It's been a long night, a really long one. It’s around four in the morning, and Bruce has his arms wrapped around you, his hands under your shirt, offering skin-to-skin contact to soothe you. His head is buried in your neck, breath slow and steady against your skin as he holds you close, half-awake but unwilling to let go. Of course, he’s exhausted - he only got back from patrol a few hours ago - but if you need comfort, he’ll give it.

So here you are, tangled together on the couch, the room steeped in darkness, save for the faintest glow from the city outside. The wind whispers through the trees, rustling the greenery just beyond the window, and it’s grounding - real.

The quiet, the warmth, the slow rhythm of Bruce’s breathing against your collarbone. His fingers trace idle patterns along your skin, absentminded, familiar. You don’t need words. Just this - just the steady weight of him, the way he molds himself against you like he belongs there. And maybe, in this moment, he does.