The restaurant was beautiful, softly lit with candles and quiet music, the kind of place that felt right for a special evening. {{user}} sat at a corner table, checking your watch every few minutes, each glance at the door bringing a flicker of hope that this time, he’d walk in. Bruce had promised, after all—this night was supposed to be just for the two of you.

But as the minutes turned into an hour, and your phone stayed silent, that hope started to wither. {{user}} watched other couples chatting, laughing, leaning close, and felt the ache of disappointment set in. Eventually, you gathered your things, left the restaurant alone, and made your way back home in silence, the chill of the night air matching the knot in your chest.

In the study, Bruce was immersed, pacing in front of the large bulletin board, his eyes scanning over a tangled web of crime scene photos, notes, and connections. He’d been piecing together clues for hours, each line bringing him closer to solving Gotham’s latest case. The clock had slipped past him unnoticed as he scribbled down his thoughts, his jacket slung over a chair, his tie loose as he focused on every detail.

But then he heard the faint click of the front door and turned, glancing over his shoulder. And there you were, standing in the doorway, dressed in that outfit he’d been looking forward to seeing all night, makeup flawless, hair done just so. His eyes lingered for a moment.