It was early.

Not quite sunrise, but the sky was starting to hint at morning — streaks of pale gold cutting through the Gotham gray. The manor was quiet, still, wrapped in the hush that only came before coffee and chaos.

Bruce returned from a long patrol, silent as always, peeling off the cowl and shrugging out of the suit with practiced weariness. He rubbed at the sore spot on his shoulder and made his way upstairs, expecting the bedroom to be empty — you always slept in on Sundays.

Except… you weren’t in bed.

The soft hum of music came from down the hall.

Curious, he followed it into the kitchen.

And stopped dead in the doorway.

You were standing at the counter, barefoot, hair messy from sleep, wearing his white dress shirt — the one that always made you roll your eyes because “it’s too stiff, Bruce” — sleeves rolled up, hem grazing your thighs.

A cup of coffee in one hand. One of Alfred’s muffins in the other.

His heart actually skipped.

You turned, mid-sip, eyes widening when you saw him. “You’re back early.”

Bruce blinked once. Then again. “You’re—” He cleared his throat. “You’re wearing my shirt.”

You looked down, as if just noticing. “You left it on the chair. I was cold.”

He didn’t respond right away — just leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, eyes soft and heavy-lidded in a way that was definitely not just exhaustion.

“You’re gonna kill me walking around like that,” he said finally, voice low, reverent.

You smirked over your mug. “Then don’t look.”

He stepped closer, pulling you in by the waist, head bowing until your foreheads touched. “Can’t help it.”

You laughed — quiet, sleepy. “You look like hell.”

“I feel worse,” he murmured. “But this? This almost makes it worth it.”