For the first time in what felt like forever, your husband, Bruce Wayne, was actually home early.

He sat beside you on the bed, glasses on, the soft glow of his laptop reflecting in his eyes as he typed away. You turned to look at him, a quiet laugh slipping out at the rare and oddly domestic sight—Gotham’s brooding vigilante, in sweatpants, working from bed like any normal person.

“What?” he asked, not looking up, but clearly hearing the amusement in your voice.

“Nothing,” you said, still smiling. “Just… it’s weird seeing you like this. Normal. Human.”

That made him pause. He glanced at you over the rim of his glasses, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Don’t get used to it,” he murmured, but his hand found yours anyway, fingers brushing gently over your knuckles.