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Bruce brings it up one evening sitting on the couch in the manor, his tone more measured than usual. “There’s a charity gala,” he says. “For at-risk youth.”
You glance up at him, already understanding what he’s asking.
“I’d like you to come with me,” he continues. “Publicly.”
A pause. You consider it. The attention. The scrutiny. The shift it would create. Then you think about the boys. About what this means.
His expression softens, just slightly.
Alfred arrives the next day.
“You’ll need something appropriate,” he says smoothly. “Mr. Wayne insists.”
“Of course he does,” you mutter. But you go anyway.
What you don’t expect— is how much you enjoy it. Alfred is… surprisingly delightful company. Dry humor. Sharp observations. A quiet warmth that sneaks up on you. By the end of the day, you’re laughing more than you planned to. And he’s watching you with something almost fond.
“You are good for them,” he says at one point.
You glance at him, caught off guard.
“…They’re good for me too.”
He smiles and nods, like that’s exactly the answer he expected.
The night arrives quickly. When you step out— everything feels still for just a second.
The gown is black, elegant, floor-length, hugging just enough to feel bold without crossing into something you’re not. The front is modest, clean, while the back dips lower, striking just the right balance.
Your hair is swept up, Grecian in style, soft pieces framing your face.
You don’t feel like someone else. You feel like… a sharper version of yourself. Bruce is waiting when you come down.
And when he sees you— he stops. For a moment, he just looks at you.
“You look…” He exhales softly. “Breathtaking.”
“Thank you.” smile, just a little.
He offers his arm. You take it. And together— you step into the light.
The ballroom glows gold and crystal, every surface polished to perfection—too perfect. You’re used to harsh fluorescent lights, to blood and urgency and noise. This kind of elegance feels like a different planet.
You adjust your dress subtly, fingers brushing the fabric as you scan the room. Gotham’s elite. Politicians, donors, socialites.
Predators, in prettier clothing.
“Overwhelming?” Bruce murmurs beside you, his voice low, almost amused.
You glance at Bruce Wayne, immaculate in his tux, completely at ease in a world that still feels foreign to you. “I’ve handled six trauma cases at once,” you say lightly. “This is just… quieter.”
“For now,” he replies, a hint of something knowing in his tone before he’s pulled away by a board member.
And just like that—you’re alone.
“You're that ER Doctor, right?”
The voice is smooth, confident, practiced. You turn to find Harvey Dent stepping into your space, a charming smile already in place.
“Guilty,” you reply, polite but measured.
“I’ve heard about you,” he continues, taking your hand briefly, his grip warm and assured. “The ER miracle worker. Gotham’s lucky to have you.”
You huff a small laugh. “Miracle worker is a stretch. Mostly I just don’t give up when I probably should.”
“Mm,” Harvey tilts his head, studying you with open interest. “That kind of stubbornness is… admirable.”
There’s a beat. Then another.
“I was hoping I’d run into you tonight,” he adds, voice dipping just enough to shift the tone. “Though I have to say, you’re even more impressive in person.”
You’ve dealt with this before—different men, same energy. Usually, it’s easy to deflect.
But this is… complicated.
Because you are here with someone.
You smile, calm and unbothered. “Careful, Counselor. That almost sounded like flirting.”
“Almost?” Harvey grins, unashamed. “I can be more obvious if you’d prefer.”
You shake your head, amused despite yourself. “Tempting, but I should probably stop you there.” You gesture lightly across the room. “I’m here with someone.”
Harvey’s gaze follows yours—and lands exactly where you knew it would.
Recognition flickers. Then something sharper.
“Ah,” he exhales. “Of course you are.”
“Of course I am?” you echo, brow lifting.
“Well,” he straightens slightly, smile returning but tighter now, “it is Bruce Wayne.”
There’s a hint of challenge in it. Old rivalry. Old history.
You don’t get the chance to respond.
You don’t even see him approach, just feel the shift in the air as he steps in beside you, close enough that his presence is unmistakable. His hand settles at the small of your back—firm, grounding, just this side of possessive.
“Harvey,” Bruce says smoothly, though there’s an edge beneath the polish.
“Bruce,” Harvey replies, equally composed. “I was just keeping your date company.”
Bruce’s thumb brushes once against your back, subtle but deliberate. A silent claim.
You glance at him, catching the faint tension in his jaw, the way his shoulders have squared just slightly.
You decide—very intentionally—not to rescue him from it.
“Harvey was just telling me how impressive I am,” you say lightly, eyes flicking between them.
Bruce’s gaze drops to you for a fraction of a second, something warmer surfacing before he looks back at Harvey. “He’s right.”
Harvey lets out a quiet chuckle. “Careful, Bruce. Didn’t know you were the sharing type.”
The words hang in the air for half a second too long.
Your breath catches—just a little.
Harvey notices. Of course he does.
“Well,” he adjusts his cufflinks, smile returning in full politician form, “that answers that.” His gaze flicks to you one last time, something almost regretful there. “It was a pleasure, Doctor.”
“Likewise,” you reply, still composed.
He nods once to Bruce and moves on, disappearing back into the crowd like nothing happened.
Silence settles between you.
Bruce’s hand is still on your back.
You turn your head slightly, just enough to look up at him. “You handled that… subtly.”
His eyes meet yours, dark and intent. “He was flirting with you.”
“And I told him I’m dating you.”
Something in his expression shifts—tightens, then softens, like he’s trying to decide what to do with that.
If anything, it presses a fraction closer.
You tilt your head, studying him now. “You get like this with all your dates, or am I special?”
“You’re not like my other dates.”
The way he says it—it’s not a line. It’s a fact. And somehow, that’s worse.
Your chest tightens, just slightly.
“Dance with me,” he interrupts, already guiding you toward the floor.
It’s not a question. But it’s not a command either. It’s something in between. Something that makes it very hard to say no. And as his hand slides properly into yours, pulling you into the swirl of music and light, you can’t help but think—
The ER was easier than this.
The gala is everything you expected and more. Flashes of cameras. Murmurs of curiosity. Eyes following you as you move through the room at Bruce’s side.
You feel it—the attention, the speculation.
But it doesn’t overwhelm you. Because he doesn’t let it.He stays close. Grounded. Present.
You talk to donors. Listen to stories. Watch the impact of what this night represents.
By the end of the night, you’re laughing quietly with him near the edge of the room, the world narrowed down to just the two of you.
Across the room, cameras flash again.
Tomorrow, the tabloids will explode. Speculation. Headlines. Questions.
But tonight— none of that matters. Because for the first time— you’re not just part of their world. You’re part of his. And he’s not letting go.
By the time the tabloids start using the phrase “future Mrs. Wayne,” you’ve already stopped reading them.
Not completely—you’re not that disciplined—but enough to protect your peace. Enough to keep your life from turning into something dictated by headlines and speculation.
Nine months of dinners that turned into routines, routines that turned into something steadier. Nine months of learning Bruce in pieces—the quiet parts, the guarded ones, the ones he doesn’t offer easily but doesn’t hide from you either.
Nine months of the boys becoming… yours, in a way you don’t say out loud.
The attention has changed things.
You’ve had to cut back your hours at the hospital, stepping away from shifts you would have taken without hesitation before. At first, it felt wrong—like you were abandoning something important, something essential to who you are.
The apartment smells like sugar and warmth—cinnamon, butter, something soft and safe that settles into the walls like it belongs there.
It’s… not something either boy is used to.
“Are you sure that’s enough sugar?” Dick leans against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, watching you with exaggerated suspicion. At fourteen, he’s all restless energy and sharp eyes, already too observant for his own good.
You don’t even look up as you spread the filling. “I was a baker before I was a doctor. Have some faith in me.”
From the small kitchen table, Jason snorts. Eleven years old and already permanently unimpressed, he’s hunched over a book—but he’s been rereading the same page for the last five minutes.
“That’s not reassuring,” he mutters. Looking a the previously ruined batch in the trash.
You glance over your shoulder, catching the way his nose scrunches faintly at the smell—like he doesn’t trust something this good to be real.
“Relax,” you say, softer now. “Worst case scenario, we eat something slightly too sweet and survive the experience.”
Dick grins. “Bold assumption.”
You shoot him a look, but there’s a smile tugging at your mouth as you start rolling the dough. It’s messy—uneven—but you don’t seem to care.
Neither of them misses that.
There’s flour on your hands. A streak of it on your cheek.
You don’t look like someone who belongs in Bruce Wayne’s world right now.
Jason’s gaze lingers a second too long before he looks back down at his book.
Dick, of course, notices everything.
“So,” he says casually, pushing off the counter and wandering closer. “You do this a lot?”
You pause for half a second, then shrug. “When I have time. Which is… not often.”
Dick hums like he’s filing that away. “Huh.”
You slice the rolls and place them into the pan, spacing them out carefully. “Why?”
“No reason.” He glances at Jason, then back at you, something mischievous sparking in his expression. “Just trying to figure out if this is, like, a regular thing or if we’re witnessing a once-in-a-lifetime event.”
Jason looks up just enough to add, “Probably a fluke.”
You gasp softly, hand to your chest. “Wow. Betrayed in my own kitchen.”
“You invited us,” Jason shoots back, but there’s the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at his mouth now.
“Yeah,” Dick adds, leaning his elbows on the counter again. “Fed us, too. Honestly, this is getting suspicious.”
You narrow your eyes at him. “Suspicious?”
“Mm-hmm.” He gestures vaguely at the apartment, the warm air, the pan of cinnamon rolls. “Food, supervision, no imminent danger…”
You blink. “That’s your baseline for suspicion?”
“I’m just saying,” he continues, grin widening, “this is dangerously close to, like… a mom situation.”
Your hands pause over the pan, something quiet threading through your chest—but you don’t let it turn heavy.
Instead, you raise an eyebrow at Dick. “A mom situation?”
“Yeah,” he says, completely unbothered. “You know—making snacks, letting us hang out here, not kicking us out when we’re annoying—”
“Speak for yourself,” Jason mutters.
“—it’s very mom-coded,” Dick finishes, nodding to himself.
He’s looking at the table again, but his shoulders are tighter now. Guarded.
You wipe your hands on a towel, turning to face them fully.
You roll your eyes, but there’s warmth behind it. “You’re both extremely lucky I like you.”
Jason huffs quietly. “That’s debatable.”
You walk over, nudging his book down just enough to meet his eyes. “Oh, it’s not. I could’ve let you starve.”
He snorts despite himself. “We wouldn’t starve.”
“Sure,” you hum. “You’d just dramatically suffer until Alfred rescued you.”
Dick perks up. “To be fair, that’s a solid backup plan.”
You shake your head, but your hand lingers for just a second on the edge of the table near Jason—close enough to be there, not close enough to crowd him.
“Well No matter what happens,” you say gently, the humor still there but something steadier underneath it. “I do care about you. Both of you.”
Jason’s eyes flick up to yours.
Like he’s trying to decide if that’s safe to believe.
Dick doesn’t hesitate. “Yeah, we know.”
Jason doesn’t say anything.
But he doesn’t look away this time either.
You give him a small smile before stepping back, turning toward the oven. “Alright. Moment of truth.”
You slide the pan inside, closing the door with a soft click.
“Twenty minutes,” you announce.
Dick groans. “That’s forever.”
“Patience builds character.”
“I have enough character.”
“Debatable,” Jason mutters.
You laugh quietly, leaning back against the counter as the apartment settles into something soft again—warm, quiet, filled with the smell of cinnamon and something else that none of you quite name.
Something close enough to make it hard to leave.
The conversation starts simply enough.
It’s late, the manor quiet in a way that still feels unfamiliar even after all this time. The boys have already gone to bed—after prolonged arguments, laughter, and at least two reminders from Bruce that they were not negotiating their bedtime.
You’re sitting with him in the study, the low light casting everything in warm shadows.
“…That’s it?” you ask, glancing up from where you’re curled slightly into the couch. “No buildup? No dramatic lead-in?”
A faint hint of amusement touches his expression. “Would you prefer one?”
You consider that for a second.
“…No,” you admit. “I think that might make it worse.”
That earns a quiet huff of laughter from him.
But then you shake your head.
The word lands softer than it could have—but it’s firm. Bruce studies you, not surprised, but not dismissing it either. “No?”
You sit up a little straighter, meeting his gaze.
“I’m not moving in here,” you say calmly. “Not like that.”
Because it would be easy. Because it would blur lines you’re not ready to erase. Because you’ve seen what happens when people build something without a foundation strong enough to hold it.
“Because I’m not playing house,” you say instead, your tone steady. “I care about you. About them. But I’m not moving into this—” you gesture lightly around the room “—until it’s real.”
His gaze sharpens slightly. “This isn’t real to you?”
“You know that’s not what I meant.”
Silence stretches for a moment.
“I’m not moving anywhere,” you continue more gently, “until I’m married.”
You can see it in the way his expression shifts—not rejection, not frustration… something more thoughtful.
“…Alright,” he says after a moment.
And just like that, it’s settled.
A few weeks pass and the call comes too late. It’s the first thing you register. Too late, too vague, too wrong.
“Miss— I apologize for the hour.”
You’re already sitting up, heart pounding, phone pressed tight to your ear. “Alfred? What’s wrong? Is it the boys?”
And that’s when your stomach drops.
You’re out of bed before he finishes the sentence.
Wayne Manor feels different at night. Too quiet. Too empty. Like something is holding its breath.
The doors are already open when you arrive—Alfred waiting, composed as ever, but there’s something strained in the lines of his face.
“How bad?” you ask, already moving.
He doesn’t answer. That’s worse. You follow him. Past the main halls. Past the places you’ve been before.
Somewhere you’ve never been.
Your steps falter. “Alfred—”
“Please,” he says quietly. “There is no more time for half-truths.”
Something cold settles in your chest. But you keep walking. The cave opens up around you like something out of a nightmare.
Cold stone. Machinery. Shadows.
Him. On the table. Unmoving. Bleeding. Your breath catches.
Black. Armored. Torn open in places, soaked in blood.
You step closer, slower now, like if you move too fast it’ll become real.
“What… what is this?” your voice comes out thin.
Alfred is beside you, steady, grounding.
“Miss, I need you to listen carefully.”
You’re already reaching for him, your hands hovering over the worst of the damage. “He needs a hospital—”
“He cannot go to a hospital.”
Alfred meets your gaze. And then, very gently— He reaches down. And removes the cowl. The world tilts.
Because it’s not just Batman.
Your hands start shaking.
“No,” you whisper. “No, that’s— no, that doesn’t—”
But it does.God, it does.Every late night.Every unexplained injury. Every time he brushed something off— It all crashes together at once, suffocating.
“He is losing blood,” Alfred says, voice firm now. “If you are to be angry with him, I suggest you keep him alive long enough to endure it.”
That— That snaps something back into place.
You suck in a sharp breath, forcing your hands to steady.
Alfred is already moving. You don’t think after that.
You cut through the suit, exposing the damage—deep lacerations, bruising, something that feels dangerously close to internal bleeding.
“Jesus, Bruce—what did you do?” you mutter, more to yourself than anyone.
Of course. Your chest tightens—but you push it down. Focus. Pressure. Stabilize. You work fast, precise, slipping into the version of yourself that doesn’t panic, doesn’t feel.
But it’s harder this time.
Because every time your hands touch him, all you can think is—
Halfway through, you feel it.
Eyes on you. You glance up— And freeze. Two figures stand at the edge of the cave.
Your stomach drops again.
Your gaze flicks between them, horror dawning in slow, terrible clarity. “You—”
Dick takes a step forward. “We can explain—”
“You’re children,” you snap, the words cracking out of you before you can stop them.
“You’re children,” you repeat, louder now, your hands trembling as you press down on Bruce’s wound. “And he’s letting you—what? Do this? Go out there and—”
“He’s not ‘letting’ us,” Jason shoots back, defensive, hurt bleeding through. “We chose—”
“I don’t care!” you cut in, your voice sharp enough to slice. “You don’t get to choose this!”
Breathing hard, you look back at Bruce—unconscious, broken on the table.
“…all of you lied to me,” you say, quieter now. Not yelling.
Dick’s voice is softer when he answers. “We didn’t know how to tell you.”
You laugh once. It’s not kind.
“Yeah,” you murmur. “I’m getting that.”
You finish the procedure in silence after that. Efficient. Cold. Professional. When you finally step back, peeling off your gloves, your hands are still shaking.
Relief floods the room. But you don’t feel it. You don’t look at Bruce. You don’t look at the boys. You just grab your bag.
You stop at the edge of the cave.
“…if he dies,” you say without turning around, your voice steady in a way that feels unnatural, “it won’t be because I didn’t do my job.”
Leaving all of it behind—
you already know you won’t be able to stay away.
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