Midnight Dreams

“It’s such a shame you’re still a bachelor, Mr. Wayne. There are many lovely men and women attending the Gala who would make wonderful partners.” Bruce opened his mouth to correct the Mayor, but closed his mouth when he realized that he didn’t have a partner. Why were his instincts telling him otherwise? He’s never been married before in his life. Yes, he’s had numerous love affairs, but nothing serious enough to leave the giant pitt that he had in his stomach. For weeks, he’s felt as if something was missing. His life felt like an incomplete puzzle and the most important piece had vanished. Strangely enough, he was the only one who felt this way. Everyone around him carried on normally, but him. He couldn’t sleep…he could barely eat. All he could do was stare into space wondering why he couldn’t remember what he was missing…or who. He looked around the Wayne Manor ballroom and felt like his missing puzzle piece was broken into small pieces. A woman with (H/C) hair…and another with (E/C) eyes. He was seeing a face that he couldn’t see. Like a blurry photo that someone took too fast on their phone. Suddenly that pit in his stomach had turned into a crater. “Master Bruce, are you not planning to join the patrol tonight?” Alfred asked, hours later. Instead of suiting up and patrolling the streets of Gotham, he was sitting in front of the fire nursing a cup of whiskey. The fire had been a white noise to help him focus his mind on his memories, “Master Bruce?” Alfred asked softly, and placed his hand on Bruce’s shoulder. “Something's wrong, Alfred.” Bruce muttered then stood up, “Every morning I wake up smelling a perfume that I know I certainly haven’t used. At night I look over on the other side of my bed expecting someone to be there, but no one is. I hold a door open for no one, I pour two glasses of whiskey instead of one, I leave my bathroom door unlocked in case someone wants to come in and join me in the shower.” Bruce ranted and began pacing in front of the fireplace. He normally had a terrible sleep schedule, but now it was even worse. On par with Tim by now, “Why am I having this terrible ache in my chest? This isn’t anything like I felt with Selina.” He whimpered and sat back down in his seat. The Bruce Wayne aka Batman had just whimpered like a heartbroken puppy. Alfred knew now, something was seriously wrong. “Sir, if I may-” Alfred started and walked around the chair to kneel down in front of the fractured man he saw as a son, “It seems this all started after the night a gate of Hell opened in Gotham.” He said, and Bruce tensed up. Alfred was right. He could barely remember that night, but what he did remember had been reduced to flash images. The Demons were a threat against him. No, no they weren’t. It was to stop someone else. Bruce felt a chill go through his spine when a memory broke through the wall of his mind.

 A woman with (H/C) hair standing with her back to him. He was on the ground and could barely move. Magic flowed from her hands and to the open gate, pushing it closed. Her mouth was moving, but he couldn’t hear what she was saying. When she turned her head towards him, her face was blurry. One hand moved from the gate towards him and then…nothing. He woke up the next morning in his bed covered in bandages. 

“A woman in all black, (H/C) hair. She was powerful.” Bruce whispered and looked down at his hand. A frown worked its way onto his face as he stared at his left hand, “I had a ring…” He said, then stood up while resting his hands on Alfred’s shoulders who stood with him, “I had a wife! That woman is my wife! And I know just who to find to fix my mind.” He said and darted from the room. 

“I truly am getting too old for this.” Alfred muttered then picked up the two whiskey glasses left by Bruce.

><><><><><><

Batman couldn’t believe he was standing at the doorstep of this house once again, but he needed them now more than ever. Magic was the cause of this, and there were only a select few he trusted to help him through his. Well only one, but they were kind of a packaged deal. “Aye, Batsy! What a wonderful surprise! The missus and I were just about to step out!” John Constantine said with a massive grin, and stepped aside so Batman could enter the House of Mystery. 

Zatanna sat by the fireplace and had a warm smile on her face that vanished as soon as Batman got close to her, “John…it’s him?” She exclaimed while standing up. A magic radiated off of Batman. Similar to what she’d been sensing everywhere lately, but it was strongest on him. Whatever the source was, it originated from him. “Ah, now I can sense it. The magic of a very powerful forgetting curse. Someone wanted to erase themselves from your mind batsy. A little bit of hocus pocus.” John tease then went pale. His eyes widened as he started muttering ‘hocus pocus’ over and over again. Like Batman, he started feeling a pit in his stomach. He was missing someone. Someone so special to him. Someone he saw as a sister, “Whoever cast this curse didn’t just curse Batman, they curse everyone. I bet the entire planet is cursed to forget them. Even me.” John said and started running around the house. He pulled book after book from shelves until he found one, and started flipping through the pages rapidly until he found the page he’d been searching for. “Here! A forgetting curse so powerful not even Fate could break it if he wanted to, but I guess no magic is as powerful as intellectual minds such as ours. No offense, Love.” John said and winked at Zatanna who just rolled her eyes and snatched the book from John to read it herself. After reading it, she had Batman describe everything he’d been feeling.  “The spell was cast too quickly to be precise. That’s why you’re finding fragments or feeling like something is missing. When we made it to Gotham, the gate had already been closed. All we found was you muttering and asleep. Now we know how the gate closed. Now we know you have a wife” Zatanna said and closed the book, “I can reverse the spell since it’s in such a weak state, but I can only reverse it for us three. To completely break the curse, we need to find the one to cast it.” She said and held her hands out for John and Batman to take. 

John took her hand without hesitation, but Batman hesitated. He wasn’t as trusting of someone getting into his mind, but he knew he needed to get answers. He needed to get his wife back. Zatanna closed her eyes and let out a deep breath before they opened again and were glowing, “Esrever ruo esruc dna tel su remember!” She chanted over and over as white hot pain tore through all of their minds, but no one let go.

Suddenly memories flooded Batman’s mind. Everything was unblurred, and clear. Your smile, your touch, your lips on his. The sound of your laugh and the feeling of your hand between his fingers. The love that dominated his very soul, and the pain that he felt that night when he tried to stop you from closing the gate, but your magic kept him pinned to the ground. The Noir Witch, Y/N Wayne. 

Bruce's jaw clenched hard, not expecting to hear the name of his first born come out of the youngest mouth. It's been a few days since Damian stumbled upon the furthest room in the manor, he was bored and it didn't seem a bad idea to explore the manor that would be his one day. The room was empty, except for a few drawings and the clear signs of Alfred's care. He stared at the drawings with a careful gaze mostly unfinished, much to his dismay, and searching further in the room, he found a small notebook. Too shabby to be a diary and yet too used to be unimportant.

“Joker is out again, so dad won't be on my birthday. I dont think he even remember it to began with”

The words were too mature to belong to a child, but also the trembling letters said otherwise.

“Today Papa yelled at me. It was like the man who killed mom, my chest hurts, but Alfred said papa didn't mean it, he was just too tired because of his duties. He must be right, even if he yelled, Dad would never be mean to me. He is a hero after all.”

“Jay and I made a sleepover just for the two of us, it was good.”

“Jay is dead. I don't know what to do”

“I’m alone. I want to go where I can find mom and Jay again.”

“Me and Bruce had a huge fight today. He will send me away. Dick did nothing to dissuade Bruce's decision, I have no one. I should go see Jay one last time.”

Damian didn't know how to feel. He had a sister, one that nobody in the mansion had to bother to tell him. Does she also not know of his existence? Or she simply didn't want contact? Hell, is she even alive? He knows nothing, but soon he will. Damian is never the one to back down from something when he gets it in his head and that's exactly what he is doing now. Confronting people has never been a problem to him, even more if the said person is his father.

“Y/N… She is your sister.”- Bruce said after what felt like an eternity. The dinner Alfred had prepared, now, tasting bitter in his mouth.

“You sent her away. Where?”

As if the vibes of the dinner weren't already dull, the teen kept questioning. Now the rest of his siblings are carefully eyeing the exchange, though Jason seemed eerily quiet after having heard his sister's name.

“Master Damian, im afraid right no-”

“No, it must be now. Why do I have a sister I never knew existed?”- He interrupted the butler with some urgency.- “Why would father send her away in such a delicate moment?”

By now, Bruce already knew his son had read Y/N diary,with himself having read his daughter's words to the point he seemed to have them tattooed on his mind. He knew he was in the wrong for driving his child away, but all his attempts of reconciliation have been met with the wall standing between them. She doesn't answer him anymore, none of them. He tried going there, calling, texting, hell he even sent letter’s, but never got an answer.

“Damian, I don't want to talk about it-”

“Does she even know Todd is alive?”- The next question came as an arrow, not only on his father's chest but also on Jason, who without a single word got up and left the manor.

“Dami, please. Not now.”- Being Dick the one to intervene this time, the melancholic look in his eyes was enough to shut the youngest.

Even so, everyone on the table knew this wasn't the end of it. Her presence still remained in the manor, even if it didn't shout to be heard, even if their father tried to keep it under the rug.

Out of the mansion, Jason mind kept reminding him of the twelve year old you. His steps were automatic, not really knowing where his body was taking him.

“Always by my side, right Jay?”

“Always pipsqueak.”

A broken promise. Not by will, but by circumstances. He can't help but feel bad, after all you only had him. Bruce and Dick relationship wasn't the same, their older brother barely being at home now. And despite Alfred's care, the old man still manages the whole mansion as well as the other family activities, it is not like he had all the free time in the world. The thought of you being alone made his heart ache, even more knowing you hadn't the best relationship with Bruce.

He thought that you resented him, he tried reaching out to you also, but having received no response and after Alfred told him that your end has been silent for years, he decided to give you space. But now… Now he needs closure. He must soothe you, god… his little sister, sent away. Jason can't imagine how lonely it must have been, but don't worry he's coming for you now and he won’t let Bruce stand in between that.

Y/N Wayne was an anomaly in the Wayne Family. Not traumatized enough to relate to her siblings, not athletic enough to train with them. So it wasn’t surprising when her father—Bruce Wayne. Send her abroad out of ‘safety’ but she knew, she was just a hindrance in their night life. And just like a good and understandable daughter, she agreed.

The whole family expected that the moment she came back, she is independent and matured to understand everything. And maybe bruce can find a job in the cave for her like helping tim. But none of them, most especially Alfred, expect to see her—standing outside the door with nothing but herself. Soaked with rain water that hasn’t stopped since morning.

She had grown taller since the last time he had seen her. Her posture was straighter, her shoulders slightly tense, as though she had learned to brace herself against something invisible.

Her hair caught Alfred’s attention first.

It used to be dark—soft and neatly brushed when she was younger.

Now a stark white streak ran through the front of it, cutting through the darker strands like frost creeping across glass.

had she dyed it? its almost the same with Jason

“Young Miss? I didn’t know you would arrive today, then i should have been picked you up in the airport” Alfred confusedly told her. And let her in, guiding her towards the reception room.

“Hello, Alfred. It’s fine, is the other here?” she calmly told him, but evidently in her voice how hoarse and monotone it is. Gone is the cheery and excited voice. In fact, alfred expects that the moment she arrive, she would jump and run inside. But no, it seems like there is a new entity infront of him.

“They are not here. But any minute now they will come, are you hungry? Would you like something to eat?” he asked upon noticing how thin she became, was it because of the food she consume in her dorm? he thought.

“Yes, but can you bring it in my room? I would like to take a rest for awhile, its been a long journey” she replied while slowly ascending in the stairs, she looked at him and smile—no,smirked.

“Of course, I would bring it as soon as possible” He responded while curtly bowing and then stared at her who is holding the railings while walking in the stairs.

The moment she entered her room, she realized how not anything changed. Except for the bed linen and curtains which seems alfred change consistently to appease the design of the manor. Her room which is full of awards, medals, mood board she consistently designed every month before was still there. Her textbook was still there and some old dolls she kept because it was only the gift she received from her father before.

She took everything one by one and throw them in a garbage bag she found in her bathroom. Upon cleaning those things whom she treasure before because thats what she only have that she is proud to show to her family—but now everything is useless. None of them mattered anymore. Now her room only consists of bed, table and a blank canvas with some paints and brush. She slowly walked to wards the aisle stand and seat infront of it, her hands found the charcoal.

Her other hand is slowly touching her neck to touch the metallic chain of her necklace which has locket. She opens it and look at what it contain, the left side of the locket contains a picture of her and on the right side is a cut of white hair.

“….well i don’t have a picture of me right now, just put my hair there for remembrance”

His voice ring in her head. That’s right, thats the reason why there is a white hair inside of her locket. After staring at the locket for awhile, her other hands which holds a charcoal pencil slowly placed in the blank canvas. She closed her eyes to remember his face, because the only reference she had of his face is the one she had in her mind.

“Im scared of forgetting how you look like—”

“—Brother”

Later on…

The rain had begun sometime after midnight.

It fell softly across the sprawling grounds of Wayne Manor, coating the long stone driveway in a thin sheen that reflected the pale lights from the estate. The surrounding woods swayed gently under the wind, their branches scratching faintly against the high windows of the manor like restless fingers.

Inside, the house was awake.It always was at this hour.

The grandfather clock in the main hall read 2:18 AM when the familiar rumble of the Batmobile echoed across the drive. A moment later, headlights swept across the tall windows of the manor before disappearing beneath the arch of the garage entrance. Not long after, the front doors opened.

Dick Grayson stepped inside first, already peeling off his gloves as he crossed the marble floor.

“Man,” he muttered, stretching his arms above his head, “Gotham criminals seriously need to learn the concept of weekends.”

Behind him, Jason Todd followed with far less grace, pulling the red helmet off his head and tossing it onto a nearby table with a dull thud.“You complaining about exercise again, princess?”

Dick shot him an annoyed look.“Hey, I did most of the chasing tonight.”

Jason shrugged as he unzipped the leather jacket beneath his armor.

“You volunteered.”

Tim Drake walked in next, still staring down at the small tablet in his hand. His brow was furrowed in concentration, fingers moving quickly across the screen as he scrolled through something.

Dick glanced over his shoulder.

“Are you working right now?”

Tim didn’t even look up.

“I’m reviewing surveillance logs.”

Jason scoffed.

“You’re reviewing logs while walking through the house.”

“It’s efficient.”

Damian Wayne entered last.

Unlike the others, he removed nothing from his uniform. His cape swept quietly behind him as he stepped onto the polished floor, eyes already scanning the dark hallways of the manor.

“It appears Father has not yet returned,” he said calmly.

Dick frowned slightly.

“Still out?”

Before anyone could answer, a familiar voice spoke from the hallway.

“Your father returned fifteen minutes ago and is in the Bat Cave, Master Damian.”

The boys turned.

Alfred Pennyworth stepped into the light, dressed as immaculately as always despite the hour.

Dick immediately brightened.

“Alfred!”

Jason pointed toward the kitchen without hesitation.

“Tell me there’s food.”

Alfred inclined his head politely.

“There is always food, Master Jason. I anticipated your return.”

Jason grinned slightly.

“See? This is why Alfred is my favorite.”

Dick snorted.

“You say that every night.”

“I mean it every night.”

Tim finally looked up from his tablet.

Something about Alfred’s posture caught his attention.The older man stood as straight as always, hands folded neatly behind his back. But there was something thoughtful in his expression. Distracted.

“What’s wrong?” Tim tilted his head slightly.

“What?” Dick blinked.

“He’s thinking about something.” Tim gestured toward Alfred.

“Yeah… you’re doing the face.” Jason squinted at Alfred.

“The face?” Dick repeated.

“You know,” Jason said, mimicking Alfred’s calm posture poorly, “the ‘something’s wrong but I’m not saying it yet’ face.”

“I see my habits have become predictable.” Alfred allowed himself the faintest sigh.

“Then perhaps you should simply state the problem.” Damian folded his arms.

“Miss Y/N arrived earlier this evening.” Alfred looked at them carefully before speaking. For a moment, the hallway went quiet.

“She’s back already?” Dick blinked.

“I thought she was supposed to come back next week.” Jason frowned.

“Her travel arrangements were adjusted,” Alfred explained calmly.

“—She arrived shortly after sunset.”

“And you’re telling us now?” Tim’s eyes sharpened slightly.

“Relax, detective.” Dick nudged him.

“Where is she?” Jason rolled his shoulders.

“She is resting.” Alfred hesitated.

“Already?” Dick looked toward the staircase instinctively.

“Yes.” Alfred sighs upon answering to Dick

“Jet lag.” Jason shrugged.

“She didn’t want to see anyone?” Tim frowned.

“Miss Y/N informed me she was quite exhausted from her journey and preferred to eat dinner in her room.” Alfred clasped his hands together.

“That’s… not like her.” Dick scratched the back of his neck.

“Ten years abroad changes people.” Jason shrugged again.

Damian said nothing, though his gaze flickered briefly toward the staircase leading to the second floor.

“You’re leaving something out.” Tim studied Alfred again.

“You always were perceptive, Master Timothy.” Alfred looked at him quietly.

“Oh great. There is something.” Jason groaned.

“What happened?” Dick straightened slightly.

“When Miss Y/N arrived this evening, she greeted me politely.” Alfred glanced briefly toward the staircase before speaking.

He paused.

“—But beyond that… she showed very little reaction.”

“What do you mean?” Jason frowned.

“She did not ask about anyone in the household,” Alfred explained.

“—She did not inquire about the manor.”

“…Seriously?” Dick blinked.

“She simply walked past me and went directly to her room.” Alfred continued to recall what happened.

“That’s not normal.” Tim’s expression slowly darkened.

“No,” Alfred said softly.

“It is not.”

The sound of footsteps interrupted them. All of them turned and then Bruce Wayne stepped into the hall from the direction of the study. He had already removed the cape and cowl, though faint shadows beneath his eyes suggested he had not slept much recently.

“Is there a problem?” Bruce asked.

Dick glanced between Bruce and Alfred.

“Y/N’s back.”

Bruce’s expression barely changed.

“I know.”

Jason raised an eyebrow.

“And you didn’t mention that earlier?”

“She arrived while you were on patrol.”

Bruce’s gaze shifted to Alfred.

“Did you speak with her?”

Alfred nodded.

“Yes, sir.”

“And?”

Alfred took a moment before answering.

“She appeared… fatigued.”

Jason crossed his arms.

“That’s the third time you’ve said that tonight.”

Bruce watched Alfred closely.

“Something else.”

It wasn’t a question.

Alfred looked at him.

For a moment, the older man seemed reluctant to speak.

But Bruce waited.

Finally, Alfred said quietly,

“She has changed, sir.”

Dick frowned.

“Well yeah. It’s been ten years.”

Alfred shook his head slightly.

“That is not what I mean.”

Bruce’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“Explain.”

Alfred chose his words carefully.

“Miss Y/N greeted me politely, but there was no warmth in her demeanor.”

Jason frowned.

“Maybe she’s just tired.”

Alfred continued.

“She refused to join dinner with the rest of the household.”

Tim’s eyes flicked upward.

“She always used to come downstairs.”

“Yes.”

Alfred paused.

“And she informed me she would prefer to eat her dinner in her room”

Jason blinked.

“…Wait what?”

Dick straightened.

“She said that?”

“Yes.”

Damian finally spoke.

“That behavior suggests avoidance.”

Bruce’s gaze hardened slightly.

“Did she say why?”

“No, sir.”

Alfred hesitated before adding quietly,

“She also appears… physically different.”

Jason rolled his eyes.

“Did she grow horns or something?”

Alfred ignored the comment.

“There is a white streak in her hair.”

Dick shrugged.

“That’s not a big deal.”

“Yeah! Look I also have the same one” Jason jokingly told everyone to lighten up the mood.

But Alfred wasn’t finished.

“And her eyes.”

Bruce looked at him sharply.

“What about them?”

Alfred lowered his voice slightly.

“I have known Miss Y/N since she was an infant.”

He paused.

“And tonight I looked into her eyes and did not see the same person.”

The words settled heavily in the quiet hall.

Jason shifted slightly.

Dick looked uncomfortable.

Tim’s gaze dropped into thought.

Bruce said nothing for a long moment.

Finally he asked,

“Did she say anything else?”

Alfred looked toward the staircase again.

“Only that she was tired.”

Bruce’s eyes lingered there.

On the second floor.

Behind a closed door.

Ten years ago, he had sent his daughter away believing it would keep her safe. Believing it would give her the normal life she deserved. Now she had returned. And already something felt wrong.

Bruce turned away slightly.

“We’ll talk to her tomorrow.”

Dick nodded slowly.

“Yeah… give her some space tonight.”

Jason grabbed the helmet from the table again.

“Well, if she’s alive and not trying to kill anyone, I guess that’s good.”

But Tim didn’t laugh and Damian said nothing. Even Alfred remained where he stood. Watching the staircase. Because something inside him still felt unsettled.

Ten years ago, the girl who left this house had been gentle, bright, and warm. But the young woman upstairs…the one who avoided the family. Who looked at him with empty eyes.That girl felt like a stranger.

And Alfred Pennyworth had lived long enough to recognize when someone had survived something terrible.

He only wished he knew what it was.

Jason appeared in the hallway, hair dripping, but already wearing sweatpants. “You started it without me? I told ya I wanted to watch the opening too—”

He stopped mid-sentence, falling silent, his mouth parting in shock—maybe at the scene? At your calmness with the intruder? Or at the intruder’s sheer audacity?

“Just what I needed,” Jason growled, voice sharp with irritation. “Why the hell are you in my apartment?”

Damian didn’t answer immediately. Instead, chewing calmly. He simply shrugged—after all, how was he supposed to explain that he had only come to check if he was still alive? It had been a whole month since he last saw him. But he wasn’t worried!

“That’s mine—Damian, you should be at home. Your home.” Jason sighed, running a hand down his face. “Get off my couch. And stop eating my food.”

Damian ignored him completely. He leaned further back into the cushions, posture relaxed in a way that made Jason’s eye twitch. Then his gaze shifted slowly toward Jason.

“You look… fuller. Softer,” the younger one commented, his gaze drifting briefly toward you, who watched the argument in silence, before quickly returning to his brother.

Damian tilted his head to the side, as if evaluating a painting.

“Have you reduced your training frequency,” he continued, his voice strangely neutral, not teasing, just observational, “or simply increased your intake of nutritionally void food?”

“Did you just call me fat?”

“…No,” he replied, but then paused to think for a few seconds. “Did I? I merely commented on your body fat—“

Jason crossed his arms, raising an eyebrow.

“…Whatever,” he continued, tone quieter now, more thoughtful than before. “You no longer smell like cheap takeout grease and smoke. That is an improvement.”

“…That would be because he finally eats real food now,” you cut in, smiling, proud of your contribution to your boyfriend’s health.

Jason shot you a look over his shoulder, a little wounded that you had indirectly agreed with the little demon.

Damian reached out to grab more popcorn, but Jason slapped his hand away.

“Stop. Eating. My. Food. Okay. Great. Family bonding moment over.” Jason clapped his hands once, sharp and final. “You’ve seen me. Now out. Door. Window. Vent. I don’t care. Pick one.”

Damian’s attention snapped back to you, still ignoring his brother. He straightened slightly where he sat, gaze narrowing with renewed interest.

“You prepare the food?” he asked.

You nodded once. “Most of it.” You smiled. “Do you want to try the dessert?”

“…Dessert?” he repeated.

“I made chocolate cake,” you added casually. “With ganache.”

Damian’s eyes narrowed again. “…Homemade?” he asked.

“Yes.”

You disappeared into the kitchen before your boyfriend could protest.

Jason took a deep breath and dropped onto the couch, far too tired to argue any further. When the younger one opened his mouth to speak, he cut him off immediately.

“Not one more question,” Jason muttered. “Eat in silence.”

him ♡

You were walking along the flooded alleyway. Each step carefully splashing against your stockings with every puddle you come across.

Your jacket was draped over your school bag, walking home in the rain would've been fine if you had an umbrella. Your entire body was drenched with rain water. The fog from the rain were surrounding your ankles, despite the winter uniform you were wearing, you were freezing.

Shivering with every step, you cover your bag with your body, not wanting the electronics in it to get any water damage.

You felt the rain grow harder on the ground, the wind flowing harsher against your hair, your jacket was flinging around, you were for sure getting sick tomorrow.

You looked around, searching for a building you could run into until the rain stopped. You eventually run into an alleyway, hoping the tarp between the two buildings were strong enough to handle the rain. Said buildings were locked, under construction.

You stood on the minimal space where it was dry. Rainwater dripping from your hair and clothes, right onto the floor. Your hands ran through your hair, brushing it out of your face.

A loud crash of thunder echoed throughout the sky above you, bouncing on each wall. The sound made you stumble back in surprise, the heels of your feet bumping into the boxes behind you. Before your could catch yourself, your back clashed with the dusty cardboard with a bang.

Sitting up, rubbing your soaked back.

You heard a soft noise, head whipping back so fast. Maybe it was a woosh, perhaps the rain?

Not quite. It was a meow.

A loud meow, frantic and shocked. You could make out that it was coming from beside you, buried deep within the scattered boxes. Quickly, your feet startled up, supporting yourself with an arm on the pile.

Standing up, you looked over and peeked through the cracks of the boxes. They were barely covered by the tarp. Your hands slowly moving the beige papers apart. Eyes squinting through the darkening sky.

Before you could reach your arm in, a small, black and white cat jumped out straight into your arms, claws extracting, digging deep into your stomach through your uniform, desperately clinging to the white blouse.

"Woah!" You yelled out, stumbling backwards, hands instinctively shooting up to catch him by his small torso. Hissing at the way the water on your uniform stung into the claw marks.

Landing on your back, you try to steady yourself, pressing your palms flat on the ground. Tightening your grip on the small creature's body. Catching your breath, you sat up, carrying his weight between your hands.

"Oh, you silly cat.." you sighed out, earning an angry meow in response, you were shivering on the dirty concrete floor. Small patters of rain hitting your face. That didn't bother you too much though, the only thing clouding your mind was how sick you were going to be tomorrow.

You were so deep in thought, you couldn't hear the footsteps behind you. Not until the small bits of rain seemed to stop, by the umbrella right over you. You looked up, face meeting directly with someone all to familiar with you.

Ren Amamiya, the cute boy in your class.

He's a bit weird, glasses always fogged up too easily, hair always messy and disheveled. The smart boy in your class that seemed to know every answer the teacher would throw at him. The boy everyone rumoured to be a delinquent.

The first few days you've seen him, you heard the rumours, the reports that he had beaten someone up when he was still living in his small country town.

A part of you believed in those whispers, the way he was quiet, silently watching, barely saying anything ever. You saw him hanging out with another known delinquent on his first day, you saw him arguing with Kamoshida during his second week.

You started to talk to him after Kamoshida admitted to all the horrific things he had done. You caught him looking at his bag, as if he was listening to it. A bit weird, but whatever.

You tapped him on his shoulder, s very startled look on his face when he jumped on the spot and turned back to you. You asked him, asked him about what happened since, you heard Kamoshida give him a suspension. You didn't accuse him of anything, god forbid you add onto the many dirty rumours about that was most definitely having a negative effect on him.

You only asked if he was okay.

That was a few months ago, right now, he was looking for Morgana, that titchy cat was running around all over the place. He completely forgot about him though, eyes only focusing on your figure running into the alleyway. He made his way, umbrella clutched in his hand, speeding up a bit after the clattering sounds rang throughout his ears.

He peeked through the wall, seeing your figure on the floor, trembling, next to you, was that annoying, black and white cat that ran away hours ago. He groaned in frustration. Before making his way to you. Hovering his umbrella right above your head, he looks down to your sitting form, eyes meeting yours.

You give him a smile, sheepish and awkward, eyebrows lacing together in embarrassment as you felt your face heat up from the situation you were in right now; drenched from the rain, you probably looked insanely weird right now.

For a while, the both of you just looked at each other, breaths forming into a fog out of your nose, you could still feel the coldness surrounding you, but it somehow didn't hurt like it should. Almost like Ren's smile was enough to warm you up. Insanely cliche, but, true nonetheless.

You raised your hand, palms open, reaching for him, "help me up" you said with a smile. His lips form a returning one, before grabbing your hand and pulling you up. You stumbled a bit, reaching forward to grasp on his shoulders. Steadying yourself, ignoring the heavy thump thump thumps deep inside your chest.

An angry meow snapped the both of you back out of each other's gaze. His neck snapped towards the cat on the floor, glaring straight at the glasses wearing boy, as if they were having a mental arguement.

You looked between the two of them, wondering if Ren disliked cats. He didn't look like a dog person, if anything, he was the most cat person you've ever met.

You reached down, picking up the blue eyed cat. Earning a startled mewl from him. Gripping his small body, cuddling him closer to your chest.

"Be careful," he tells you casually, eyes still glaring at the feline creature in your arms. "He might have fleas." A twitch of a smirk briefly flickered on his face. Subverting his gaze to yours.

"I don't think so." You look down at the cat, who was reaching his arms out to Ren, claws out and feet flailing. "He looks clean, and well-groomed." The cat meowed in satisfaction, switching from struggling out of your grasp to rub his head to your chest and further snuggling up into you.

"Where are you headed?"He asked you, ignoring the jealousy bubbling up in his chest from how close that freaking cat was with you.

"Uhm.. I'm just waiting out until the rain stops." You chuckle awkwardly, earning a playful sigh in response. "You're going to get sick."

"I probably already am." You laughed out, coughing mid-sentence further emphasising your point.

"Let me walk you home." He reaches out to hand you your forgotten school bag that was on the floor. Wrapping your drenched jacket on his other arm. You quickly stop him, well, you try to.

"You don't have to, I'll hold it." You insist, trying to reach for your jacket. Not wanting to bother him further than you already were. Not to mention you were still holding the cat that he (probably?) hates.

"It's okay." He reassures you, squeezing out the rainwater that's been soaking through your jacket for the past thirty minutes. Water dripping down with harsh splatters on the concrete ground.

"Let me help you out." He smiles. The light in his eyes practically reflecting from his glasses.

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The walk to your apartment wasn't as long as you had hoped it was. You tried walking slowly, wanting to spend more time talking with the man closely beside you. The distance (or lack thereof) making you fumble in your words every so often.

You didn't forget about the cat in your arms either, the occasional meow and small licks to your hand would resound from him. Though, sometimes while Ren would be talking, he'd earn a meow, usually a loud one. Ren responding with his witty quips, he'd speak to you, but it was clearly directed to the cat by your chest. It was, strange, to say the least.

"Do you.. know this cat?" You couldn't help but ask, the amount of passive aggression directed towards the cute cat was odd. Much like an owner with their pet of ten years.

"He likes to bother me whenever I'm in LeBlanc." He says, looking straight ahead, ignoring the angry grunts from the creature in your arms. You nodded, hands absentmindedly scratching his small head.

"I call him Morgana, by the way." He's still walking, hand tilting the umbrella further down your side, effectively covering you more than he was.

"Morgana.." you repeated, before chuckling lightly to yourself, "what an interesting name, how'd you come up with it?"

"It sorta just came to me."

Before you knew it, you were already by the front door of your apartment. Fumbling with your keys for a bit, trying to find an excuse to get him to come inside. Ultimately you tried to tell him that he should just wait out the rain, besides, he had a cat to take care of.

You tossed your bag to the floor, directing Ren to leave your jacket on your bathtub to let it dry.

"I'd stay if Sojiro wasn't so strict on my curfews." He said in annoyance. You knew about Sojiro, he's the tired old guy that owns the cafe Ren stayed at. You wondered if he knew about the cat at all.

"He doesn't"

Oops, maybe you said that one out loud. You nodded in response.

".. Do you mind if you took care of him for a while?" He asks you, you paused for a second, glancing at him over your shoulder. He was trusting you with such a thing?

"Sure, but.." you trailed off, unsure how to word it, you weren't that close with him. Taking care of (his) cat is a bit.. intimate. Something that really close friends do. Much like his blonde friends.

"Do you trust me with him?" Such a weird way to phrase it. He only smiled at you, how he didn't look at you weirdly was a miracle. You could've said it in a better way but the sentiment remains. He trusts you.

"I'll get going." He tells you before making his way to your front door. You noticed how Morgana stayed perched on top of your kitchen counter, glaring daggers at Ren while he narrows his eyes in annoyance.

Ren glanced back at you, offering a "see you on Monday." His eyes flicker to Morgana's after he let out a meow. As if he could understand the little cat. Very silly.

You waved him goodbye, leaving you with the cat that was slowly making his way to you, jumping on each each chair like a makeshift path to you.

You let out your hand, letting him snuggle up between your fingers. You let him do his thing, making him comfortable. Before straightening up on your spot, grabbing him by his torso once again. Lifting him up arms length in front of you.

"You need a bath." He looked at you, offended it seems. He made a noise in protest as you made your way to the bathroom.

"Is it true that cats hate water?" You murmured, mostly to yourself. "Well, I've never seen a cat in water, so.." you're not sure if you were talking to yourself or to the cat. Perhaps both.

You took a small bucket from the cabinet underneath your sink, placing it in your bathtub and filling it up halfway with water. All the while Morgana was looking up at you, as if he was listening to what you had to say.

"Did he get you the bandana too?" You referred to the yellow bandana tied around his neck. You're not sure how well the yellow matched with his vibrant blue eyes-- which admittedly, you've never seen in a cat-- had matched with each other. It was very unique, to say the least. Almost like it his signature colour.

You grab him again, slowly lowering him inside the bucket or water. You scooped the water onto his back, rubbing gently.

"Ren looks at you like he understands you." Not sure what warranted that. Morgana seemed to think the same, his head whipping from observing your bathroom to your face. "He looks at me like he understands me, too." You smile softly to yourself.

He's helped you more than once, whether it be from Kamoshida's advances, or from Kawakami's judgemental stares from how you were hanging out with not one, but two delinquents. Or when you started hanging out with his entire group of so-called 'misfits.'

You were one of them, obviously. A misfit, as people would call it. You've been frequently let down by the many adults around you, by the system, by society, by almost everyone. 'Grateful' isn't even close enough of a word to express your feelings towards Ren, for understanding you, for looking through your past and knowing you for you.

Much like you've done with him, the many rumours surrounding him, the whispers, you didn't pay attention to them. Since you decided to get to know him; figure out his personality for himself.

"Ren's a cute guy, I wonder how he came to domesticate you." Perhaps the cat was also another misunderstood fella Ren had just decided to befriend. "I guess he didn't really domesticate you, you just kinda stuck around, huh?"

Speaking of, Morgana was just looking at you expectingly throughout your rambling. Head tilted to the side, while he closes his eyes each time you gently scrub the fur on his head. Maybe he was listening, or maybe he just looked at everyone like that.

"I wish I could help him out, y'know? It seems like he's going through a lot." This earned a meow from the cat below you, like he was agreeing with you. Your movements slow down, deep in thought.

"I'll let you in on a secret." You say playfully, words coming out of your mouth before you thought too much about it. "I kinda like that guy." Your lips twitch into a smirk, grabbing a sponge and scrubbing his small figure.

He looks up at you almost to quickly, ears now perking up, "woah!" You laugh out, "I guess cats do understand people after all." A purr echoed from the back of his throat as his eyes close.

You sighed, finding yourself so weirdly pathetic for confiding in a cat about your feelings for his... owner? Friend? Whatever Ren was to the cat, you have feelings for him.

"He's just so mysterious." You exclaim with another laugh, as if you were a teenager gossiping with her friends at the playground. "But he's also really caring, it's like I've known him for a while. It's a shame that he probably doesn't feel the same." You let out a pitiful laugh.

You pick him up again, out of the bucket of water and onto the rug. Grabbing a fresh towel, rubbing up and down his little cat body. Drying him off, you cradle him in your arms, grabbing his face with both of your hands and squeezing slightly. He just looks so cute!

Making your way to the couch, you placed him on the cushions, to which he immediately drops down to the floor and shakes his body. You go to your kitchen, looking through your cabinets, looking for something cat-friendly.

There's someone as sweet as her actually likes Ren Morgana wonders, observing you search around the kitchen. Oh how he wishes you could understand him, there are so many questions for you. Why do you like Ren? What has he done? He isn't even that charming.

And sure, maybe he's a just a bit pissy because Ren took the attention of Lady Ann, but that's neither here nor there.

At least he has something to tease him about.

The rest of the night consisted of you feeding him (after googling foods that are safe for cats to eat), ending the night with him snuggled up between your arms, falling into a deep slumber.

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The weekend had passed. Morgana had left your apartment and made his way back to Cafe LeBlanc. Your chest felt lighter after ranting to the poor cat, you had been avoiding any realisation of your feelings for Ren, not having anyone to tell. You were glad you let it out.

Though today felt like... Ren was treating you different. Not bad different, quite the opposite in fact. It was anything you've ever wanted. He was initiating conversations with you, holding your gaze whenever you'd accidentally make eye contact with him. He was more touchy too, maybe on accident, maybe not. Hands brushing yours whenever he found himself standing right next to you.

"Hey" he approached you after school, you were standing in front of your locker, changing out your shoes. You look up at him, noticing the way there was a slight pink on his face.

"Let's grab something to eat." He says before you could greet him back. You stare at him for a while, brain stuttering, unsure what to say. You only nodded, in fear of saying something wrong.

He smiles at you, lending out a hand, helping you carry your school bag. He nudges his head toward the exit. You walked next to him, close enough you could hold his hand.

"Morgana got home cleaner than he usually was." He started. "Thanks for taking care of him."

You smile, waving him off, "don't worry about it, he's a nice cat."

He laughs at your statement, yeah right.

"And..." he stops right next to you, facing you, the pink tint never fading from his face.

"Thanks for helping me out."

Help him out.. where have you heard that before?

"Of course, I feel like you understand me, y'know?" Your cheeks might as well match his, with how flustered you were. You wondered, where did this side of him suddenly come from?

"I'd love to get to know you even more." His words made your heart stutter.

"Really? Why so sudden?" You laugh nervously.

"Well.. it's simple really," he's impossibly closer to you now. Obviously he won't let you know that the second Morgana returned home, he spilled all the beans about what you told him. All giggly and teasing.

"She thinks you won't return her feelings." He told him, and, well, Ren couldn't have you think like that

"I just, like you."

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a/n: hello cuties<3 miss you guys very much lol this was just a silly post to celebrate Satoru's bday ^^ happy gojo day people woooo~ last year I made him the tiniest cake, this year we (me and my gojo figurines and plushies) will chill in bed because I sprained my foot lol. also sprry for never really replying to the sweet comments everyone has been leaving :( i just could not get myself to wirte naything that could express how thankful i am for you guys <3 i am trying to get back to replies now and any dms that i have not checked. ^^ hope you guys are doing splendidly and happy holidays to everyone <3

He didn’t snap. It’s so much worse than that. At least in the eyes of the arrogant boy who got bested by, what he assumed to be a grade two curse because of how pudgy and stupid it looked. The thing that caught him lacking looked like a fucking blob fish that struggled with crippling anxiety, how the hell was he supposed to know that it could mess with timeof all things? 

One moment he’s laughing at the way it looks, the next he’s in the complete dark. 

That was the first time he’s smiled in months, by the way. 

“Huh?” Satoru huffs out, trying to look around before eventually realizing that he has a blindfold on, and rips it off in annoyance. “Don’t tell me that thing knocked me out,” he begins to grumble to himself. It’d explain why he had a blindfold on… but then he realized he was in a completely different outfit, one that you didn’t put on someone who was currently in rest and recovery. 

He highly doubts Shoko would even change him, anyway, at least not for this. 

“Oh hey, you’re home.” 

Home? 

He looks around, and all he knows is this isn’t the dorm he’s continued to stay in after graduation, purely due to the fact that he was already out on missions for up to 18 hours each day. Not to mention that the penthouse he was currently standing in was too clean to be his. Too warm. Way too comfortable.

You already knew there was something deeply off in those first few seconds of looking into his eyes. This wasn’t your husband— this was the hot mess you met and still fell in love with all those years ago. 

You tilt your head to the side, more curious than cautious, “Everything alright?”

“Yeah,” he snorts, literally the worst liar ever. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“I don’t know,” you hum, holding eye contact long enough to leave him feeling a bit unsettled. “You tell me.”

First of all, who the fuck do you think you are speaking to him like that?

Second, who even are you?

Something big and shiny on your finger catches his attention, then he looks at his own hand that has an equally shiny band around his ring finger. 

Fuck.

“Honey–”

Satoru physically cringes at the pet name, giving himself away once again. 

“I’m not Satoru,” he blurts out, rubbing his eyes in frustration. “I mean, I am, but I’m not— FUCK– some fuckin’ curse blasted me into the future, and I need to go back.”

Well, that was quick. He’s always quick to fold under pressure when it comes to you— it’s something he’s unaware of though, as he fights back the urge to start pacing back and forth. 

There’s a light smack from your mouth when you go to open it, only for the words to never even come, let alone die out. Nothing about this surprises you. This is not the craziest thing that’s happened since you’ve met Satoru. 

Your lips thin into a smile as you take a deep breath, knowing you had no choice but to accept your new circumstances. 

“Okay.”

“Okay?” He raises a brow at how you just… accepted it.

“Yeah… I believe it.” You respond flatly, then point at him, casually motioning your finger up and down. “Your attitude kinda sucked when we first met.”

He grimaces, taken aback by the statement. “No, it doesn’t–”

“You also liked to argue, too.”

“Okay— whatever,” he waves a dismissive hand, not at all interested in hearing what else you had to say. At this point, it just sounded like you wanted to shit on him, something he actually doesn’t have any fucking time for right now. “You’re a sorcerer… right?” 

“No.” 

“Christ.” Satoru sighs, turning on his heel. “You’re fuckin’ useless—“

You scoff, more humored than offended. “Where are you going?” 

“To figure this shit out!” he snaps, throwing his arms out as he turns around to face you. 

“Okay,” you shrug, still way too calm for Satoru’s liking, as it pisses him off even more. “If you don’t get it all figured out tonight, you can always come back. We have a guest room.” 

“Yeah, thanks.” He huffs out a bitter laugh, as if that was the dumbest suggestion he’s ever heard. “I appreciate the offer.” 

– 

“Yaga” Satoru storms into the principal’s office, ignoring all his cursed stuffed animals, but noticing what he’s done with his hair. “What the fuck happened to you?”

The principal's brows pinch together, wishing he had locked the door to his office. Satoru fucked with him enough today by showing up to a meeting 20 minutes late with some sugary frap in his hand, and now he’s storming into his office, insulting him out of nowhere. 

“Actually, nevemind.” Satoru waves a hand to stop him from even answering his question, reminding himself not to get sidetracked right now. “Look, I need your help. I got sent into the future by some curse, and I need to get back.”

Yaga inhales sharply. “What are you even talking about?”

“Exactly what I just said! I’m from 2009! Not whatever age I am now—”

“31.”

Satoru throws up a little in his mouth. “Send me back.” 

Yaga lets out a long, disappointed sigh. It’s always something with Satoru. Always. Having to deal with the younger version of him was a painful reminder that he’s been dealing with his bullshit for well over a decade now. Nothing surprises him anymore.  

“Let me see if some other windows would be willing to help look through the library. I’m sure you’ll be able to find information on what kind of curse you got hit with.”

“Thank you,” Satoru groans, still not very pleased by everyone’s reactions thus far, but grateful that he can at least get somewhere with Yaga… unlike a certain somebody. 

Hours later, he finds himself at the school’s dusty, unkept library. It looks worse than it originally looked before he walked in. Books sprawled everywhere. Research papers were scattered all over the tables and floor. Assistants running around in every direction, more than half of them terrified at the total 180 in Satoru’s attitude. 

“W-we can’t find anything,” Ijichi says, too old to be acting this scared in Satoru’s opinion. 

He hums, elbows still resting on his knees, not bothering to sit up. “Hey, Ijichi?”

Ijichi gulped loudly, managing to annoy the world’s strongest sorcerer even more. “...Yes?” 

“How are you even more incompetent now than you were before?”

“I tried my best! I swear!”

“Well, it’s not good enough— I’m still here!” he snaps at the nervous wreck of a man. Thank fucking god Ijichi listened to him and just became a window. He sucks at it too, but at least it’s easier for this dumbass to avoid death. “God— what the fuck am I supposed to do now?!”

“This is just one of the libraries, there’s more! And some in Kyoto too, that we’ll have the Kyoto branch check out.”

“Do whatever you need to do. I’m just letting you know right now that if I'm not back by tomorrow, you better watch the fuck out.”

The threat is followed by complete dead silence, aside from a certain someone's breath catching in horror.

“Me?!” Ijichi squeaks out.

The sorcerer doesn’t bother answering that and instead walks away, grumbling something insulting under his breath, just in complete and utter disbelief over how Ijichi truly hasn’t changed. 

—

You figured your husband would eventually come back, so you set some food aside for him, and now you’re sitting at the dinner table, trying not to laugh at the pout on his face as he picks at his dinner with the chopsticks in his hand. 

“Is the food good?”

“Sure.”

“I can warm that up for you, if you want?” you ask, barely trying to hide your amusement. 

“No thanks,” he curtly responds before shoving another piece of karaage into his mouth. He’s known to have a sweet tooth, but chicken karaage’s probably his favorite food, savory wise. You almost want to tell him that he’s allowed to enjoy food even if his day hasn’t gone the way he had planned. “I’d appreciate it if you stopped staring.” 

Your lips twitch, threatening to break out into a fit of laughter. “Right, sorry.”

“Mommy…? Is Daddy home yet?” 

Oh great. As if the day couldn’t get any worse— now there’s a child.

“Yeah,” you respond in a tentative tone, shooting Satoru a look that screams ‘behave or else’, and even though you are currently a stranger to him, it intimidates him enough to behave for the time being. 

A little girl, no older than 4 years old, walks into the kitchen and Satoru’s eyes nearly bulge out of his head upon seeing his daughter. It’s pretty obvious she’s his with her baby blue eyes and stark white hair. Her facial features are entirely yours, though. It’s strange to see.

“Hey… kiddo—” he awkwardly says, not really sure how to address the little girl. You clear your throat, mouthing ‘princess’ when he looks at you, because your daughter also happens to have her dad’s attitude. “I mean princess.”

It’s hilarious how unnatural it sounds right now when he was the one who started calling her that the moment you two took her home from the hospital. 

“You pomis to wead bedtime stowie,” she starts to pout— same exact way he does.

“Did I?” He gives the girl a sympathetic look, albeit fake. 

“Yeah,” she frowns as she walks up to you, giving him the world’s nastiest side eye. “Liar.”

Why is that the one word she’s able to enunciate correctly? She didn’t even stutter.

“Yeah— I was a little busy with work today,” he murmurs, as if she knew what that even meant. With the glare she was giving him, he doubted she’d even care if he broke down what work and the importance of it was. “Maybe mommy can read to you tonight?”

Sai wasn’t having that. 

Satoru spent the end of his night reading her favorite book to her. Multiple times. He almost asked if it was some form of punishment for not upholding a promise he didn’t technically make himself, but decided against it in fear that she’d make him read it one more time. Sai fell asleep… eventually. Despite there being no way to prove it, he knows that the little girl forced herself to stay up out of pure spite. 

But still, he finds himself smiling as he thinks about his nightmare of a future, not wiping it off quickly enough when you lightly knock on the guest bedroom door.

“Here’s some jammys for the night.” You smile back as you walk up and hand him a pair of sweats and a white t-shirt, both neatly folded up. “Figured you wouldn’t want to sleep in your work clothes.”

“Oh uh— thanks.” He clears his throat and forces out a laugh, pushing through the embarrassment of getting caught smiling to himself. 

You’re giving him that look again. The one that’s mixed with amusement and a bit of fondness, where you look like you’re about to start making fun of him, but never do. Satoru would rather die than admit it makes him nervous. 

“What?” 

There’s a small pause as your smile grows. “Do you like your kid?”

“She’s weird.”

“Yeah, no— you wouldn’t believe who she got that from.”

“Fuck off.” A laugh easily slips through his lips this time, unable to stay serious at the thought of her inheriting even just a quarter of the traits he had as a child. Then it grows quiet again as he realizes she probably has the freedom to be a kid. 

He wants to ask, but you beat him to it with a statement that answered the question he had in mind. 

“Your duties as her father don’t end just because you managed to time travel by the way,” you say playfully, though he knows you’re being dead serious. 

He can only guess what other horrors that little girl will subject him to for the rest of his time here. To put it simply, she’s not afraid of Dad. 

For once, somebody doesn’t look at him as a god to fear. 

—

It’s been over a month. 

Ijichi and the rest of the windows are just as useless as they were when they first started trying to find answers. All that’s changed is that Nanami knows, and doesn’t seem to be too thrilled about the fact that he is now involved.

But still, the search for the fix to his predicament continues, turning every library and warehouse upside down. That’s all they could really do— aside from asking the elders for assistance of some sort. 

Over his dead body. 

Knowing they’d most likely do more harm than good, everyone’s agreed to keep this all a little secret from them.

So all that’s left to do, or rather forced to do, is to be patient. It’s hard. Satoru doesn’t do patient— he’s the type to snap his fingers and have a solution magically appear right before his eyes. You can only imagine how difficult it’s been for him to accept that he can’t immediately get what he wants right now.

Not to mention the fact that he had to continue working throughout all of this, but that wasn’t very surprising. 

Now, what was surprising was learning that he has his weekends completely to himself. If anything, he assumed he’d just work more as time went on, but no. Turns out he threatened to kill the higher-ups if they didn’t let him have that when you two got married. 

Satoru looks over your body once. 

Twice. 

He totally understands his future self. 

He looks again for a third time, and you just so conveniently turn around, showing off your cute, frilly little apron covered in flour streaks. 

It’s Sunday— you’ve been baking sweet treats all morning, and he wishes he had been a little nicer to you. Especially a couple of days ago when he snapped at you. 

You had found him sitting alone on the balcony, head in his hands from yet another day of failure. 

“Hey… any good news?”

“No,” he said impatiently. “If there was, I wouldn’t fucking be here right now.” 

“Fair enough.” Your voice took a dip as you looked at the ground, allowing yourself to feel a little hurt for a moment before trying to lift the mood again. “Well… me and Sai stopped by your favorite bakery and got you the cookies you like if you wanted some—“

“No— no,” Satoru cut you off. “I don’t want your fucking cookies. I don’t want to do a family movie night where all we watch is Ms. Rachel. I don’t want to read some book about a mouse trying to become a fucking painter over and over again. I don’t want ANY of it. I want to fucking go home— what part about that do you not get?”

You tried to stand as straight as possible despite your shoulders growing heavier, pushing against the small frown threatening to carve itself across your face. You forgot how mean he used to be, at least during that first year of dating him. It only stings more because the man you married would never raise his voice like that, and you remind yourself that this isn’t him.

After a long pause, he looked up at you and immediately felt guilt wash over him.

“I didn’t mean that,” he tried to meet your eyes as he began to backtrack. “I’m sorry, I just— fuck. I didn’t mean any of that—”

“It’s fine.” You forced yourself to look at him again and smile. “I’ll uh… give you some space.”

The one thing about Satoru is that he doesn’t apologize. Like ever. So, one could only imagine how painfully awkward it was later that night when he knocked on your bedroom door to say he was sorry. It didn’t help that you were in a paper-thin silk slip, skin glistening from the lotion you rubbed all over it— he spent half his time trying not to stare at your tits. Had you been anyone else, it wouldn’t have felt as genuine. 

But thank fuck he apologized, you probably would’ve spent all day ignoring him. 

You raise a brow, and his cheeks start to pink. “What are you staring at?” 

“Nothing, you just–” he awkwardly gestures at your entire body, “there’s flour all over you.” 

It almost sounds like he’s offended by it. He kind of is. You keep your foot on his fucking neck— he doesn’t even know why he came out here. 

“Oh, right— 'cause messes have always bothered you,” you lean over the island ever so slightly. The pink on his cheeks darkens as you do, unable to control his eyes from drifting down to your cleavage. And while he’s not exactly ashamed of looking— you are his wife after all— he can’t help but be a little flustered. 

He’s always had a thing for milfs.

Especially when said milf is talking about messes— he knows a couple of places he could make a mess on right now. 

“Nah,” he rests his elbows on the marble counter as a playful grin stretches across his face. “This is nothing compared to how I like it.”  

You tilt your head, a small laugh escaping you as you rest your chin over your palm, curious to see where this conversation will get you. 

“How do you like it?” you ask, as if you didn’t already know how filthy and depraved he could get when he’s alone in a room with you. 

And you fucking miss that. 

He opens his mouth to respond. 

Then you hear your daughter whimpering about waking up alone. It’s nothing new, and you revert back to mom mode as you watch her turn the corner and waddle towards you. 

Satoru, on the other hand, is not used to this. The slightly bruised laugh he lets out just barely masks his desire to fucking scream. What a fucking cockblock— no wonder you only have one kid. 

His kid completely ignores his existence as she wraps herself around your leg, continuing to whimper despite no actual tears streaming down her cheeks. “I had a nightmawh.”

Meanwhile, there’s Satoru, who has yet to wake up from his very own nightmare. He internally sighs, then attempts to grab her attention because it doesn’t feel very good watching her give it all to you. “You wanna share a muffin with daddy?”

It’s starting to sound more natural.

“Y-yeah,” she sniffles. 

Minutes later, she’s sitting on his lap, absolutely demolishing the blueberry muffin they ended up splitting— a complete 180. He couldn’t be mad, even if he tried. 

His little girl was a dream. 

—

Month two. Ijichi is still as useless as ever. He stopped complaining to you about him, though. You noticed he doesn’t talk about going back to his original timeline all that much anymore.

It’s not like Satoru’s given up hope, he’s just more present, as if he finally realized that wallowing in self-pity wasn’t going to send him back any faster. He’s unknowingly more like his future self— laid back, not a care in the world. 

He’s even sleeping in for once. It’s not that hard though when Sai’s gone for the day. She seemed to care more about getting the hell out of the house with her grandparents than greeting her father a good morning. You didn’t push her to, either— figuring Satoru needed the sleep. He always does. 

It’s too bad that his phone started blowing up at around 10:00 am. Unfortunately for you, he left his phone in the living room, leaving you to get up and grab it since the master bedroom was the closest room to it. With how thick the walls are, you doubt he’d even hear it.

With a long sigh, you rise from bed, rubbing the sleep off your eyes as you snatch the stupid phone off the coffee table. 

The snores coming from Satoru reach your ears before you even open the door. You have to hold back a laugh as you walk in and take a look at him. Face down, his long limbs sprawled over the bed, messy white hair sticking out in all directions. 

You reach out and place a gentle hand on his shoulder, surprised infinity is off. 

“Toru?” He stirs a bit, and you cautiously attempt to wake him up again. “Toru— someone’s been trying to call you for the past 10 minutes now.”

He lifts his head, eyes still sealed shut as he murmurs, “Who?” 

“Uhh,” you look at the screen, unsure of who it might be. “Your contact name for them is nerd.” 

You know it’s not Ijichi because his contact name is “courage 🐶” in his phone. Someone else must've annoyed Satoru for him to change yet another contact. 

Satoru shoves his head back into the pillow and groans before taking the phone off your hands.

It’s Nanami. He, of all people, should know now is not the time to be blowing up his phone right now because he is fucking sleeping. It’s a Saturday for fucks sake. 

Satoru sighs and accepts the call, grumbling into the phone. “What?”

Nanami cuts straight to the chase, as he would rather be doing anything else right now. 

“How long are you planning on hiding your secret from the higher-ups?” he asks in a clipped tone. 

Satoru rubs his eyes, too tired to return the same sense of urgency his friend seems to have at the moment. “Forever.”

“Don’t give me that.” A vein pops up on the side of the usually stoic man’s forehead. “They asked me about you this morning. They know something’s up. I can’t keep covering for you if it means my own safety’s on the line.”

“You really haven’t changed, have you?” It’s more of a statement than a question.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean—“

“You’ll be fine,” Satoru cuts him off. “They’re always up my ass anyway. I doubt they’re even suspicious. They just don’t know how to mind their own fuckin’ business. Seriously. You’re worrying over nothing right now.”

“I swear to god Gojo, if you—“

“Kay’ good night.” 

Click.

Nanami’s probably fuming right now, but he’ll get over it. Satoru wanted to enjoy this. Lying in a comfy bed, surrounded by nothing but peace and quiet. He closes his eyes and stretches a bit, then rests his hands behind his head. 

He would’ve forgotten that you were still sitting at the edge of the bed had you not lightly cleared your throat. One eye opens to look at you, then closes. The last thing he wants to do is share the reason why Nanami had been blowing up his phone all morning. 

“Just because you can’t see me doesn’t mean I’m not here.” You cross your arms. “What was that all about?” 

“Nothin’,” he easily says. “Just Nanami being Nanami— the guy’s a fuckin’ stickler for no reason.” 

“That’s a little rude, no?” you chastise him. 

“So is waking me up.” 

“Sai wakes you up all the time, though.”

“Sai’s a ball of sunshine,” he says, quickly coming to her defense. “Not a grown man with depression— where is she by the way?” 

“She’s spending the afternoon with my parents.” 

Both eyes open this time, and stay open. “Why didn’t you go with them?”

“No way,” you wave a hand. “I need a break, too.” 

“Yeah, no— I’m sure,” he agrees, feeling flustered all the sudden. 

And Satoru being Satoru, he doesn’t do a very good job of hiding it, once again forgetting that you can read him better than anyone else can.

You smile, scooching closer, “You good there?” 

“Yeah, m’fine,” he murmurs, trying not to shift around too much.

“I can take care of that, you know.” 

“What?” 

“That.” You look down at the boner he’s been trying to hide since finding out it’s just you two here.

“That’s not—“ His brain straight up short-circuits. “You don’t think that’s weird?” 

“No.” You continue to inch forward, getting closer to him. “Do you think it’s weird?”

“No— never,” he shakes his head, answering a little too fast. “Fuck— won’t future me get mad?” 

“Not at all. The most he’d probably do is make me show him what we did.” 

“Make you show him?” he repeats after you in disbelief. 

“Is that a problem?” 

“No, that’s— that’s fuckin’ hot.” 

Minutes later, you’re leaning forward with your hand wrapped around his base, and his breath catches as you start to slowly pump his cock. 

“Feel good?” 

His lids lower as he hums, “yeah— keep going.”

You lean forward, letting a string of spit fall from your lips to the tip of his cock, letting it mix with the precum that was already beading down from it. The wet sounds of you stroking him begin to grow, making the heat in between your legs start to pool.

“Can I sit on it?” You look up at him, batting your lashes as you innocently ask. 

“Please,” he blurts out, just about ready to start begging you to.

You’d be lying if you said you weren’t just as eager as him after all the weeks spent pretending like you don’t notice the way he stares at you. Lustfully. The slip you’re wearing happens to be extra short today, so you forego stripping down and practically pounce on him. Your soaked panties grazing over his rock-hard length as you straddle him, letting yourself get comfortable while Satoru grows impatient. 

His hands find themselves planted on your hips and pull you down. A low groan escapes him as he grinds you against him. “God— fuck me. Please.”

“Well, since you’re being so sweet—”

You reach down, hooking a finger into the fabric of your panties, pulling them to the side. He’s already lining himself up with your entrance, teasing your hole as he runs his tip through your folds, collecting all the slick. His lips part as he watches in awe at how damn wet you are. 

His head tips back as you lower yourself, groaning and rambling to himself as if you weren’t there to hear it all. 

"Fuck. You’re so hot.” His words come out strained as he watches you start to take him inch by inch, slowly working yourself open. “So fuckin’ tight, too.” 

“Mmm— forgot how big you are.” Your voice is all soft and breathy from the fullness, nails slowly digging into his abs as you bottom out.

It takes a minute to adjust— it has been 3 months after all. But then you finally roll your hips, and Satoru almost starts singing praises at how good you are at that—  lifting your hips all the way up and throwing them back, taking all of him. 

"Fuck yeah– just like that," he breathes, fingers digging into the flesh of your hips. "Feels so fucking good."

You murmur back a measly, “kay,” already dizzy from the stretch. You’re able to keep up the pace on your own for a bit, until you feel his grip on you tighten and the sounds of skin slapping against his start to grow as he starts to help you out. 

You wouldn’t exactly call it help though, not when he ended up doing all the work— holding you steady while he practically bounces you on his cock, pulling more and more moans out of you as the head of his cock repeatedly kissed your sweet spot with almost no effort. 

"You take it so good," he groans, pupils blown wide as he starts to feel himself lose control, snapping his hips up a little harder than the last. He wants more, he always wants more— so he pulls you forward and pulls your straps down far enough for your tits to spill out. "Perfect fuckin’ tits. Been thinking about these for weeks."

You let out a surprised gasp as he pops a nipple in his mouth with no warning. You fully believe him with the way he starts sucking and swirling and flicking his tongue over your sensitive bud, all while snapping his hips up harder. 

He pulls back with a pop, looking up at you for approval. “Was that good?”

“Mhm.” There’s a fucked out expression on your face as you weakly nod. “Harder.”

“You want me to fuck you harder?”

“Yeah.” 

Something in him snaps. Eager to please you, he flips you over and folds you underneath him— grabbing the back of your knees and pinning them to your chest so he can drive his cock into you deeper. 

“Better?”

He drives his hips forward again, knocking the air out of your lungs. “God— yes.”

“I can’t— fuck— can’t believe you’re all mine, can’t believe I get to have you,” he starts to ramble as the sounds of him absolutely pounding into you fill the room. “You’re so fuckin’ perfect— all of you.” 

He crashes his lips into yours— the kiss is messy, powered by hunger. Satoru’s always been overwhelming, but it’s been years since it’s been this emotionally intense. He fucks you like he needs you, like he’s been waiting for you all his life. 

Your walls begin to squeeze and flutter around his cock, pulling another groan out of him. “You close?”

“Yeah,” you whine, feeling the pressure begin to coil. “Keep going.”

He’s close too, you can tell by how sloppy his thrusts have grown, no longer trying to control himself as he starts chasing after both of your releases. He shoves his face into the crook of your neck and fucks you faster, harder— balls slapping against your ass with each lewd wet squelch. 

Your orgasm hits you hard after one particularly rough thrust. Scratching at his back as a cry tears through you, and it only goes straight to his dick, not even realizing just how overstimulated you are from the way he drills into you. 

“Fuck.” It’s just one word that comes out of his mouth after realizing how hard he’s about to fucking cum. He bites into your shoulder as his balls start to tighten, squeezing his eyes shut as he braces himself. 

When it happens, it’s a lot. He shoves himself deep inside of you, unaware of all the weight he puts on you as hot spurts of cum begin to flood your walls. Slowly grinding against you, letting your tight pussy milk the rest of him. 

You’re wrecked by the end of it. You both are— lids tired and heavy, bodies sore and out of breath.

And in the end, you just let yourself fall asleep, unaware of the soft kiss pressed against your temple as he watched you.

—

It’s month three, and Satoru doesn’t want to go back. 

What was the point? It’s not like he had anyone or anything to go back to. Jujutsu Society never crumbled from him getting shot into the future. Would it really be that bad if he just never went back and continued on with his life from here?

He hasn’t uttered a word about it out loud, but the way he completely stopped asking Yaga and Ijichi for updates was telling of where he was at mentally.  

Acceptance. 

He likes his life here. 

You’ve come to your own conclusion after these last three months.

No wonder why he was so hot and cold when you were trying to get to know him. Satoru got a little taste of genuine comfort, only for it to be ripped away from him sometime before you two actually met. It explains all the times you wondered why he even tried with you, despite being too emotionally inept to even be in a relationship. He probably went through the beginning of your relationship thinking you could disappear at any second. 

With that being said, he can’t stay here. As much as you’d love to continue being the source of comfort for this version of Satoru, he needs to experience the last year he spent alone before meeting you. He needs to feel cautious around you. He needs to try and fail at opening up a handful of times before getting comfortable with the idea of truly being vulnerable with a person. Getting over that element of fear he had towards getting close to others is what made him a husband and father— he couldn’t just skip that part of his life. 

You have no idea how you’re going to tell him that, though. You’re not one to kick a sick puppy, especially one as cute as him. He’s so happy here with you and Sai that the thought of doing so makes your chest ache. 

He’s having a tea party with Sai right now, limbs way too long to sit in the little stool she pulled up for him to sit in. He drinks imaginary tea from the plastic pink cup she hands him, and your chest aches some more. You force yourself to look away before the tears start. 

You’d do the next 11 years all over again if you could.

“Hey, Honey?” Satoru calls out to you.

There’s a pause before you whip your head around— it’s been months since he’s called you that. There’s nothing but warmth and fondness in his eyes as his gaze meets yours. “Why is Nanami’s number saved under ‘nerd’ in my phone?”

He’s back.

“I don’t know,” you laugh, despite the tear falling down your cheek. “You tell me.”

—

Satoru didn’t want to believe it when everything around him went dark once again. It’s not until his feet touch the ground with a soft thud and he finds himself back in his messy, cold dorm when reality slapped him across the face.

Something between a sob and a gut-wrenching scream rips from his throat. Grabbing the round shades he had hoped he’d never have to fucking wear again, he rips them off his face and sends it crashing into the wall, breaking into a hundred little pieces. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t give himself a chance to even breathe or think before raising his hand and releasing a purple orb with just a flick of his fingers. 

Impulsive. Reckless. Deadly. 

Satoru was fucking devastated. 

Nobody knew what triggered him that night. All they knew was that the east wing of the school looked like it had been hit by an asteroid by the time he calmed down. He didn’t speak to anyone for a good two weeks following the incident. Everyone wants to think he was lucky the explosion didn’t have any casualties, but then they remembered who he was: Satoru fucking Gojo. 

God’s don’t get punished, nor do natural disasters— it’s hard to tell which one he was at this point. 

One Year Later

“If it’s that small of a curse, why are you sending me there?” Satoru continues to argue with one of the new managers over the phone. 

It wasn’t that small of a curse. It was a grade one. But still, given the sorcerer’s title as a special grade, he was overqualified for the job. 

“I’m sorry, we just don’t have anyone available to take on the case at the moment.” The young woman continues to apologize over the phone. “I think we might have a grade 3 available for the job. I- I can check—”

“Save it.” Satoru cuts her off. He wasn’t that heartless to push the case off to some 15 year old. That’s exactly how Haibara died. “Send me the address.” 

The mission was nothing short of an inconvenience for him. He liked a challenge when exorcising curses, and the damn thing didn’t even put up a fucking fight. He traveled 2 hours to get here just for that? Unbelievable. 

He wasn’t ready to leave and sit on a train for another 2 hours just yet, so he decided to walk around the town for a bit. 

It was a cute place, a little quiet. Kinda boring. That’s never a bad thing, though. Lots of mom and pop shops, a few coffee shops scattered around, one of which he decided to try. A little sugar’s always good, at least to him. 

The smell of vanilla and roasted coffee beans hit him as he walked into the place. There was a decent amount of customers inside. Not too much to feel crowded, but enough to stay busy. He keeps his eyes on the menu the entire time. The line moves fast, and he figures out what he wants just in time. 

“And what can I get started for you today?”

His eyes are still on the screen, reading the item off the menu.

“Can I get a white chocolate mocha frappuccino, with an extra pump of…” his words die out, and his eyes widen as he finally looks at the girl taking his order. “Hey.”

“Hi.” You laugh at the way this stranger loses his train of thought. “Extra pump of white chocolate syrup?”

“Yeah.” He exhales, unable to rip his eye off you as you write the words down on the plastic cup with a sharpie. 

“Name for the order?”

“Go– Satoru,” he corrects himself. “It’s Satoru.”

He’s a little awkward, but you still find him quite charming and smile. “Alright, Satoru. Your order should be ready in about 10 minutes.”

“Awesome. Thanks,” he nods rather pathetically, then goes to sit in an empty corner of the shop with only one thought in mind: 

He has 10 minutes to come up with what to say to get your number. 

Gotham. Sweet old Gotham.

A city loved dearly by some… and despised just as fiercely by others.

A city where the rain never seemed to stop, where slick streets reflected the glow of streetlamps and neon signs late into the night. The kind of rain that soaked through coats and hats, the kind that made a man linger beneath an awning just a little longer than he meant to.

It was a city where people fell in love beneath that rain.

A city where lovers whispered their confessions on dimly lit sidewalks and outside smoky jazz clubs long after the music had faded. Where a young man might hold a woman’s hand a little tighter before walking her home, promising things he wasn’t quite sure the future would allow him to keep.

Gotham was also a city of goodbyes.

Every morning at the train station, husbands kissed their wives and sweethearts farewell before boarding crowded trains bound for military bases and distant shores. Promises were exchanged between hurried breaths, letters promised, prayers whispered.

Some returned.

Some didn’t.

And still the city carried on.

Women gathered on stoops and in beauty parlors, trading gossip like currency—talking of neighbors, scandals, and the latest headlines printed fresh in the morning papers.

About the war.

About the mayor.

About the Waynes.

Yes, the Waynes.

In Gotham, that name traveled quickly.

Bruce Wayne heir to one of the city’s oldest fortunes, a man whose face seemed to appear in newspapers nearly as often as the weather forecast. The kind of man society women whispered about behind gloved hands and mothers warned their daughters to be cautious around.

In a city as restless and unpredictable as Gotham…

Stories about men like Bruce Wayne never stayed quiet for long.

“Y/N, I don’t want to see you around that man anymore. Do you hear me?”

Your father’s voice filled the small room, firm and unyielding.

You sat quietly at the edge of your bed, your hands folded neatly in your lap as though you had been taught to do it since you were a little girl. The worn leather of your pumps tapped softly against one another every few seconds, the small clicking sound echoing faintly against the wooden floor.

You could say you were listening.

At least… that’s what it might have looked like.

Your father paced slowly across the room as he spoke, his voice rising and falling with frustration as he continued on about the same subject he had brought up nearly every night that week.

Bruce Wayne.

You kept your eyes lowered, watching the faint scuffs along the toes of your shoes rather than meeting your father’s gaze. His words drifted through the room, but your thoughts wandered somewhere else entirely.

Somewhere across the city.

Somewhere where a certain man with dark hair and an easy smile might be standing beneath a streetlamp, waiting.

You nodded every so often, just enough to show you were paying attention.

You weren’t a disrespectful daughter. Your father had raised you better than that.

Even if your mind had already left the room.

Your father, however, had never tried to hide his opinion of men like Bruce Wayne.

Men born into wealth.

Men who appeared in newspapers and society columns while the rest of Gotham worked themselves tired just to keep the lights on.

He hated them.

All of them.

But Bruce Wayne…

Bruce Wayne seemed to offend him more than the others.

Perhaps it was the way the city spoke about him. The admiration. The praise. The endless photographs printed in the morning papers.

Your father could never understand how a city struggling as much as Gotham could look at a man like Bruce Wayne and see something worth admiring.

Your father stopped pacing then, turning to face you.

“He’s dangerous, Y/N,” he said firmly. “Do you understand that?”

At that, you finally lifted your gaze.

Your father stood in the middle of the room, arms crossed over his chest, watching you carefully as if trying to determine whether his words had truly reached you this time.

You held his stare for a moment before lowering your eyes again.

“Yes, Papa,” you replied quietly.

Your voice was soft. Respectful.

Exactly the kind of answer he expected.

But even as the words left your lips…

Your thoughts were still somewhere else entirely.

With Bruce Wayne.

Your father’s expression softened then, the sharp edge in his voice easing just enough for you to notice.

For a moment he simply looked at you — not as the stubborn young woman who had begun testing his patience, but as the same little girl he had spent years protecting from the hard corners of Gotham.

He gave a small, tired smile before leaning forward and pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead.

You glanced briefly toward the window beside your bed, the rain outside tapping softly against the glass as the dim streetlight cast faint shadows across the room.

Your father straightened his posture, adjusting his suspenders as if gathering his thoughts before speaking again.

“I care about you, my daughter… more than you know,” he said quietly.

His voice carried none of the anger from before — only a firm certainty.

“I’m not doing this to control you.”

He paused.

“I’m doing it because I know these people better than you think.”

There was something heavy in the way he said it, something shaped by years of watching how Gotham worked how men with money moved through the world while others struggled to keep up.

He turned then, walking slowly toward the bedroom door.

Before leaving, he stopped and looked around your room.

At the neatly made bed.

The small dresser by the wall.

The worn rug on the floor.

The little space that had always been yours.

For a moment it seemed as though he wanted to say something more.

But instead he simply nodded to himself and stepped into the hallway.

The door closed behind him with a quiet click.

Silence settled over the room.

You waited a moment.

Then another.

And slowly… a small smile crept across your face.

You leaned back against the bed, the mattress dipping softly beneath your weight as you reached up and toyed with the necklace resting at your collarbone.

Bruce had given it to you only a few days ago.

A simple thing, nothing flashy or extravagant like the jewelry wealthy women wore in the society pages but delicate and beautiful all the same.

Your fingers traced the small pendant absentmindedly, remembering the way he had smiled when he placed it in your hand.

“It’s beautiful, Bruce.”

The words leave you almost in a whisper as the small necklace catches the light between your fingers. The pendant glimmers softly beneath the warm glow of the lamp above you, delicate and far more elegant than anything you’ve ever owned.

Bruce smiles at the sight of your reaction.

Without saying a word, he gently takes the necklace from your hands and steps a little closer. His fingers brush lightly against the back of your neck as he fastens the clasp, the cool metal settling just beneath your collarbone.

“There,” he says quietly. “It suits you.”

You reach up to touch it, still admiring the way it shines against the fabric of your dress.

Bruce Wayne had a way about him.

Charming. Polished. The sort of man who knew exactly how to make a woman feel special without even appearing to try. It was a quality the newspapers adored writing about Gotham’s golden heir, handsome and generous, the city’s most eligible bachelor.

And Bruce made sure you never forgot it.

He did everything for you. Small things, thoughtful things — the kind of gestures that made your heart swell every time you thought about them.

Even if it meant upsetting your father.

But if you were honest with yourself, there was still one thing you wanted more than anything else.

You wanted Bruce Wayne to let the world know he was already taken.

Every morning when the newspapers arrived, you couldn’t help but notice his name somewhere among the pages.

Bruce Wayne donates to hospital funds.

Bruce Wayne hosts charity gala.

Bruce Wayne seen dining with Gotham socialites.

Sometimes there were photographs too.

Bruce standing tall in his perfectly tailored suits, smiling easily beside some politician or society woman who had managed to claim his attention for the evening.

And every time you saw it…

Your heart sank just a little.

“Bruce Wayne is such a charmer, I tell you,” one of the girls in your class once said, fanning herself dramatically as she held up the newest magazine.

Bruce’s photograph stretched across the front cover — handsome as ever, that same confident smile resting on his face.

The other girls leaned closer, giggling and whispering among themselves as they admired the picture.

You sat quietly in your seat.

Watching.

Listening.

And wishing — more than anything — that you could say something.

That you could lean forward and tell them the truth.

That the man they were all sighing over was the same man who waited outside your window at night. The same man who knelt beside you just to clasp a necklace around your neck. The same man who would cross half of Gotham just to see you smile.

You wished you could tell them that Bruce Wayne already belonged to someone.

To you.

But you couldn’t.

Because Bruce wouldn’t allow it.

Whenever you tried to press Bruce for an answer, he had a way of putting the matter to rest before it could truly begin.

You would ask him why the two of you had to remain such a careful secret — why the world could speak endlessly about Bruce Wayne while you were expected to remain quietly out of sight.

But Bruce would only smile in that easy, charming way of his.

“There’s nothing your pretty little head needs to trouble itself with,” he would say, brushing a stray curl from your face as though that were explanation enough.

And if you tried to insist…

He would simply lean down and kiss you.

After that, it became terribly difficult to remember what you had been asking in the first place.

Still, the question lingered in the back of your mind.

As your father liked to remind you from time to time, you were one curious cat.

You had tried to reason it out yourself.

At first you wondered if it was because you were still a schoolgirl while Bruce was very much a grown man. Perhaps he believed you too young to understand the complications of his life.

But that couldn’t be it.

You were old enough now — well past the age of making your own decisions. Your father might pretend otherwise, but you knew your own mind well enough.

Then you thought perhaps it was the difference between your worlds.

Bruce Wayne belonged to Gotham’s highest society — a man whose name appeared in the newspapers nearly every week, praised for his contributions to the city and followed endlessly by admiring women.

You, on the other hand…

You were simply you.

But even that explanation felt foolish.

Bruce never behaved as though such things mattered.

And then there was your father.

He made no secret of his feelings toward Bruce Wayne.

Your father hated him — or at least hated everything he believed Bruce Wayne represented.

But why should Bruce Wayne care about what your father thought?

The question remained unanswered.

With a quiet sigh you push yourself off the bed and walk over to the window.

Pulling the curtain aside slightly, you glance out toward the street.

And there he is.

Across the road, beneath the faint glow of a streetlamp and the steady drizzle of rain, stands Bruce Wayne.

A pipe rests between his fingers as he glances casually up and down the street, the smoke drifting lazily into the cool night air.

Your eyes immediately flick toward the driveway.

Your father’s car is gone.

Relief spreads across your face.

When your attention returns to Bruce, he’s already begun crossing the street toward your house.

You can’t help it — a delighted squeal escapes you.

You hurry toward your bedroom door, nearly tripping over your own feet in your excitement.

Just as you reach the staircase, a knock sounds from the front door.

“I’m coming, I’m coming!” you call out, unable to stop the giggle in your voice.

You rush down the steps and reach the door, but just before opening it you pause.

Taking a quick breath, you smooth your dress and fix your hair as best you can.

Only then do you open the door.

Bruce is leaning casually against the frame, his pipe still between his lips as a small cloud of smoke curls into the night air. Several small bags hang from one of his hands.

The moment he sees you, the corner of his mouth lifts into a smile.

“Well now,” he says, removing the pipe and glancing down at you with amused eyes. “Someone looks awfully pleased to see little old me.”

You don’t bother answering.

Instead you launch forward, throwing your arms around him.

Bruce chuckles softly before pulling you into a warm kiss.

When he pulls back, he raises an eyebrow.

“You going to let me in?” he asks lightly.

You nod quickly and step aside, allowing him into the house.

This had become something of a routine.

Nearly every night your father left for work, Bruce would appear at your door to keep you company.

You knew very well what your father would say if he ever discovered the truth.

But you also knew he never would.

Bruce steps into your room and closes the door quietly behind him.

The faint scent of rain follows him inside, along with the familiar trace of tobacco from his pipe. In one hand he carries several small paper bags, their tops neatly folded.

He crosses the room and sets them gently on the floor beside your bed before taking a seat on the edge of the mattress.

You remain standing in front of him, watching.

Bruce leans back slightly, resting his elbows on his knees as he studies you with an amused expression.

Your eyes, however, have already drifted toward the bags.

You can’t help it.

Bruce Wayne had a habit of bringing something with him whenever he visited — a small gift, a pastry from a bakery, sometimes flowers, sometimes something far more extravagant than anything you’d ever think to buy for yourself.

And you loved it every time.

“You’re very popular, Mr. Wayne,” you say suddenly, a teasing smile spreading across your face.

Bruce arches an eyebrow slightly as he removes the pipe from his mouth, tapping the bowl gently against his palm before glancing back up at you.

“Oh?” he says lightly. “Am I now?”

You nod.

Without answering right away, you turn and walk toward your dresser where the morning’s newspaper and a freshly purchased magazine rest neatly beside your mirror.

Bruce watches you curiously.

You pick up the magazine before quickly hiding it behind your back and turning around again.

“You wouldn’t believe what the girls at school say about you,” you continue, adopting a dramatic tone as you begin pacing slowly across the room.

Bruce leans back on his hands now, watching you with clear amusement.

“Women at my school absolutely swoon over Mr. Bruce Wayne,” you declare in a playful imitation, lifting your chin in exaggerated admiration.

Bruce lets out a quiet laugh.

“Oh, I hear it all day,” you continue, pressing your lips together to keep from laughing yourself. “It’s simply dreadful.”

Bruce shakes his head with a smile, clearly entertained.

“Well,” he replies casually, “what can I say? I seem to be rather popular with the ladies.”

At that, you finally reveal what you’ve been hiding behind your back.

You hold up the magazine you picked up earlier from the stand downtown.

Bruce’s photograph stretches across the front cover.

There he is — standing in one of his perfectly tailored suits, looking every bit the polished Gotham gentleman the newspapers adore writing about.

You walk closer and hand it to him.

“This one was at the magazine stand today,” you say.

Bruce glances down at the cover, studying his own photograph with mild interest.

But when he looks back up at you, he notices something else in your expression.

Something quieter.

Something a little more serious than the teasing tone you had just moments ago.

Bruce studies your face for a moment, the magazine still resting loosely in his hands.

The playful mood that had filled the room only a moment ago seems to quiet just slightly.

“You look as though that photograph has personally offended you,” he says lightly.

You shrug your shoulders, trying to make the feeling seem smaller than it actually is.

“It hasn’t,” you say quickly.

But Bruce knows you well enough now to recognize when something is bothering you.

He sets the magazine down on the bed beside him.

“What is it?” he asks.

You hesitate.

Your eyes drift toward the photograph again — the perfectly posed image of Bruce Wayne smiling at a crowd of reporters, women standing nearby, all of them clearly delighted simply to be in his presence.

“That’s what they see,” you say quietly.

Bruce follows your gaze to the magazine.

“The city’s golden boy,” you continue softly. “The man every woman in Gotham wishes she could have.”

Bruce chuckles faintly.

“You make it sound rather dramatic.”

“It is dramatic,” you reply, turning back toward him. “You should hear the way they talk about you.”

You move closer, folding your arms lightly.

“One girl said if she ever met you, she’d faint right there on the spot.”

Bruce raises an eyebrow at that.

“Well,” he says thoughtfully, “I do hope she’s in good health.”

Despite yourself, you laugh.

But the feeling in your chest doesn’t disappear completely.

Bruce notices.

He reaches out gently and takes your hand, tugging you a little closer until you’re standing between his knees.

“What’s troubling you?” he asks again, his voice softer this time.

You glance down at him.

For a moment you debate whether you should say anything at all.

But the thought has been sitting in your chest for too long.

“They don’t know,” you say finally.

“Know what?”

“That you come here,” you answer quietly. “That you sit in my room and bring me gifts and kiss me goodnight.”

Bruce says nothing.

“They think you belong to all of Gotham,” you continue, your voice barely above a whisper. “And sometimes…”

You hesitate.

Bruce gently lifts your chin so you’re looking at him.

“Sometimes what?” he asks.

You swallow softly.

“Sometimes I wish they knew you were already taken.”

For a moment Bruce simply looks at you.

The faintest smile touches his lips — warm, affectionate — but there’s something else in his expression too.

Something thoughtful.

Careful.

His thumb brushes lightly over the back of your hand.

“You shouldn’t trouble yourself with what the papers say,” he says quietly.

You sigh a little.

“That’s not really the point.”

Bruce tilts his head slightly.

“Then what is the point?”

You glance toward the magazine again before meeting his eyes.

“The point,” you say softly, “is that they all think they have a chance with you.”

Bruce lets out a quiet laugh at that.

“And do they?” he asks.

You narrow your eyes at him slightly.

“That’s not funny.”

Bruce smiles.

“No,” he agrees gently.

Then his hand slides to the side of your face, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“They don’t have a chance,” he says.

His voice is calm.

Certain.

But even as he says it…

You notice he still hasn’t answered the one thing you really wanted to hear.

You study his face carefully. Bruce still holds your hand, his thumb moving gently across your knuckles as if the small motion might calm whatever thoughts are running through your head. But it doesn’t. Because the one thing you wanted him to say still hangs quietly between the two of you.

You draw a small breath. “Then why,” you ask softly, “can’t anyone know about me?” The question settles heavily in the room. For the first time since he arrived that evening, Bruce doesn’t answer right away. His hand pauses slightly against yours.

The playful smile that had rested so easily on his face earlier fades into something more thoughtful. He leans back just a little on the bed, looking up at you as though carefully considering his next words. “It isn’t that simple,” he says finally.

You pull your hand gently from his grasp. “Why not?” Bruce watches you as you take a small step away from him. “Because the world I live in…” he begins slowly, “it isn’t very kind to people who don’t belong to it.” You cross your arms lightly, your brows pulling together.

“That’s not fair.”

“No,” Bruce agrees quietly. “It isn’t.”

The rain taps steadily against the window behind you, the soft sound filling the silence between your words. You glance toward the magazine still resting on the bed beside him.

“Those women in the papers,” you say, nodding toward the photograph. “They belong to that world.” Bruce follows your gaze.

“They’re the daughters of businessmen and politicians,” you continue. “Women who go to charity dinners and society balls and know which fork to use at the table.”

You look back at him.

“I could learn all of that.”

Bruce’s expression softens.

“I know you could.”

“But that’s not the problem, is it?” you press.

Bruce sighs quietly, leaning forward again as his elbows rest on his knees.

“No,” he admits.

You wait.

But he doesn’t continue.

The frustration in your chest begins to grow.

“Then what is the problem?” you ask.

Bruce looks up at you again.

This time his voice is quieter.

You look at him for a moment longer, the worry still sitting quietly behind your eyes before a small sigh slips past your lips.

Bruce notices it immediately.

Before you can pull away again, he reaches forward and gently takes hold of your waist, lifting you easily and settling you down in his lap. One of his hands comes up beneath your chin, guiding your face so you have no choice but to look at him.

“I came here to see you,” he says softly.

His voice isn’t sharp or impatient — just steady, warm.

“Can we talk about all of that another time?”

You study his face.

Deep down, you know the truth.

You know there probably won’t be another time.

But the last thing you want tonight is another argument.

So after a moment, you nod.

Bruce smiles faintly at that before leaning forward and kissing you again, softer this time.

The rest of the evening passes in a quiet effort on his part to pull your mind away from the conversation that nearly spoiled the night. He opens the small bags he brought, showing you pastries from a bakery downtown and a few small things he had picked out during the day.

He makes you laugh.

He tells stories.

He teases you the way he always does.

And for a while it works.

But no matter how many times you try to focus on him instead, your thoughts keep drifting back to the same question that still hasn’t been answered.

Eventually the night grows quieter.

The rain outside slows to a gentle patter against the window as the room darkens.

Bruce lies beside you beneath the covers, still dressed, his back resting against the headboard while you curl against him. Your head rests comfortably on his chest as his arm circles around you, his fingers moving slowly up and down your arm in a calm, absentminded rhythm.

Your hands play quietly with his fingers.

Bruce glances down at you before pressing a soft kiss against the top of your head.

“I need to go soon,” he murmurs.

Your head lifts immediately.

“No,” you say quickly, shaking your head as panic flickers across your face. Your arms tighten around him as though you might physically keep him there.

“Please stay. Don’t go.”

Bruce smiles gently at the desperation in your voice and presses another kiss against your forehead.

“You have school tomorrow,” he reminds you quietly. “And what if your father comes home early and finds me here?”

You don’t care.

Not right now.

Tears begin forming in your eyes before you can stop them.

“Please stay,” you whisper again, your voice smaller this time.

Bruce studies your face, watching the tears gather at the corners of your eyes. His thumb reaches up to brush them away before they can fall.

He pulls you closer against his chest, letting out a long breath.

“Alright,” he says finally.

“I’ll stay… for as long as you want.”

Your face immediately brightens as the tension melts from your body. You relax back against him, settling comfortably into the warmth of his arms.

Bruce reaches over and switches off the small desk lamp beside your bed.

The room falls into soft darkness.

He stays there with you, speaking quietly in the dark — his voice low and gentle as he tells you small stories from his day, letting the steady rhythm of his words slowly lull you toward sleep.

Your fingers grow looser around his hand.

Your breathing deepens.

And before long, soft little snores escape you.

Bruce looks down at you with a quiet smile.

He presses a gentle kiss to your forehead before carefully easing himself out from beneath you.

He moves slowly so he won’t wake you.

Before leaving, he reaches over and takes one of the stuffed animals resting near your pillow and tucks it carefully into his place beside you.

For a moment he just watches you sleep.

Then he lets out a quiet sigh.

“What am I going to do with you?” he murmurs to himself.

Bruce walks toward the window and opens it carefully, glancing back at you one last time before climbing out into the cool night air.

The window closes softly behind him.

And soon the room is quiet again.

When you wake the next morning, sunlight spills gently across the room.

For a brief moment, you smile.

You expect to feel his arms still around you.

But when you sit up and look beside you…

He isn’t there.

The space next to you is empty.

And though you know he had to leave…

Something inside your chest aches just the same.

Because every time he goes…

You wish he had stayed.

“…And he’s doing this photograph with that movie star from California,” one of the girls says excitedly, holding up the magazine so the others can see.

The glossy pages catch the light from the classroom windows, and there he is — Bruce Wayne — smiling confidently from the cover.

It’s the same magazine you saw earlier that morning at the stand.

The same one you almost didn’t buy.

You sit quietly at your desk a few rows away, pretending to focus on your homework as the girls gather around another desk near the front of the room.

Your professor sits behind his own desk with a newspaper spread open before him, glasses resting low on his nose as he scans the morning headlines, completely uninterested in the small storm of gossip building across the classroom.

A handful of girls crowd around the magazine now, leaning over each other’s shoulders to get a better look.

You don’t join them.

You simply listen.

“He looks even better in this picture,” one girl sighs dramatically.

Another girl presses a hand to her chest.

“If Bruce Wayne ever kissed me,” she says dreamily, “I think I might die right there on the spot.”

The others giggle.

You can’t help the small smile that tugs at your lips.

Your foot bounces lightly beneath your desk, the heel of your shoe tapping against the floor as you lower your gaze back to your notebook.

You try to focus on the assignment in front of you.

You really do.

But every word the girls say drifts straight into your ears.

“I swear every woman in this city is sweet on him,” another girl adds, fanning herself with the magazine.

Then another voice chimes in, more certain than the rest.

“If Bruce Wayne ever gets married,” she says, “it’ll be to some society girl.”

She flips her hair slightly.

“You know… one of those fancy ones.”

At that, your pencil stops moving.

Slowly, you lift your head.

Your eyes settle on the girl who said it.

“What do you mean by that?” you ask.

The group of girls turns toward you.

For a moment they seem surprised you’ve been paying attention at all.

Then one of them smiles politely.

“Oh, you know,” she says lightly. “He’s worth millions.”

She gestures toward the magazine.

“There’s no way a man like that would ever marry someone like us.”

You open your mouth slightly, but no words come out.

Another girl glances at you curiously.

“Why?” she asks, tilting her head. “Do you think he would?”

You don’t answer right away.

For a moment you simply sit there, your fingers resting lightly on your notebook as you search for something—anything—to say.

But the truth is, you don’t quite know what to say.

Because part of you knows the girls aren’t trying to be cruel.

They’re simply talking about the Bruce Wayne they see in magazines and newspapers.

Not the man who waits across the street at night.

Still, something inside you pushes the words out before you can stop them.

“I think he would.”

The sentence leaves your mouth quietly, almost uncertainly.

The girls look at you.

And then they giggle.

Not loudly. Not maliciously.

But enough that your chest tightens a little.

One of them lifts the magazine again, holding it up so the photograph on the cover catches the light streaming through the classroom windows.

Bruce Wayne stands there in the picture—perfectly dressed, perfectly composed, every bit the handsome heir the newspapers love to write about.

The girl tilts the magazine slightly toward you.

“Please,” she says with a small laugh.

“You really think this man—”

She gestures toward the photograph.

“—the handsomest, richest man in all of Gotham…”

Her eyes flick briefly over you before she finishes.

“…would marry someone like us?”

Then, after a beat, she adds a little more pointedly.

“Like you?”

The words are said lightly, almost carelessly.

But they land harder than she probably meant them to.

You freeze.

For a second your heart seems to stumble in your chest.

Your gaze drops from the magazine back to your desk, your fingers tightening slightly around the pencil in your hand as the girls continue whispering among themselves.

And suddenly the room feels just a little quieter around you.

The classroom grows quiet again as the professor clears his throat and begins the morning’s lesson.

Books open.

Pencils scratch across paper.

But you aren’t really listening.

Your eyes drift toward the window beside your desk, where the gray Gotham sky hangs heavy above the city streets.

The girls’ voices echo faintly in your mind.

Men like Bruce Wayne don’t marry girls like us.

Your fingers tighten slightly around your pencil.

Maybe they were right.

Maybe the world only saw Bruce Wayne as the charming millionaire printed across newspaper pages and magazine covers.

But they didn’t know the man who stood beneath your window at night.

They didn’t know the man who crossed the street in the rain just to see you smile.

You lower your gaze back to your notebook, a small smile touching your lips.

Because the truth is…

Bruce Wayne notices you.

And tonight—

just like every other night—

he will come knocking at your door.