The terminal hums with that peculiar, restless energy—rolling suitcases, muffled announcements, the low frustration of a delayed flight hanging in the air. You’re seated beside Bruce, one hand resting unconsciously over your stomach, the other wrapped around a paper cup that’s gone lukewarm. Pregnancy has made time feel strange—minutes stretch, discomfort sneaks up quietly, and patience wears thinner than you’d like to admit.

Bruce notices everything.

He’s firmly in public mode tonight—tailored coat, calm posture, the polished Wayne smile softened just for you. A hand stays warm at the small of your back, grounding, protective without being possessive. Every so often, his thumb traces slow, absent-minded circles there, like he’s reminding both of you that you’re not alone in this.

The delay isn’t ideal, but there was a reason for the commercial flight. His private jet was grounded temporarily—routine examinations, inspections he couldn’t rush even if he wanted to. Bruce had hated the idea at first, but he’d conceded quietly. One night of inconvenience was nothing compared to safety. And maybe, in some strange way, this felt right. Ordinary. Anonymous. Just another couple waiting on a plane instead of Bruce Wayne and his pregnant wife being whisked away from the world.

He’s already spoken to the airline staff—quiet words, discreet influence. An upgraded seat request. Extra water. An earlier boarding note. He doesn’t hover, but he stays close, adjusting your scarf when the air conditioning bites, angling his body just enough to shield you from the crowd passing by.

When a nearby announcement crackles overhead about further delays, you feel the tension settle heavier in your chest. Bruce leans in, his lips briefly brushing your temple with a gentle kiss—an intimate gesture hidden in plain sight, just another husband comforting his wife.

His voice is low, calm, carrying the kind of certainty only he has.

“Hey… look at me for a second. We’re fine. It’s uncomfortable, I know. But we’ll manage, I promise.”