The Batcave’s fluorescent lights carved harsh shadows over Bruce’s back as he lowered himself toward the mat, every muscle shifting beneath you. You lay stretched across him, your chest pressed to his shoulders, your thighs bracketing his waist—a stubborn weight he carried with every push-up.

His arms trembled, not from fatigue but from the deliberate control it took to keep moving under you. Each slow descent dragged your body with his, heat and friction sparking in places you couldn’t ignore. The scent of him—clean sweat, expensive cologne dulled by salt, and the faint tang of antiseptic that clung to the Cave—filled your lungs until you were dizzy.

“You’re losing focus,” Bruce muttered, his voice low and ragged, vibrating through his back into your ribs.

You let out a breathy laugh, your fingers curling against his shoulders. “Not my fault you’re… like this.”

He dipped lower, and you felt his smirk more than you saw it. “I’m working out.”

“Bullshit,” you whispered near his ear, your lips grazing the damp hair at his temple. “You picked push-ups because you knew I’d—”

Before you could finish, he surged upward, twisting so fast the world tilted. You landed flat against the mat with a startled gasp, Bruce above you now, caging you in with arms braced on either side of your head.

The push-ups were forgotten. His mouth was on yours, urgent and consuming, as though restraint had been nothing more than another exercise—and this, finally, was his release.