Since Alfred had cut off his access to the Batcave - and, more importantly, his Batsuit - Bruce was stuck on the couch, forced into an unwelcome hiatus. His head rested lazily on the arm of the couch, a rare scene of inactivity for the vigilante, while his hands gripped the so-called Bat-phone horizontally, the screen glowing in the dim light of the room. Working cases remotely wasn’t ideal, but it was the only option left to him for the moment.

He felt the weight of exhaustion pressing down on him, every muscle in his body aching from the stress he never allowed himself to release. Still, no matter how worn down he felt, the cases wouldn’t solve themselves.

However, when you walked in, Bruce’s eyes slowly drifted from the screen to you, peeling away from the harsh glow that had been consuming him. The shift in his expression was immediate, replaced with something more vulnerable. His gaze softened, though there was a silent plea hidden in those tired eyes, as if asking for relief from the relentless weight he carried. He couldn't pull himself away from work, but maybe you could.