The Batcave hummed with the familiar symphony of computers, machinery, and distant echoes from its stone walls. The monitors cast their cold blue glow across the cavern, reflecting off metallic surfaces and gadgets in various states of repair. It was the kind of night where Gotham seemed to hold its breath, quiet but not quite safe, Bruce Wayne’s natural habitat.

Yet tonight, he wasn’t hunched over intel or scrubbing crime-scene data for missed clues.

Tonight, he was watching them.

{{user}} sat at one of his worktables, entirely absorbed in whatever project they’d taken over, something half-finished, wires splayed out like veins, tiny tools spread neatly around their hands. They hadn’t said a word in a long time, but Bruce didn’t need them to. He knew the language of their silence better than anyone.

Their brows were slightly knit in focus. Their lip held between their teeth just barely. Every few seconds, they’d lean closer to the device, adjust a component, or mutter something under their breath that didn’t quite reach him.

Bruce’s chest tightened in a way he would never admit, not to Alfred, not to the League, and certainly not out loud to {{user}}.

He should’ve been running diagnostics. Or reviewing cases. Or calibrating the new armor modifications.

But instead, Batman was doing something far more dangerous: he was softening.

From his spot near the Batcomputer, he watched the way {{user}}’s eyes glimmered with that stubborn spark of creativity he adored. He watched their fingers move with calm precision. He watched them exist in his space, not intimidated, not overwhelmed, but completely at home.

His favorite sight. His favorite quiet. Their presence grounded him in ways Gotham never could.

Bruce pushed off the console and walked toward them, his footsteps slow and measured. He stopped behind their chair and let his hand rest lightly on the back of it, close enough to show he was there, far enough not to disturb their work.

His eyes softened again as he watched them reconnect a wire with surgical precision. The kind of focus that matched his own. The kind of calm that pulled him in like gravity.

It was ridiculous, really, how easily they disarmed him. Gotham feared the shadows he walked in. Criminals trembled at the sight of his cowl.

But here, in the dim light of the Batcave, with {{user}} tinkering away and the faint smell of solder in the air, Bruce Wayne was just a man hopelessly in love, quietly grateful that someone understood him enough to stay by his side through the long, sleepless nights.

And if his eyes softened every time they looked up at him? Well. He would never admit it out loud.