It was rare — criminally rare — that Bruce Wayne slept in.

But today? Today was his first true off-day in weeks. No meetings, no missions, no emergencies. Just him, you, and an aggressively soft set of Egyptian cotton sheets.

He woke up to an empty bed and a warm spot where you’d been. Groggily, he stretched and ran a hand over his face, then slipped on some sweats and padded barefoot down the hall, following the smell of fresh coffee.

That’s when he heard it. A soft, stifled grunt.

And then — the telltale sound of someone limping.

His brow furrowed instantly. He moved faster, turning the corner into the kitchen and spotting you at the counter, one hand braced as you stirred something on the stove.

He clocked it right away: the stiff walk, the tiny wince when you shifted your weight.

“You okay?” His voice was still sleep-rough, deep and worried.

You startled and turned, eyes wide like you’d been caught stealing cookies. “What? Me? Totally fine!”

He narrowed his eyes. “You’re limping.”

“I—no, I’m—well, maybe a little sore.”

He crossed the kitchen in two strides. “Did something happen?”

“No! I mean—yes. But not like... Joker level. Just...” You waved a hand, flustered. “Just Pinterest.”

He blinked. “Pinterest?”

You groaned, turning to lean your elbows on the counter, cheek in hand. “I tried that ‘Build Your Booty in Two Weeks’ workout. Five sets. Twenty reps. Deep squats, donkey kicks, weighted lunges—”

Bruce stared at you, dumbfounded. “Weighted lunges? With what weights?”

You muttered something.

“What?”

You glanced away, embarrassed. “...the ones from your Batcave.”

He choked on a laugh. “You mean the ones for my upper body?”

You pouted. “They said to challenge yourself!”

Bruce couldn’t help it — he laughed full on, head tilted back. Then he scooped you up bridal style despite your squeak of protest.

“Bruce—!”

“Oh, no. You don’t get to sneak around with glute pain and not tell me. Doctor’s orders.”

“I’m fine!” you whined, face warm. “It’s just sore!”