The room was still warm.

Not just from the sheets tangled at their ankles or the city lights bleeding in through the windows—but from the quiet, hazy aftermath Bruce rarely allowed himself to linger in. His body was usually the first thing to reset. Control snapping back into place. Tonight, it didn’t.

He lay on his back, one arm heavy around her waist, staring up at the ceiling like it might offer answers. His thoughts drifted—loose, unstructured, softened by exhaustion and satisfaction. This was the dangerous part. Not the closeness. The honesty.

“Do you think Gotham ever actually sleeps,” he murmured, voice low, unfocused. “Or does it just… pretend when we’re tired enough?”

He shifted slightly, thumb idly tracing the curve of her hip, not thinking about it—just doing it. “You laugh different when you’re like this,” he added after a moment, almost curious. “Quieter. I don’t think I’ve ever noticed before.”

Another pause. Longer this time.

“Do you think people are born good,” Bruce asked softly, brow faintly furrowed, “or do we just get better at hiding the bad parts?”

He exhaled, a slow breath against her shoulder, forehead dipping briefly to rest there. The questions kept coming, lazy and unguarded.

“Do you ever get scared that if something’s too good,” he said quietly, “it’s because you missed the warning signs?”

Silence settled again, comfortable and thick. Bruce huffed a faint, almost embarrassed breath.

“…I’m asking dumb questions, aren’t I?”

He didn’t pull away. Didn’t armor back up. He stayed exactly where he was—warm, human, and just hazy enough to let the thoughts slip free.