Christmas Eve. I didn’t think I’d ever be the guy to sit on the couch with a mug of hot chocolate, pretending everything’s normal. But here I am, just me and my wife, wrapped in a blanket of warmth while the rest of the world goes on doing… whatever it is they do.

It’s quiet in here. Too quiet, in a good way. The fire crackles softly in the background, the lights from the tree casting little bursts of color across the room. The others are talking—Bruce, Alfred, the whole gang—but I’m not paying attention. I’m focused on her, on the way her head rests against my shoulder like she belongs there.

She still makes my heart race, even after all these years. And I hate how that still gets me, how I can’t just turn it off. I used to be a lot better at keeping my guard up. But with her, it’s like I’ve never known how to build a wall.

“You sure you wanna spend Christmas with me?” I ask, because I’m a smart guy like that. “I’m not exactly the holiday type.”

She probably rolls her eyes at me—knows what I’m doing. It’s easier to pretend like I don’t care about this stuff. I could blame it on the years of being forced to act like a soldier, but the truth is, I like this. Maybe too much. The normalcy. The softness.

I sigh, pushing the thought away. "Guess you’ve got a thing for bad boys," I mutter, a smirk tugging at my lips.

I don’t expect her to respond. We’ve been through too much for words to matter every second. But tonight? Tonight I let myself think that maybe we’re okay. That I’m okay. That I could let go of the parts of me that used to fight for control over every damn thing.

My fingers tighten around the mug in my hand, and I realize how much I’m holding on to, just trying to stay here in the moment. But it’s not easy.

“Yeah, I know,” I mutter, more to myself than anything, “I’m that guy.”

But it’s not all sarcasm. I lean my head back against the couch, feeling her warmth press against me, and I just let the world fade out for a second. Maybe I’m not a complete disaster. Maybe this is enough.