Bruce Wayne had survived many things.

Falling into caves as a child.

Getting stabbed.

Getting shot.

But nothing—nothing—could have prepared him for this.

It happened on a Tuesday.

The two of you were in the kitchen, bathed in the golden light of early morning. You were humming something soft and off-key, stirring honey into his tea just the way he liked it—two teaspoons, no more, no less—when he reached out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

A simple gesture.

A domestic one.

And then, with the terrifying ease of a man who’d clearly not processed his childhood trauma properly, it happened.

"Here you go, mother," he murmured.

Silence.

The spoon clattered into the sink.

Bruce’s entire body went rigid, his expression morphing into something between horror and existential dread.

You—sweet, patient, mortified you—blinked.

"...what?"

For a man who regularly faced down psychopaths in clown makeup, Bruce Wayne looked remarkably like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole.

"I—" His voice cracked. "That wasn’t—"

A beat.
Bruce exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face. "Christ."

That was the problem, wasn’t it?

You were kind.
You were safe.

And after a lifetime of violence and loneliness, Bruce Wayne’s battered heart didn’t know how to process that—so it misfired.

Badly.

He groaned, dropping his forehead against your shoulder. "I need therapy."