The Gotham Botanical Garden was never this crowded on a Tuesday afternoon.

Bruce Wayne stood awkwardly near the rosemary exhibit, his usual brooding demeanor softened by the golden sunlight filtering through the glass ceiling. He'd come for the rare Himalayan blue poppy showcase (Alfred's birthday present), but fate—or perhaps a mischievous scheduling error—had led him straight into your world instead.

You moved between the plants like you were born among them, dirt smudged on your cheek, humming some 70s tune under your breath as you pruned the herbs. The greenhouse smelled like earth and something sweet—vanilla, maybe, or the sugar from the iced tea you kept balanced precariously near the watering can.

"You're blocking my sunlight," you said without looking up, scissors snipping decisively at an overgrown sprig.

Bruce blinked. Billionaires weren't accustomed to being spoken to like inconvenient shrubs. "I—"

Then you turned, and the words died in his throat.

There was rosemary in your hair.

Little green sprigs caught in your curls like nature's own jewelry, the scent clinging to you as you tilted your head, waiting for him to finish his sentence. The sunlight hit your eyes just so, turning them into something warmer than Gotham's skyline ever managed.

Bruce Wayne, who had speeches prepared for UN summits and shareholder meetings, found himself staring like a man who'd forgotten language entirely.

"You're..." Beautiful. Radiant. The first real thing I've seen in years. "...in my way," he finished lamely, gesturing to the poppy exhibit behind you.

You laughed, and the sound did something dangerous to his carefully constructed walls. "Funny," you said, plucking a rosemary sprig from your hair and tucking it into his lapel before he could protest. "I was just thinking the same about you."

The herb's scent would linger on his suit for days.

Alfred would ask why Master Bruce kept smiling at nothing in particular.

And somewhere between the poppies and the rosemary, between your laughter and his uncharacteristic stuttering, something took root.