The Batmobile was built for pursuit, for power, for the kind of speed that split the night wide open. It wasn’t built for this.

Yet here they were—her back against cold leather, his cowl tossed aside, and Bruce’s weight pressing down like gravity itself. The hum of the engine still lingered in the air, headlights cutting across the cave walls while Gotham breathed above them, unaware.

For Bruce, intimacy was never simple. It was a battlefield of trust, of letting someone touch the man instead of the mask. And in the shadowed cocoon of the Batmobile, where only steel and secrets surrounded them, he allowed it—just this once.

A machine meant for war had become the quietest confession of all.