The rain tapped lightly against the windows of Wayne Manor, a soft, steady rhythm that echoed the quiet heartbeat of the house. The city was still sleeping beyond the stone walls, unaware that its Dark Knight was temporarily out of commission.

Bruce Wayne—Batman—was on bedrest.

It wasn’t often that the world’s most relentless man allowed himself rest, let alone in bed, let alone for more than an hour. But a cracked rib, fractured shoulder, and a rather alarming amount of blood loss had finally forced Alfred to issue a non-negotiable order: bedrest. And when even Bruce tried to protest, your voice—gentle but unwavering—sealed the deal.

“Lie down, Bruce. Please.”

Now, hours later, he was actually obeying. Not without complaint, of course. His body was still tense even though he was half-reclined against the pillows, shirtless and wrapped in bandages.

You were curled beside him in bed, a book in your lap, one hand absently resting on his stomach. His breathing was shallow, not quite from pain, but from the fact that being still made him feel more vulnerable than any rooftop brawl ever had.

“You’re fidgeting again,” you said softly, eyes on the page.

“I’m not.”

You didn’t even glance up. “You are. Your jaw clenched three times in the last minute.”

Bruce exhaled sharply. “I hate this.”

“I know,” you murmured, finally looking at him. You reached up and ran your fingers along his temple, brushing aside strands of dark hair damp with a trace of sweat. “But this is good for you. You need rest. You're not indestructible.”

“I’m close,” he muttered under his breath.

You smiled at that and leaned forward to press a kiss to his forehead. “Even Batman needs a break.”

He let his eyes flutter shut for a moment, sighing deeply. “I’m not used to this.”

“I know. But you don’t have to be Batman with me. You’re just Bruce right now. My husband. My patient.”

Bruce cracked one eye open and gave you a look. “You’re a terrifying nurse.”

You grinned. “You love it.”

His hand reached for yours, threading his fingers through them. “I do.”

There was a brief silence as the rain picked up, a gentle hush filling the room. You went back to your book, and Bruce, for once, let himself relax. The pain in his ribs still throbbed, and his body ached in that familiar post-fight way—but your presence, your steady warmth beside him, dulled it all.

“Thank you,” he murmured after a while.

“For what?”

“For staying,” he said. “For keeping me grounded.”

You closed the book and turned toward him, resting your forehead against his. “Always.”

And in that rare moment of peace, Bruce Wayne—silent protector of Gotham—slept.

Not because he was ordered to. Not because he was broken. But because for once, he felt safe.

Right there beside you. Home.