A cozy evening spent watching a movie quietly turned into a passionate night. Bruce picked you up in his arms and carried you to the bedroom easily and confidently, as if deliberately reminding both himself and you that he was still capable of this. He gave a quiet smirk and whispered near your ear,

“I’m still in shape. Don’t doubt that.”

The air in the bedroom was heavy and warm. He kissed you everywhere he could reach, slowly and greedily, as if afraid to miss even a single moment. You were beneath him, feeling his weight and tension, hearing his breathing.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he said hoarsely, holding your gaze. “I want you to feel good.”

When he straightened up, a sharp pain in his back suddenly made itself known. His breathing faltered for a brief second, his fingers gripping the sheets more tightly.

The pain reminded him of the past. Of Bane. Of his broken back. Of the fact that his body no longer obeyed him the way it once had.

Bruce closed his eyes and let out a quiet breath.

“F—” What angered him was not the pain itself, but what it meant. Time. Age. Limits. And he was angry at himself for being forced to feel them at last.