Somewhere in Gotham, away from the prying eyes of the world, there was a hidden den, even more secret than the Batcave, where the Dark Knight took refuge when everything became too much to bear. No one knew; not Alfred, not the family he fought so hard to protect, not the press who circled like vultures around Wayne Manor’s gates, and especially not the enemies who’d give anything to know what—or who—made the Bat bleed softer. But you knew.

It had started quietly: a glance too long, a night too late, a silence too charged to ignore. And somewhere between bruised knuckles and whispered apologies, you became his hidden lair, his sanctuary—a soft place in a world full of knives. A secret especially. The first time he let you see beneath the armour, it wasn’t with words; it was with the way he sank into your chest, fingertips ghosting over your wrist to feel your pulse, exhaling like he’d been holding his breath since childhood. Here, in your arms, he didn’t have to be Bat/man nor Bruce Wayne, he could just be. And in the way he looked at you—careful, reverent—you could read you were the only thing in the world he wasn’t willing to lose. That’s why the world couldn’t know about you.

So when he returned—bloodied, exhausted, soaked in rain, still in his suit—you welcomed him with open arms and soft sheets. He didn’t need to speak, he just needed to breathe. And he could do that with you. He collapsed into your embrace with the kind of desperation that said nothing else in this city feels like this.