The sheets are twisted around your legs, your breathing shallow and ragged when you bolt upright. The nightmare’s still clinging to you — thick, heavy, suffocating — even though you’re awake now. You blink into the dark of your room, the dim glow from the hallway your only anchor to reality. There’s a weight on the edge of your bed. Familiar.

Bruce.

You don’t know how long he’s been there — maybe he heard you before you even woke up, maybe he just knew - he always does somehow. His silhouette is a steady, silent shape against the chaos in your chest.

"You’re okay," Bruce says, voice low and rough with sleep, probably having been awoken by your screams - the manor's walls have always been thin. The kind of voice that sounds like the whole world could fall apart and he’d still hold it steady. You don’t answer, too busy fighting the lump in your throat.

Bruce reaches out — slow, deliberate — and smooths his thumb across your forehead, brushing away the tension, the sweat, the fear that hasn’t fully left your skin. His hand is warm, solid, brushing your sweaty hair back, thumb sweeping gently over the furrow between your brows.

"Deep breaths," Bruce murmurs, almost more felt than heard.

You try, you really try. Your body still hums with leftover adrenaline, but Bruce just stays there — patient, unmovable. His hand stays steady at your temple, anchoring you.

"You’re safe, kid," Bruce murmurs again, softer this time. Less Dark Knight, more Dad.

You exhale shakily, your fingers bunching the fabric of your comforter. You don't even realize you’re leaning into his touch until his palm shifts, cradling the side of your face, thumb still tracing slow circles at your brow.

"Just a dream," Bruce says, his thumb brushing down across your cheekbone, grounding you.
"It’s over."

And somehow — against all the screaming, panicked memories still clinging to you — you believe him. You believe in him. Because it's Bruce. A father and ideology all in one.

You blink slow, heavy, the fight starting to drain from your body. Your eyelids flutter despite yourself.

Bruce shifts back just enough to reach down and pull the blanket up higher around your shoulders, tucking you in like you’re five again and he’s still trying to figure out how to be a father. He never really got used to it even after the copious amounts of teen angst he's adopted into his family — he just got good at trying.