He’s slumped in the chair, the weight of thirty-six sleepless hours dragging at every line of his body. His cowl is off, tossed somewhere on the floor beside the console. His hair is a mess from his own hands raking through it. His eyes keep slipping shut only to snap back open, the stubborn reflex of a man who has lived too long on discipline and caffeine instead of rest.

He finally—finally—lets himself start to drift, his head tipping back against the chair, breath evening out, muscles uncoiling for the first time in days.

And that’s when you climb onto his lap.

He doesn’t even register it at first. He’s so far past the edge of exhaustion that your weight settling onto him feels like part of a dream. His hands, heavy and slow, rise automatically to hold your hips, fingertips barely brushing your sides like his body is moving before his mind wakes up.

It’s only when you shift closer—your knees bracketing his thighs, your warmth pressing into him—that his eyes crack open.

They’re glassy. Unfocused. The eyes of a man who has fought gods and monsters and criminals on zero sleep but now finds himself defeated by you.

“Not fair,” he mutters under his breath, voice rough, barely audible. It’s not anger. It’s not even protest. It’s the quiet, helpless confession of a man who has no defenses left when it comes to you.

You touch his face, thumb brushing the dark circles under his eyes, and he exhales like he’s breaking. His eyelids flutter again, struggling to stay open. He’s too tired to be stoic. Too drained to pretend he doesn’t melt when you touch him like he’s human, not a myth carved out of grit.

You lean forward, resting your forehead against his. His breath catches—soft, shaky.

“I just got the case closed,” he mumbles. “Gotham’s quiet. You should—” His sentence dies. He tries to pull in a steady breath, but it comes out uneven. You can feel the tremor in his chest beneath you.

He’s so tired he’s trembling.

And still, even now, even half-conscious, his hands tighten around your waist, dragging you closer. A possessive reflex. Muscle memory. The instinct of a man who doesn’t know how to stop protecting what’s his.

“You should let me sleep,” he tries again, but the way he nuzzles his face into the side of your neck says something completely different. His nose brushes your skin, and he exhales a long, grateful breath like he’s finally somewhere safe enough to fall apart.

“You owe me,” you whisper against his hair.

He goes still.

Then his grip turns heavy, grounding, almost desperate. His forehead presses into your collarbone. A quiet, frustrated groan escapes him—not because he doesn’t want you, but because he wants you too much and he’s too tired to pretend otherwise.

“I know,” he breathes. “I know I do.”

His fingers flex on your hips, dragging slow, lingering paths along your sides as though memorizing the shape of you will keep him awake. His body caves into yours, chest to chest, heartbeat thudding sluggishly beneath your palms.

He’s exhausted. Destroyed. Barely conscious.

But he pulls you in anyway.

Because even when the world owns every waking hour of him…

You own all the parts he can’t hide.