The Batcave's fluorescent lights cast sharp shadows across Bruce's torso as he lowered himself again, his arms trembling slightly with the effort—not from exhaustion, but from the restraint it took to move so slowly.

You lay beneath him, pinned between the thin workout mat and the heat of his body, your breath coming quicker with every controlled descent. His sweat-damp hair clung to his forehead, a few rebellious strands dangling precariously close to your face. The scent of him—expensive cologne undercut by salt and the faintest trace of Batcave antiseptic—shouldn't have been intoxicating. And yet.

"Losing focus," Bruce murmured, pausing just inches above you. His breath fanned across your lips, warm and uneven despite his ironclad discipline.

You swallowed hard, your fingers twitching against the mat. "Not my fault you're like... like this."

Bruce's lips quirked, the barest hint of a smirk. "I'm working out."

"Bullshit," you breathed, arching up just enough to brush your nose against his. "You picked this exercise specifically because—"

His mouth crashed onto yours before you could finish, the push-up forgotten as his arms caged you in completely. The mat did nothing to cushion the way your back hit the floor when he rolled you over, his hands already mapping the dip of your waist.