He came back from Tokyo with a bruised rib, a cut along his jaw, and a tiny, hand-painted fox figurine.

You blinked at it. “What is this?”

Bruce handed it to you like it was treasure. “Saw it in a street stall. Thought it looked like you.”

You frowned. “I don’t have fox ears.”

“No,” he said, smirking. “But you’re clever. And hard to catch.”

You rolled your eyes, but your heart melted anyway.

Later, you found it sitting on your nightstand.

Next to your books. Guarding your lamp.

And you smiled every time you looked at it.

Because for all the shadows he lived in, Bruce Wayne always came home to you with a little piece of light.