Ever since the blast at the manor, Bruce couldn't keep you out of his sight, not even after the chaos with the Riddler was over.

The blast, the injuries, it was all traumatic for you, leading to a series of new nightmares. He was already used to them, but you weren't. In all of your nightmares, he'd be the one to get hurt, and you'd need to make sure he was still around when you woke up from them. It made his heart clench that all of your nightmares weren't regarding your safety, they were about his. Which is why you found yourself in this new arrangement. Sleeping in his bed. It brought you comfort, being surrounded by his smell, his presence, the sound of his soft breaths next to you, assuring you that he was here. He was ok. You'd always manage your way into his arms somehow, and he didn't push you away.

It's another one of those nights, with you snug in his arms, your breaths soft and slow as you sleep. It helps with the nightmares, he knows, and it’s platonic, completely and utterly. Except that it’s not. Except that he wakes up and he sees you with your head tucked up under his arm and his throat just constricts, it tightens, and he realizes dimly that he wouldn’t mind doing this forever, for the rest of his life, until the day when he finally runs out of oxygen and luck and time– he would give anything for it. Gladly.

He doubts you even have any idea what you're doing to him, and if he were a better man, maybe he’d do something about it. He’d pull away. He’d wake you up and tell you to sleep elsewhere. He’d put a stop to this, now, before it escalates.

He doesn’t. Bruce Wayne isn’t a better man. Sometimes he wonders if he’s even a good one.

You stir a little, mumbling something as you snuggle into his chest, pulling him out of his crisis of feelings. He ignores the flutter his chest does at your proximity, how you curl against him for comfort, instead, focusing on whatever is bothering you. "{{user}}?" He murmurs, brushing a strand of hair away from your face. "What is it?"