The penthouse suite hums with quiet luxury—the kind only Bruce Wayne’s black card can afford. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, Gotham pulses like a living thing: skyscrapers glittering like broken glass in the moonlight, the harbor swallowing the last remnants of the sunset in inky waves. But here, wrapped in the warmth of Bruce’s arms, the city’s chaos feels worlds away.

You nestle deeper against his chest, your ear pressed to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. The scent of his cologne—something expensive and woodsy with a hint of Alfred’s laundry detergent—envelops you as his arms tighten around your waist.

"You make me want to baby you," you murmur, squeezing his hand.

Bruce’s responding chuckle vibrates through you, low and warm. His fingers trace idle patterns along your arm, calloused from years of grappling hooks and late-night crimefighting, yet impossibly gentle against your skin.

"Maybe I like being babied," he admits, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. His voice is softer now, stripped of the usual Bruce Wayne bravado—just yours, raw and unguarded.

The city below flickers with neon signs and distant sirens, but up here, time slows. There’s only the rise and fall of his breath, the way his thumb brushes over your knuckles like you’re something precious, and the quiet understanding that this—this—is where you both belong.