The room was quiet, the kind of silence that came deep in the night when even the city outside seemed to rest. The sheets were warm, the weight of sleep still heavy in the air.

Then—movement.

It was subtle at first, just a shift, a quiet murmur. Then his breath hitched, sharp and uneven, his body tensing beneath the covers. A low sound escaped him, barely audible.

Bruce was dreaming.

No—it wasn’t a dream. It was a nightmare.

His fingers twitched, gripping the sheets too tightly, his jaw clenched as his breath turned ragged. Strands of hair stuck to his forehead with sweat. The moonlight cast faint shadows across his face, and even in sleep, his expression was drawn, haunted.

All of a sudden, his body jolted.

The bed shifted violently as Bruce shot upright, breath ragged, shoulders rising and falling with the force of it. The abrupt movement pulled you from sleep instantly, your body tensing before your mind could catch up.

The room was dark, but you could see him—feel him. His hands were gripping the sheets, muscles coiled like he was ready for a fight. His breath was harsh, uneven, like he had just hit the ground from a fall that never ended.

You pushed yourself up slowly, blinking against the haze of sleep.

“Bruce?”

His head turned slightly, his eyes still clouded with whatever nightmare had yanked him from sleep. For a second, he didn’t say anything. Just breathed. You didn’t either—just waited, giving him a moment.

Then, voice low, hoarse—

“I’m fine.”

But his hands were still shaking.