Bruce was a busy little bee - well, Bat. Even with someone decidedly not human staying under his roof, his schedule barely wavered.

He kept an eye on you. If not him, then Alfred. If not Alfred, his Robin took over. It wasn’t personal - he didn’t distrust you, per se - it was just protocol. Paranoia came with the cape. After all, this was Bruce Wayne, a man whose entire life was built on contingency plans and worst-case scenarios.

Tonight, though, was calm. Peaceful, even.

He lounged back in his armchair, one ankle crossed over his knee, a file resting in his hand. Reading case reports outside the Cave was rare, but sometimes a little change of scenery was nice - especially on quiet, rainy nights. The steady rhythm of raindrops tapping against the window mixed with the soft rustle of papers. The warm amber glow from the overhead lamp chased away the shadows pressing against the curtains, keeping the world outside at bay.

For once, the manor felt still. Contained. And in that rare moment of silence, Bruce allowed himself to breathe.