Nice To Meet You -Epilogue-
The light in the room is kind.
It spills in through the tall window in soft bands, warming the pale walls and rumpled sheets, turning the hospital into something almost gentle. Camille is propped up against a stack of pillows, hair pulled back in a loose knot, face still tired but unmistakably hers. Alive in a way that no monitor needs to confirm.
You stand half inside the bathroom doorway, half out, holding two dresses against yourself as if they might attack.
“This one,” Camille says, pointing lazily with a finger that still bears the faint mark of an IV bruise. “Definitely that one.”
You look down. “It’s too much.”
“It’s a date,” she counters. “It’s allowed to be too much.”
You sigh and switch the dresses. “This one’s boring.”
Camille hums, considering. “You survived caves, cultists, and tax season. I think boring is allowed too.”
You glance at her, catching the corner of her smile. There’s mischief there now. Familiar. The kind that used to surface over spreadsheets, late-night takeout, and office gossip whispered too loudly.
“You’re enjoying this,” you accuse.
“Immensely,” she says. “It’s nice that I’m not the one being fussed over for once.”
You fold the dresses over your arm and lean against the doorframe. For a moment, you just watch her breathe. No counting this time. No dread attached to the rise and fall of her chest.
“It does feel weird,” you say with a light laugh. “Like I shouldn’t be leaving you yet.”
Camille nods slowly. “I’m better, though.”
She shifts, adjusting the blanket over her legs. “I know I lost time,” she says, matter-of-fact. “Weeks. There are gaps I can feel but can’t see. Like trying to remember a dream after you’re fully awake.”
You tense instinctively, but she reaches out and catches your wrist.
“Hey,” she says gently. “I don’t need the details.”
You swallow. “Some things were hard,” you say carefully. “Some things…we got through.”
She studies your face, then nods. “That’s enough.”
There’s no fear in her voice. Just acceptance. Just trust.
She glances toward the empty bassinet by the window and smiles to herself. “Brian took him for a walk. Said we deserved a little quiet.”
Your chest tightens, but in a good way. “How is he?”
“Perfect,” Camille says without hesitation. “Loud and hungry. And completely unimpressed by anything except being held.”
You smile at her, thinking of her chubby-cheeked boy. “Oliver is a good name.”
“I know,” she says with a toothy grin.
Her happiness fills the room like a warm blanket.
“He’s an anchor,” she continues softly. “Every time I start wondering about the missing pieces, I look at him and…I’m here again. Present.”
You nod. She’s changed. You’ve changed. But looking at her now with her content look, you realize that changed doesn’t mean broken.
Camille’s gaze sharpens on you, just slightly. “You’re stalling.”
You huff a bit. “Am not.”
“You are,” she insists. “And you’re not allowed to.”
You lift a brow. “Says who?”
“Says the woman you’ve put your life on pause for,” Camille replies lightly. Then, more seriously, “You saved. Showed up for me. Even if I can’t remember how. Don’t stop showing up for yourself now.”
You look down at the dresses, and it’s an easy choice to make.
Camille grins. “Told you.”
You pull the dress on properly this time, smoothing it down your sides, suddenly very aware of your reflection in the narrow mirror. You don’t look like the person who was dragged out of a cave, half-mad and shaking.
You look like someone with a bit of class.
“So,” Camille says, settling back into her pillows. “Am I allowed to know who it is, or is it a mysterious fresh-start situation?”
You hesitate just long enough to give yourself away.
She laughs. “Oh my God.”
“What?” you protest.
“Bruce,” she says, delighted. “It’s Bruce.”
Your face heats instantly. “Well, yes, but—”
“Nu-uh,” she interrupts. “You don’t have to qualify it. I knew the second you said ‘boring’ like it was a crime. You only do that when you care.”
You groan, dropping onto the edge of the bed. “It’s a little embarrassing.”
“There’s no reason to be,” Camille reaches out and squeezes your hand. “I’m happy for you. You deserve something good that doesn’t come with an emergency siren.”
You swallow a tight feeling in your throat. ‘She has no idea.’
“I’ve got to say, though, who knew my going-away dinner would turn into this.”
“That’s an understatement.”
Before you can say more, Camille flinches, a strike of pain flashing over her face.
“I can stay,” you offer quickly, but she waves you off.
With a soft smile, she says, “Go. I’ll be here. Brian will be here. Oliver will be here. I’ve got everything I need.”
“I’ll come back tomorrow,” you promise.
You lean in and press a kiss to her forehead, lingering just a second long.
“I love you,” you murmur.
“I know,” she says. “That’s why I’m alive.”
You gather your things and step into the hallway. You toss a look over your shoulder. Camille’s eyes are already closed, hand settling over her stomach out of habit.
The door closes softly behind you. Outside, the air is crisp, bright, and almost painfully normal. A black car waits at the curb, engine humming quietly.
You stop for a moment before getting in, turning back to look at the hospital. The building rises calm and unthreatening. No shadows or ghouls lurking waiting to claim your friend.
You let your shoulders fall. Tonight, you would be sage, you wouldn’t have to be on your guard…
You exhale long and steady and step into the car.
***
You should be feeling the tingle of excitement. The tinge of nervousness. The bite of heat on your cheeks.
Instead, you find yourself in a familiar situation with your eyes narrowed at a haughty maitre’d, whose dark brown eyes are slightly amused at your annoyance.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, I don’t see the name on the reservation.”
“Wayne? You’re telling me you don’t see Bruce Wayne’s name on the reservation?!” You hiss, feeling your haunches rise. You try your best to keep your voice from rising. The maitre’d’s smile flickers, just barely. Polite and professional.
Unmoved.
“I’m quite sure, ma’am,” he says smoothly. “If you’ll allow me to check again—”
A familiar, dry voice cuts in behind you.
“Don’t bother.”
You freeze.
Bruce Wayne steps up beside you as if he’s been there the entire time, hands tucked into the pockets of a dark coat that probably cost more than your rent used to. He looks…normal. No armor. No tension in his shoulders. Just a man on a date who is clearly very late.
“That one’s on me,” he adds to the maitre’d. “I told them, Wayne. They must have written something else. Happens more often than you’d think.”
The maitre’d’s expression shifts instantly. Recognition slides into mortification. “Of course, Mr. Wayne. My apologies.”
Bruce doesn’t look at him. His attention is entirely on you.
“You okay?” he asks quietly.
You huff. “I was about five seconds away from committing a felony.”
A corner of his mouth lifts. “I appreciate your restraint.”
The maitre’d clears his throat. “Your table is ready. This way, please.”
As you follow him into the restaurant, the noise eases in warm and layered. Low conversation, the clink of glassware, the soft scrape of chairs being pulled back. It smells like wine, citrus, and bread just out of the oven.
Bruce’s hand brushes your lower back as the host leads you through the room. It’s brief, instinctive, but sends a small spark up your spine and fuels a welcome heat to your cheeks.
He pulls out your chair and waits until you sit before taking his own, the movement unhurried, deliberate. For a moment, you just look at each other across the table.
Each of you is reading the other as best as you can.
“You look beautiful,” he says quietly.
The compliment lands differently than it would have been weeks ago. It isn’t an appraisal. It’s recognition.
You smile. “Camille approved.”
A hint of warmth touches his eyes. “She has good taste.”
The waiter appears, pours water, and leaves again. Candlelight flickers between you, catching in the planes of Bruce’s face, softening him. He looks tired. He also looks…lighter.
“Why here?” you question, eyes darting around the room in an attempt not to awkwardly settle on him.
“This place has a soufflé I think you’ll like,” he says.
You blink. “You chose this place just for that?”
“I may have hoped you would be inspired to come over to the manor and make more of your desserts,” he says, eyes sparkling. “And I hoped it would make you smile.”
You laugh, the sound surprising you with how easy it comes. “That’s devious.”
“I try,” he says lightly. “I’ve been told food bribery is one of your weaknesses.”
“Only when it’s done well,” you reply. “Depending on how good it is, I’ll consider it a binding contract.”
His smile widens, slow and genuine. “Then I have to hope it’s exceptional.”
Menus arrive, but you barely glance at your own. Instead, you take a moment to really look at him. The familiar lines of his face are highlighted by candlelight, and the way his shoulders no longer seemed coiled for impact. It’s still Bruce, still complicated, with a secret that might lead him to bail on the dinner. But right now, he’s here. With you.
“You feel different,” he says after a quiet moment, as if he were thinking about you too. “Not in a bad way.”
You consider it. “I think I stopped waiting for the floor to drop out from under me.”
His gaze holds yours. “That’s not nothing.”
The waiter returns to take your order, and when he leaves again, the table feels like it belongs to the pair of you, weighed down by shared glances and half-smiles. Conversation flows more easily now. Nothing about the caves or about monsters or demons or what almost happened.
You talk about Camille’s baby. About the work, you might never go back to. About a place you saw once and meant to return to.
Outside, the city moves on, unaware of how close it came to losing you. Inside, you let yourself lean into the chair, into the warmth, into the simple miracle of being alive and choosing to be here.
***
“It’s late,” he says, looking at you with mirth in his eyes as you lean against the door of your apartment.
“You have a curfew?” You tease. You feel a little bolder, the taste of sumptuous red wine dancing on the back of your tongue. You’d only had a glass. Enough to relax away tension and apparently tease your date.
He smirks. He doesn’t respond right away, instead choosing to run a hand down your arm with light fingers from the top of your shoulder down to the palm of your hand. “Not a curfew, more like a few meetings that I can’t be late for.”
You chuckle.
“I’m not surprised.”
His hand lingers in yours, not hesitant. Not rushed. Just…there. The city hums softly behind him, traffic and distant voices bleeding together into something almost soothing.
“I had a good time tonight,” he says. There’s a lightness to the way he says it, no pressure weighing down on either of you.
“So did I,” you reply. Its ease fills you with a little bit of joy.
He studies you for a second, like he’s committing the moment to memory. The way the porch light catches your face, the relaxed set of your shoulders, the fact that you aren’t braced for anything.
“I don’t want to push,” he adds. “I know things are still…settling.”
You nod. “They are.” Then, after a moment, you smile. “But I don’t want to pull away either.”
That earns you a soft breath of a laugh from him. “Good.”
He leans in then, not slow or domineering. Just close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, the faint scent of cologne and night air. He presses a kiss to your cheek, gentle and lingering, as if asking permission even after everything.
“You should get inside,” he murmurs.
“Okay.”
He steps back, hand sliding reluctantly from yours. “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, Bruce.”
You watch him walk back to the waiting car, the door closing softly behind him. You turn your key in the lock and step inside. You hear the car drive off.
The apartment greets you with the familiar quiet. No alarms. No shadows. Just home.
You lean back against the door for a moment, letting the night catch up to you. Your phone seems to buzz almost immediately.
Camille: Home safe? Have fun?
You smile, thumbs hovering before you reply.
You: I am. I did.
You set the phone down, heart light. Tonight, you can finally let yourself believe that this gentle, ordinary happiness is something you’re allowed to keep.
And tomorrow, whatever it brings, can wait.
