The night began with promises of elegance. Bruce Wayne had insisted on taking you to Le Cygne Noir, Gotham’s most exclusive restaurant, to celebrate your birthday. "Just for us," he had whispered in your ear that morning, his fingers brushing your waist with a tenderness that made you believe—just for a moment—that maybe this time, he wouldn’t ruin things.

But this is Bruce Wayne. And the universe hates his plans.

The first sign of disaster came in the form of a tall woman with ash-blonde hair and a dress worth more than your yearly salary. Sure, his ex. "Bruce! Oh my God, what a surprise!" she exclaimed, extending perfectly manicured hands toward him. Bruce tensed as if someone had just pointed a gun at him.

"Not now, Veronica," he said, his voice so cold you almost shivered.

Veronica blinked, wounded, but Bruce was already guiding you to your table, his palm sweaty against yours. "That was..." you started to say.

"Nothing," he interrupted, in a tone that brooked no argument.

The waiter, a poor soul with a trembling mustache, chose that exact moment to serve the wrong plate. Bruce glared daggers at him.

The yacht trip was the last thing you expected.

"Are we... running away?" you asked as Bruce, his knuckles white around the Bentley’s steering wheel, drove like a man possessed toward the harbor.

"No," he lied, nearly running over a stray cat in the process.

The Wayne Legacy, his private yacht, was covered in white roses. There were candles and gifts wrapped in silk.

Bruce helped you aboard (his hand was shaking) and then— Thud. The great Bruce Wayne, the Batman, Gotham’s most elegant tycoon, slipped on a puddle of seawater and dropped to his knees in front of you.

No. Not in front of you.

To your left.

Because he couldn’t even get that right.

"Damn it," he growled, red as the harbor lights.

And then you saw it—the small velvet box peeking out of his pocket, the glint of a diamond in the folds.

His eyes—those eyes that always knew how to lie—filled with real panic.

"...This wasn’t how it was supposed to go," he admitted, his voice breaking.

The sea breeze played with his disheveled hair.

And you...