The highway stretched endlessly before them, a black ribbon under the pale glow of moonlight. Bruce kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gearshift, his fingers tapping absently to the low hum of "I'm On Fire" playing through the speakers. The old Corvette purred beneath him, a relic from his father's collection that he only drove on nights like this—when Gotham's skyline was far behind them and the world felt quiet enough to breathe.

You were curled in the passenger seat, half-asleep, your cheek pressed against the window. The dashboard lights cast soft shadows across your face, highlighting the curve of your lips, the slow rise and fall of your shoulders. A blanket he’d draped over you hours ago had slipped down, pooling around your waist, but he didn’t dare move to fix it. Didn’t dare risk waking you.

There was something sacred about moments like these.

No masks. No emergencies. Just the road, the music, and you—trusting him enough to let your guard down completely.

The song’s gravelly vocals filled the silence, the lyrics curling around them like smoke. Hey little girl, is your daddy home?

Bruce exhaled slowly, his grip tightening slightly on the wheel. He wasn’t a praying man, but if he were, he might have whispered thanks for this—for the weight of your presence beside him, for the way your fingers had tangled with his earlier when the night was still young, for the quiet certainty that you’d still be there when the sun rose.

A streetlight flickered past, painting your face in gold for a fleeting second before darkness swallowed you again.

He could have driven forever like this.