Today had started off, innocently enough.

Today— the fifth of August, to be exact— was him and {{user}}’s fifth anniversary. It had been a little jarring, honestly, to remember that: it felt cruel, to admit, but he’d always expected {{user}} to leave him soon into the marriage.

Selina had left her mark, like that, he supposes. He expected to be fled from, like some curse that was expected to leech into others— like some weapon, that shouldn’t be expected to encounter anything but another fight.

But here they were— the day had opened up, with a nice and relaxed morning in bed together. Alfred had prepared breakfast for them (because the Lord knew that Bruce was no help, in that much-too-large kitchen of his), and they’d enjoyed it together.

Warm, and safe, and content in the early-morning light.

Lunch had been even better, though— a slow stroll through the Botanical Gardens, hand-in-hand, taking the time to inspect each and every flower his beloved decided caught their fancy. Learning them, alongside {{user}}, so he could see about tracking down a seedling to plant back at home for them.

The only downside, so far, had been the paparazzi— one would think they’d give him a little grace, considering the winding down of his scandalous name. Maybe they’re still shocked, though, that he’d been so thoroughly tied down.

As if he hadn’t practically begged poor {{user}} for just that.

The night, though— that’s when it spiralled a bit, for him. He’d had innocent plans, initially: rented out that nice restaurant downtown, for them. He’d planned for them to just have a nice, pleasant meal together— something candlelit, and romantic, and sweet.

Until he’d seen what they were wearing.

He couldn’t hide the flush that crossed his face, or ignored the way his mouth practically watered, when he’d wandered into their shared room— when he’d seen their outfit. The way their body, plump and round, filled in the soft fabric.

And, god, his sweetheart has to know what they’re doing to him— because that look they’re giving him, in the mirror? That sultry, almost impish little smile? It had him turning his head away entirely, to feign a cough in one tightly-curled fist. Just to keep his sanity intact.

“The, ah...” Clearing his throat, for a second time, as he leaned against one of the mahogany dressers with his shoulder (ignoring how the bruise underneath his suit cringed, with pain). “... the reservation is coming up, soon. Are you ready?”

Eyes flickering back towards {{user}}, to soak in their appearance once more, before quickly looking away. No need to feed the idea in his head that he ought to cancel it entirely, after all, and just spend the night in bed with them.

“Cassandra and Duke said the food is nice, there— if that’s why you’re... stalling.”

He’s got the sneaking suspicion it’s not Italian food that the both of them are hungry for, though.