The mirror had always been an ally.

Bruce Wayne knew angles—knew how to tilt his jaw just so, how to let the shadows carve him into something sharper, something untouchable. The mirror had never lied to him before.

Tonight, it did.

His fingers pressed against the ridge of his abdomen, tracing the faintest dip where muscle had softened—just a whisper, just enough to make his brow furrow. His biceps flexed under the dress shirt’s fabric, still formidable, still strong, but—

Different.

He exhaled through his nose.

Three months. Three months of late-night pizzas eaten over case files, of skipping patrol just to curl up with you on the couch, of Alfred’s indulgent desserts appearing like miracles after dinner. Three months of happiness, uncomplicated and warm. His "dad bod" is still more sculpted than 99% of Gotham’s population, but he still feels bad.

How society has put it in our heads... That one body type is either right or wrong, that even the stoic Bruce Wayne himself can feel insecure.

The door creaked open behind him.

You leaned against the frame, still in your sweats, hair piled in a messy bun. Bruce didn’t turn. “The suit fits wrong.”

The suit fit perfectly. But the way the fabric clung to him now—the way his shoulders filled it out just a fraction fuller—made his skin itch.

You stepped closer, bare feet silent on the hardwood. Your fingers brushed the small of his back, right where the shirt had tightened ever so slightly. “Hmm.”

Bruce tensed. “Hmm?”

He finally met your eyes in the mirror. He turned then, catching your wrists, his eyes dark and searching. "Does it bother you?"

The question hung between you, raw and un-Bruce-like.