The sun had dipped low, casting golden shadows through the tall windows of the manor. Bruce hadn’t brought up last night’s fight again — not once — but the air between you still felt fragile, like if either of you breathed too hard, it might crack wide open again.

So you did what you knew best.

You baked. You lit candles. You put on that quiet playlist he always liked to pretend didn’t make him emotional. And when he came home, still in a dark sweater and smelling faintly of smoke and aftershave, you didn’t say a word — just walked up and pressed a warm cookie into his palm.

He blinked down at it. Then at you.

“You okay?” he asked gently.

You nodded quickly, even though your eyes were glassy. “Just… wanted to give you something sweet before I say I’m sorry again.”

Bruce looked at you — really looked — and his gaze softened. “You don’t have to keep apologizing.”

“I do,” you said quietly, stepping closer. “Because I hurt you. And I hated myself the second I did it.”

He opened his mouth, but you didn’t let him talk. Instead, you wrapped your arms around his waist, face pressing to his chest like you were afraid he’d fade away if you looked at him too long.

“I’ll make it up to you,” you whispered. “With cookies. And cuddles. And maybe 400 ‘I’m sorry’s.”

He chuckled under his breath, arms slowly winding around your smaller frame, pulling you in tighter. “I’ll accept the cookies.”

“And the cuddles?” you mumbled into his shirt.

“Always.”

You stayed there like that for a long while — your hands fisted in his sweater, his lips pressed to your temple. No words. Just the silence of forgiveness, slowly sewing the tear between you back together.

Later, you crawled into his lap while he read, arms slung lazily around his neck. You fed him another cookie and nuzzled into him like a koala.

Bruce smirked. “You planning to let go anytime soon?”

“Nope.”

“Good.”

And just like that, without needing to say another word, he forgave you — because you never really stopped being his soft place to fall.