It’s been a really long night. Four in the morning, exhaustion clinging to you like a second skin. Bruce is curled against you, arms wrapped around your waist, his face pressed into your chest as he chases the warmth of your body. He came home from patrol only a few hours ago, bruised and spent, but instead of heading straight to bed, he sought you. And if he needed comfort, you’d give it.

So here you are, settled on the couch, holding him close, letting the weight of him sink into you. The manor is silent except for the rustling leaves outside, the distant whisper of the wind, and Bruce’s slow, steady breaths. The faint glow from the city filters in through the windows, casting soft shadows over his face.

His body slackens against you, the tension from the night melting away. He doesn’t speak, but he doesn’t have to. Not when his grip tightens slightly, when he exhales just a little deeper, when he leans into your touch like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered.