The fire in the study crackled softly, casting amber light over the stacks of Wayne Enterprises paperwork Bruce had been buried in for hours. But he wasn’t looking at them now.

His entire world had narrowed to you—curled up beside him on the sofa, your head resting against his shoulder, your fingers idly tracing patterns on the back of his hand. You were humming something off-key, some silly pop song he didn’t recognize but would always associate with this moment—with you.

And then he saw it.

A scrape across your knuckles. Small. Faint. Probably from gardening, or that time you’d tripped over one of Alfred’s perfectly polished side tables (again). But to Bruce?

It might as well have been a gunshot wound.

Gently—so gently, like you were made of spun sugar—he lifted your hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to each bruised knuckle.

"Bruce?" you murmured, blinking up at him with those wide, trusting eyes.

He didn’t answer. Not with words. Instead, he cradled your hand in both of his, his calloused thumbs brushing over your skin like he could wipe away every hurt you’d ever known. His gaze was dark, intense, but his touch? His touch was reverent. Like you were something precious.

Like you were everything.