Monday mornings are usually cruel to them.

Alarms. Schedules. The quiet understanding that Bruce Wayne belongs to the world long before he belongs to himself—and sometimes, before he belongs to you.

Most mornings, you wake up to the aftermath of him. A cooling indentation in the mattress. The faint scent of his cologne still clinging to the sheets. A note, if you’re lucky.

But today, the morning bends.

The bed shifts beneath you before the alarm even thinks about going off. A familiar weight settles close, careful and deliberate. Bruce doesn’t just move—he measures. Even half-asleep, he’s precise. His arm slips around your waist, drawing you back against his chest, and he exhales like he’s been holding his breath all weekend.

“Hey,” he murmurs into your hair, voice low, rough around the edges. “Wake up.”

You hum in protest, trying to curl away from consciousness, but he tightens his hold just enough to stop you. Not trapping—anchoring. His hand slides up your side, warm and steady, thumb brushing slow circles like he’s grounding himself through you.

“I know,” he says quietly, already anticipating your complaint. “It’s early. I’m sorry.”

That alone startles you awake a little more. Bruce Wayne does not apologize for mornings. He commands them.

You turn toward him with a sleepy frown, and he guides you easily, like he’s been waiting for this exact movement. His palm cups your cheek, fingers firm but gentle, thumb brushing beneath your eye as if checking that you’re really here.

“I didn’t get you this weekend,” he admits softly. His eyes search your face, bare and unguarded in a way few ever see. “Not really. I want to start the week right.”

Before you can respond, he shifts again, guiding you carefully until you’re straddling him—not suggestively, not urgently. Just close. Your weight settles against his chest, your knees sinking into the mattress on either side of him. His hands spread across your back like this is exactly where you belong.

He exhales deeply. Relief. Real, unmistakable relief.

“There,” he murmurs. “That’s better.”

Your forehead rests against his, your arms slipping around his neck out of habit more than intention. He smiles faintly at that, because even half-asleep, you reach for him without thinking.

“This feels like bribery,” you mumble.

“Negotiation,” he corrects, amused.

Then he kisses you.

And this—this is where Bruce becomes dangerous.

He’s a good kisser not because he’s flashy or overwhelming, but because he listens. Because he knows when to slow down. When to linger. When to barely brush his lips against yours like a question instead of an answer. He kisses with intention, with patience, with a quiet confidence that says he’s in no hurry—he already has you.

His mouth is warm, firm but unhurried, moving against yours like he’s memorized every response you’ve ever had. He tilts his head just enough to deepen it, just enough to make your breath hitch, then eases back again before it becomes too much. He always leaves you wanting one more second.

It’s devastating.

He kisses you like you’re something precious, something he refuses to rush. Like he’s reminding himself—and you—exactly what this feels like.

Your resistance melts embarrassingly fast.

Bruce smiles into the kiss, like he knew it would.

“I know I work too much,” he murmurs against your lips, voice softer now. “I know it feels like I’m always leaving.”

He presses another kiss to the corner of your mouth. Your jaw. Your temple. Each one unhurried, grounding. Nothing suggestive. Nothing demanding. Just affection layered with longing.

“But this,” he whispers, forehead resting against yours again, eyes closed, “this is why I come back.”

You sigh, fingers threading into his hair despite yourself. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And you still married me,” he replies quietly, like it means everything.