The arrangement was never spoken out loud, but everyone felt it the moment they crossed the threshold of the penthouse.

Gotham glittered below the windows, cold and distant, while Bruce’s bed remained warm long after dawn—sheets rumpled, pillows carrying the quiet proof that he hadn’t slept alone. He rose before the city did, always did, already dressed in tailored black, already reaching for his phone to approve transfers, settle accounts, erase problems before they could ever reach you.

Bills vanished without discussion. Cards never declined. Apartments upgraded themselves. Comfort arrived before you ever had to ask.

Bruce didn’t pretend it was romance in the way tabloids liked to sell it, but it wasn’t empty either. He lingered in doorways longer than necessary. His hand rested at your lower back like a habit he had no intention of breaking. At night, when the city went silent, he slept better knowing someone was there—breathing, solid, real.

You kept the bed warm.

He made sure the world never touched you.