Dinner at a quiet rooftop bistro, the Gotham skyline twinkling around you, and Bruce — dressed down, for once — looking at you like you were the only thing that existed.

You were halfway through dessert when the cramps hit. Sharp, sudden, and completely unfair. You tried to hide the wince, shifting in your chair.

Bruce noticed. Of course he did.

“You okay?” he asked softly, setting down his fork, eyes already scanning you like he was assessing a crime scene.

You offered a weak smile. “Yeah. Just… girl stuff.”

A pause. Then realization clicked in his eyes — not panic, but instant understanding. “Do you need to leave?”

You nodded, and he was already waving for the check.

Ten minutes later, you were in the backseat of the sleek black car, curled slightly on your side. Bruce sat beside you instead of up front, his hand resting gently on your knee.

“I feel gross,” you mumbled. “And I ruined our night.”

He shook his head. “You didn’t ruin anything. You’re human. You think I’d trade one perfect dinner for being able to take care of you like this?”

You snorted. “You’re being weirdly romantic about cramps and mood swings.”

He smirked. “I’ve fought assassins with swords. I can handle Midol and heating pads.”

You laughed, then winced again. Immediately, he was adjusting the blanket he’d pulled from the trunk, tucking it around you.

“Already had this in the car?” you asked, raising a brow.

Bruce shrugged. “Alfred suggested it. He said you’d probably forget yours.”

“…I did.”

“Exactly.”

Back at the manor, you found a heating pad already warming in your spot on the couch, your favorite oversized hoodie laid out, and a tray of snacks waiting — both sweet and salty.

You turned to Bruce, eyes narrowing. “Did you plan for this?”

“I prepare for every scenario,” he said with a grin. “Besides, I like being your emergency contact.”

And as you curled up next to him, his arm wrapped around you and your head on his chest, you realized something:

Even when your body was at war with itself, with Bruce, you felt complete