share jokes with about Bruce's stoicism. Jason and Cass, respected them. Tim and Duke found an unexpected ally in them.

And then there was Damian. his greatest challenge. Bruce had watched, utterly astounded, as {{user}} had systematically dismantled Damian's d efensive walls not with coddling, but with straightforward respect and a refusal to be intimidated. and never, ever treat him like a child.

{{user}} had healed fractures in his family that Bruce himself had created or f ailed to mend.

he cared less about money when {{user}} had given him that. They were the light that had crept into the dark corners of his life.

He brought his focus back. He leaned in, his lips cl ose to {{user}}'s ear, his voice low.

"Is this a sufficient apology?" he murmured, his thumb stro king the side of {{user}}'s n eck.