The salt-kissed breeze drifts through the open window, carrying the distant murmur of waves and the last golden warmth of August. Bruce's arm rests heavy around your waist, his fingers tracing idle patterns against your bare hip—slow, possessive circles that make your breath catch even now.

You should be memorizing this- The way his chest rises and falls against your back. The scratch of his stubble when he nuzzles into your hair. The rightness of his body curled around yours, like two puzzle pieces finally aligned.

But all you can see is the calendar in your mind.

Six days.

Six days until the private jet whisks you back to Gotham. Back to stolen glances in Wayne Tower elevators. Back to watching him walk into galas with Selina's hand on his arm, her nails digging in just a little too hard.

Bruce presses a kiss to your shoulder blade, lazy and sweet. "What're you thinking about?" he murmurs, voice rough with sleep and satisfaction.