It creeps up on him slowly—this dry spell neither of you meant to fall into. Work stacked on work. Nights blurred into mornings. Missed dinners, missed kisses, missed chances.

Six months.

Six months of passing each other in the hallway. Six months of exhausted smiles and “I’ll see you tomorrow, sweetheart,” that neither of you had the energy to make good on. Six months of silence taking up space where touch used to be.

He doesn’t notice it all at once. Bruce Wayne adapts too well to pressure, too well to deprivation. He endures, compartmentalizes, sacrifices without complaint.

But he notices you.

He always notices you.

And lately? You’ve stopped trying.

The nightgowns stay folded. The lace stays untouched. You go to bed in nothing but one of his shirts—too big on you, slipping off a shoulder—and the least appealing pair of underwear you own. He knows they’re comfortable. He knows you’re tired. But seeing you in them hits him harder than any villain ever has.

Because it means you’ve stopped expecting him to reach for you.

It’s the resignation that guts him.

One night, he comes home late—again—and finds you already asleep on your side of the bed. You’re curled into yourself, wearing that soft, faded shirt that smells like him, hem brushing your thighs, and those… grandmotherly cotton underwear peeking beneath.

You look small. Tired. Untouched.

He sits on the edge of the bed and just stares.

Six months. He let six months happen. To you.

His jaw locks. His hands flex. Something tightens painfully in his chest because he suddenly sees the truth—this wasn’t a dry spell. This was neglect. His neglect.

And the worst part?

You adapted to it.

You stopped reaching for him. You stopped dressing for him. You stopped hoping he would notice.

That’s what breaks him.

He brushes a hand over your thigh—barely there, a whisper of touch. Testing. Afraid you’ll flinch from him.

You don’t. You sigh in your sleep and shift closer, instinctively seeking his warmth.

And it ruins him.

Bruce leans down, presses his forehead to your shoulder, and breathes you in—slow, aching, possessive in a way he hasn’t allowed himself to feel in months.

He whispers your name. Not loud enough to wake you. Just enough to promise himself he won’t let this continue.

His fingers slip under the hem of his shirt draped on your body, tracing the soft cotton stretched over your hip.

He needs you back. But more importantly—he needs you to know he wants you. Still. Always.

Tomorrow, he’ll fix this.

Tomorrow, he’ll touch you first. He’ll kiss you before coffee. He’ll pull you into his lap at the desk like he used to. He’ll peel off those ridiculous underwear himself and replace them with something lacey and delicate and bought for the sole purpose of being ripped off.

But for now?

He wraps an arm around your waist, pulls you against his chest, and holds you like he should’ve been holding you for the last six months.

He presses a trembling kiss to the back of your neck.

No more dry spells. Not with you. Not ever again.