The penthouse bedroom was bathed in the soft blue glow of Gotham’s skyline, the city’s hum a distant lullaby—or at least, it would have been, if not for the earth-shattering noise coming from the man beside you.

Bruce Wayne—the Bruce Wayne, billionaire vigilante, Gotham’s most feared urban legend—was currently curled around you like an overgrown, extremely possessive octopus. And he was snoring.

Not the gentle, rhythmic kind.

No, this was a guttural, window-rattling, "how-is-this-even-humanly-possible" snore that seemed to vibrate through the mattress.

You stared at the ceiling, wide awake, torn between laughter and despair.

Two months of dating. Two months of stolen kisses and lingering touches, of Bruce’s stupidly intense eye contact and his even more intense… other skills. And yet, somehow, this was the secret he’d kept from you.

A particularly loud snort ripped through the room, and you couldn’t help it—you snorted too, clapping a hand over your mouth to muffle the sound.

Bruce stirred, his arms tightening around you instinctively. “Mmph… s’wrong?” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep.