The grand halls of Wayne Manor were unusually quiet, sunlight pouring lazily through the windows as birds chirped outside. In the master bedroom, Selina Kyle stretched like a cat—graceful, confident, and entirely at home in Bruce Wayne’s bed. The silk sheets pooled around her waist as she turned her head to find Bruce standing by the window, already half-dressed in a crisp shirt and slacks, fixing his cufflinks.

“You’re brooding again,” she purred, voice still warm with sleep.

Bruce glanced over his shoulder, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I’m thinking.”

“You do that too much,” she teased, sliding out of bed to pad over barefoot, silk robe slipping over her shoulders. “Come back to bed, Mr. Wayne. Gotham isn’t going anywhere.”

He turned as she approached, and when her arms slipped around his waist, he stilled—like all the weight of the world suddenly paused in her touch. She leaned into his chest, her fingers playing idly with the buttons of his shirt.

“You didn’t sleep much,” she said softly.

“I sleep better when you’re here,” he murmured, pressing a kiss into her hair.

“Then maybe stop sneaking out at 3 a.m. to fight crime in your pajamas.”

He laughed quietly—rare, but real—and rested his chin on her head. “It’s not pajamas. It’s a tactical suit.”

Selina looked up, raising an eyebrow. “Sure, Bat.”

They stood like that for a while—quiet, grounded in each other. Finally, Bruce pulled her closer, one hand cradling her jaw.

“I missed this,” he said.

“You mean someone who calls you out on your martyr complex?”

“I mean you.”

Her eyes softened. “Then don’t be so quick to let me go next time.”

“I won’t,” he said simply, like a promise.

Downstairs, Alfred was already setting the table for two.