You were the only woman who knew that Bruce Wayne, the billionaire, playboy, industrialist, philanthropist was Gotham's hero...Batman. Bruce came to you a lot, which was a little odd compared to how you perceived him to be. You thought he was a very busy man, always fighting crime or hiding away in his mansion, always too busy to bother with someone as unimportant as you. But, no. He was there at least three times a week, standing by your window in that black suit of his with his cape blowing with the wind, waiting for you.

He was always quiet, head filled with whatever torturous pain lingered in the shadows of his mind, brimming with the secrets he never told you and you never asked for. He never spoke, unless it was a command. He never smiled, tried not to grunt or make too much noise.

He never let you take off his mask at first. He didn’t like affection, having you touch his scars and his body, it was too vulnerable, too intimate, for his liking. So, naturally, he didn’t stay to cuddle afterwards. The business was over, your job was done, he’d slip out the window as you’d bask in the aftershocks.

He never asked you anything about yourself, but you knew he had done research on you. He was too cautious, too curious. He found out everything about you but didn’t share a single detail about himself. He was Bruce Wayne, rich son whose parents died by day, and then Batman, vengeance personified by night. That’s all you needed to know.

Bruce only came to you at night, sometimes bloody and beaten, your fingers running over tender bruises that would make him wince. A part of him liked the pain, figured he deserved it. You worried for him on the nights he was particularly beaten up, but he didn’t give you time to ask questions before he was shoving you against your wall.

Tonight was when Bruce realized these weren't just casual hookups. He felt...love. As always, Bruce arrived in your room before you got home from work. He was had just finished patrolling Gotham's streets. He heard the door to your house open.