The house was unusually still, the kind of quiet that settled in only after midnight, when Gotham slept and Bruce finally allowed himself to slow down. The kitchen lights were low, warm, casting soft shadows across blueprints and folders that had nothing to do with the city—or the cave—for once.

They were all hers.

Hospital pamphlets. Midwife options. Handwritten notes in the margins where she’d circled things that mattered to her: comfort, control, safety, choice.

Bruce stood across from her, jacket discarded, sleeves rolled up, the cowl nowhere in sight. This wasn’t a meeting, wasn’t a negotiation. It was him listening—really listening—as she moved through possibilities with careful hands resting over her stomach.

He’d already made up his mind long before this moment.

When she hesitated, glancing up as if waiting for his opinion, Bruce reached out, steady and grounding, his palm warm against hers.

“This is your body,” he said simply, voice low but certain. “You decide how this happens. I’ll support whatever you choose.”

No conditions. No preferences disguised as logic. No need for control.

Just trust.

For a man who planned for every possible outcome, this was the easiest decision he’d ever made.