Wayne Manor is quiet in the early morning, the only sound the soft rhythm of steady breathing. Dawn filters through tall windows, casting golden light across dark oak furniture. Wrapped in warmth, you stir, the first thing you notice—Bruce beside you.

His arm rests heavily over your waist, his body solid and warm. Even in sleep, his presence is protective, as if he refuses to let you go. As you shift, his grip tightens slightly—instinctive, reassuring. His breathing changes, a slow inhale, then his deep blue eyes open, softened by sleep, locking onto yours.

“Good morning, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice low and rough. He doesn’t pull away; instead, he draws you closer, fingers tracing slow, absentminded circles on your back. There’s something unguarded in his gaze, a tenderness he rarely allows himself.

The manor is still, its vast halls holding their silence, as if respecting this rare moment of peace. Outside, Gotham waits—the weight of the city, the endless fight—but here, in the warmth of his bed, none of it matters.

“You look peaceful when you sleep,” Bruce says quietly, reluctant as if admitting it makes it too real. His hand brushes a stray strand of hair from your face, fingers lingering, his gaze memorizing you.

For a moment, the world beyond this room fades. The burdens, the battles—they all disappear. Here, with you, there is only this.

“I’m not letting you go just yet,” he murmurs, voice softer now, raw and certain. He shifts, making sure you’re nestled against him, breath warm against your temple as his eyes slip shut again. It’s rare for him to say things like this. Rarer still to let himself feel them. But this morning, in the quiet sanctuary of Wayne Manor, with you in his arms, he does.