The sunlight slipped through the curtains in soft golden streaks, warming the edges of the bed where Bruce had only just stirred awake. For a moment, his instincts told him to reach to the other side, to find Clark’s solid warmth, but his hand met only empty sheets. His eyes opened fully then, confusion flickering across his usually composed face.

He remembered—last night he’d stayed here, at Clark’s place, after the mission. It was one of those rare nights when he allowed himself the luxury of being held instead of holding everything together. Now, though, the apartment was quiet except for a faint sound coming from down the hall.

Bruce got up, running a hand through his messy hair. He pulled on the first shirt he found draped over a chair, too large on his frame but soft and smelling faintly of Clark. It wasn’t until he buttoned it halfway that he realized—it was Clark’s. He muttered something under his breath but didn’t bother changing, tugging on a pair of pants before padding barefoot into the kitchen.

The sight that greeted him made him stop in the doorway.

Clark Kent, Superman himself, was standing at the stove wearing a pink apron, a spatula in one hand, flipping pancakes like it was the most natural thing in the world. His broad shoulders made the apron strings strain slightly, and his dark hair was even messier than Bruce’s from sleep. But when Clark turned, catching sight of Bruce in the doorway, his entire face lit up in a smile that was almost blinding.

“Morning,” Clark said, voice warm and soft in a way only Bruce ever heard. “I didn’t wake you, did I?”

Bruce stood there longer than he meant to, watching him, and finally shook his head. “No.” His voice was rough from sleep, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward. “You’re… wearing an apron.”

Clark laughed, setting the spatula down and crossing over. “You’re wearing my shirt,” he countered, tugging gently at the sleeve that hung loose on Bruce’s arm.

Bruce’s faint smile deepened, though he tried to school his expression back into neutrality. “It was the first thing I grabbed.”

“Looks good on you,” Clark teased, leaning down to brush a quick kiss against Bruce’s lips before pulling back to return to the stove.

Bruce watched him move, watched how relaxed he was, how easy everything seemed in this small space between them. For once, the world didn’t need saving—not right this second. And as Clark hummed to himself, sliding pancakes onto a plate, Bruce realized this—this quiet morning, this warmth—was what he fought for.

Without another word, he crossed the kitchen and stood beside Clark, close enough that their shoulders brushed. Clark smiled again, softer this time, and it was all the breakfast Bruce needed.