You didn’t hear the Batmobile pull in.

The kitchen was quiet except for the hum of the fridge and your own sniffles as you sat on the floor, hugging a heating pad and trying not to cry over what felt like the worst day ever. The culprit? A dropped cookie.

Your last cookie.

You stared at it, face-down on the floor like it betrayed you. Period hormones were winning, and you were just… done.

The back door creaked.

“Y/N?”

You froze, sniffling louder than intended.

Then his voice, confused but soft: “Are you… crying on the floor?”

“…No.”

You heard the gentle sounds of Bruce removing his gear. Then he knelt down beside you.

“What happened?”

“I dropped a cookie,” you mumbled, eyes watery. “It was stupid, I just—”

“It’s not stupid,” he said, thumb brushing away a tear. “You’re hurting. That’s enough.”

You sighed, leaning into his touch. “I had cramps. I was bloated. Then the cookie… and it just broke me.”

Bruce didn’t laugh. He just pulled you close and sat with you right there on the floor.

“You could’ve stayed on patrol,” you whispered.

“Too easy tonight,” he murmured. “And I had a feeling you needed me more.”

You sniffed. “I love you.”

“I love you more. Even when the cookies betray you.”

You laughed — for real this time.

When he lifted you off the floor, blanket and snacks in hand, and carried you to the couch like you weighed nothing, you knew:

This man was your peace.

And also… he brought the other pack of cookies.