Gotham’s dawn had barely brushed the sky with pale gold when Bruce Wayne decided that today—of all days—would not begin with shadows.

No Batman. No emergencies. No Gotham’s endless hunger for his time.

Just you.

You stirred under the silk sheets, still wrapped in the haze of sleep, when you felt it—the press of lips against your bare shoulder. Gentle. Purposeful.

"Bruce…?" you mumbled, voice thick with drowsiness.

No answer. Just another kiss, this time along your jawline. Then your cheek. Then the corner of your mouth—teasing, maddening.

You cracked one eye open to find him hovering above you, his dark hair tousled from sleep, his eyes laughing in that rare, unguarded way they only did with you.

"Happy birthday," he murmured, his breath warm against your skin.

Bruce wasn’t a baker. Bruce could burn water. But Alfred’s patient guidance (and several… dozen discarded attempts) had resulted in something miraculous: A perfect replica of your favorite cake.

It waited downstairs, hidden under a glass dome, layers of vanilla sponge and fresh strawberries, the frosting just the right shade of pink. Bruce had even (poorly) piped your initials on top.

Bruce’s fingers traced your hip beneath the sheets, his voice dropping to that low, dangerous register that made your pulse stutter.

"Today," he said, "is yours. Whatever you want. No interruptions."

He’d already disabled the Batcave alerts. Alfred had threatened anyone who called with "dire consequences."