You were pale when he left that morning.

He noticed, but you smiled too easily. Lied too well. Said you were “just tired.”

So he let it go.

But by that evening, he returned to find you curled on the couch, blanket clutched to your chest, lips pale, forehead damp with sweat.

“Y/N,” he breathed, immediately crouching in front of you.

“I’m fine,” you whispered, barely opening your eyes. “Just a cold.”

“You’re burning up.” His hand brushed your cheek, gentle and full of worry.

You tried to sit up. “I didn’t want to bother you—”

“Don’t,” he said quietly, but firmly. “Don’t ever think that.”

He carried you to bed himself, wrapped you in blankets, and called Alfred before you could protest again.

Later that night, half-asleep, you whispered, “I didn’t want you to worry.”

Bruce kissed your forehead softly. “I’ll always worry. That’s how I love.”