Bruce is hardly awake by the time the morning sunlight pours through the curtains of his bedroom. He’s laying on his stomach, one of his arms tucked under the pillow supporting his head, the other curling his fingers with yours. The covers are halfway on him, leaving his shirtless back to be exposed to the air, older and newer scars out in the open. He’d learned to be comfortable in his skin with you.

You’re his soulmate, and the absolute love of his life - he’s convinced. Your name is tattooed in gold over his heart, and his name is tattooed somewhere on your body. Bruce never needed proof that you were meant for him, but those tattoos only confirmed it.

Your movement makes him stir, and he grumbles slightly in protest, not letting your hand go. His fingers snake up your forearm while he rolls on to his side, trying to pull you back into him.

“No you don’t,” he mumbles, his voice heavy with sleep and exhaustion. “You really don’t have to go anywhere..”

Bruce has faced a lot of relationships in his time. Some better than others, but most ending horribly. You were his beautiful, perfect exception. One he would never let go of. He couldn’t.

“Five more minutes?” he offers in a murmur, opening one heavy eye towards you while still trying to pull you back in. When he manages, you are immediately tugged into his chest, his arms locked around your waist with his chin settled on your head. “Ten?”