Mothman

It was huge — a massive billboard hanging above the escalators for a luxury watch brand. Bruce’s face stared down at the crowd, sharp jawline, piercing blue eyes, wearing a tailored suit and a watch that probably cost more than most people’s cars. The tagline read: Time waits for no one. But it looks good doing it. He looked every bit the untouchable billionaire — confident, composed, devastatingly attractive.

You stopped dead in your tracks, eyes wide. “Oh my god.”

Bruce followed your gaze and froze. His hand tightened around yours, a faint flush creeping up his neck. “Shit. I forgot about that campaign. It went live last week.”

You stared up at the billboard, then back at him, a slow grin spreading across your face. “You look… ridiculously hot. Like, unfairly hot. Is that even legal?”

He rubbed the back of his neck, ears turning pink. “It’s just marketing. Can we keep walking? There’s probably more.”

You didn’t move. “More? There are more of these?”

Bruce sighed, already knowing he was doomed. “A few. The watch brand wanted a full series. And then there was the cologne one. And the suit campaign for that Italian designer. I tried to get them to pull the mall placements but… deadlines.”

You laughed, delighted, tugging him toward the escalator so you could get a better look. “Bruce Wayne, reluctant supermodel. I need to see all of them. Right now.”

He groaned but let you pull him along, his free hand covering his face. “This is why I avoid malls. I knew you’d make a fuss.”

“I’m not making a fuss,” you said innocently, stopping right under the billboard. You tilted your head, studying the image. “Okay, maybe a little fuss. But look at you. That jawline. Those eyes. The way the suit fits… I’m going to need a minute.”

Bruce’s flush deepened. He stepped behind you, arms wrapping around your waist from behind, chin resting on your shoulder. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“Immensely,” you admitted, leaning back against his chest. “My husband, the billboard heartthrob. I’m going to take pictures and show them to the kids later. Damian will pretend to be disgusted but secretly save them.”

Bruce groaned again, burying his face in your neck. “You’re cruel. I do these campaigns for the foundation. The money goes to good causes. Not so you can tease me in public.”

You turned in his arms, looping yours around his neck. “I’m not teasing. I’m appreciating. There’s a difference. And you look incredible. But I like this version better.” You reached up, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. “The one who blushes when his wife points out his own billboards, who holds my hand in the middle of a crowded mall even though he hates us being recognised.”

He smiled then — small, shy, the kind of smile that made your heart feel too big for your chest. “Only for you. I’d rather be recognized as your husband than anything else.”

You kissed him softly, right there under his own giant face on the billboard. He kissed you back, hands settling on your waist, pulling you closer like the rest of the world didn’t exist. When you pulled back, you rested your forehead against his.

“Come on, supermodel,” you said, taking his hand again. “Let’s find the rest of these billboards. I need to see the cologne one. I bet you look edible.”

Bruce laughed, the sound warm and genuine as he let you tug him toward the next level. “You’re going to be insufferable about this for weeks, aren’t you?”

“Months,” you promised, grinning. “Maybe years. I’m framing the best one for the bedroom.”

He groaned but followed you willingly, fingers laced with yours, the embarrassment slowly giving way to quiet amusement. Every time you spotted another poster — him in a sleek suit for the watch campaign, him in an open collar shirt looking brooding and mysterious for the cologne line — you’d stop and make a fuss. Pointing out how good his jaw looked, how the lighting made his eyes pop, how unfairly attractive he was.

Bruce endured it all with a mix of mortification and fondness, ears pink, but never once letting go of your hand. He’d mutter “you’re enjoying this too much” or “I’m never doing another campaign again,” but he’d smile every time you kissed his cheek or told him how proud you were.

At one point, a group of teenagers recognized him. They whispered excitedly, phones coming out for pictures. Bruce tensed, the public mask sliding into place — charming smile, easy posture. But you squeezed his hand, leaning into his side.

“He’s even better in person,” you told them with a wink. “But he’s taken. Very taken.”

The kids laughed. Bruce’s ears went redder, but he pulled you closer, kissing the top of your head right there in front of them.

When the crowd finally moved on, he looked down at you, eyes soft. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I wanted to,” you said, rising onto your toes to kiss him properly. “You’re mine. Billboard or not. I like reminding people.”

He kissed you back, slow and sweet, hands cupping your face like you were the only thing worth holding onto in the middle of the crowded mall. When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours.

“I love you,” he whispered. “Even when you make me blush in public. Especially then.”

You smiled, kissing the corner of his mouth. “I love you too. My reluctant model, husband and my everything.”

The rest of the day passed in a blur of shopping bags, shared lattes, and stolen kisses between stores. Every time you spotted another poster, you’d make a delighted fuss, and Bruce would groan but pull you closer anyway, laughing despite himself. By the time you finally headed home, the trunk full of new sheets and blankets and a few silly souvenirs, he was relaxed in a way he rarely was in public — hand in yours, shoulders loose, smile easy.

When you got back to the penthouse, he pulled you into his arms the second the door closed, kissing you deeply, hands sliding under your sweater to rest warm against your bare back.

“Thank you,” he murmured against your lips. “For today. For making it fun. And for… seeing me. Always the real me. Not the.. dumb billboards.”

You kissed him again, slower this time. “Always. I love the billboards. But I love this version more. The one who blushes when I tease him. The one who holds my hand in public even when he hates being recognized. The one who comes home to me every night.”

He held you tighter, chin resting on your head. “I’ll always come home to you. Billboards or not.”

You smiled against his chest, listening to his heartbeat. The city hummed far below, but in his arms, everything felt exactly right.

Bruce Wayne might be on billboards across the city. But with you?

He was just your Bruce.