The bathroom is still, the sound of the city far below muffled by glass and stone. You sit on the edge of the tub, heart pounding harder than it ever has — harder than the time you ran through Gotham’s East End to get to Bruce after a mission gone wrong… harder than when he didn’t come home until sunrise.

But this? This feels bigger.

You look down at the test again.

Two lines. Positive.

You blink, like maybe you saw it wrong the first five times. But it stays the same — clear, certain, final.

Your stomach twists. Not from fear exactly, but from everything that comes with this moment. You’re not just carrying life — you’re holding a future Bruce never thought he was allowed to have.

And that makes it even heavier.

He’s in the study when you find him later. Shirt sleeves rolled up, eyes locked on files you know he’s not really reading. He’s in that mode again — silent, sharp, locked away inside himself.

You don’t say anything. You don’t need to.

You walk across the room slowly and place the test on the edge of the desk. Not with ceremony, not with some dramatic buildup. Just… gently.

He looks down at it.

The silence that follows isn’t cold — it’s loud in a different way. Like the world paused for just this. His fingers brush the edge of the test, but he doesn’t pick it up.

His breath leaves him like it’s been punched out of him.

And for a second, he doesn’t look like Bruce Wayne — billionaire, vigilante, symbol. He just looks like a man staring down the most human moment of his life.

He looks up at you. “You’re…?” Like as if he’s scared to even say the word.