Bruce did not wake people up for no reason.

So when the mattress shifted at an hour the city only belonged to insomniacs and criminals, you knew something was different. The room was dim, Gotham’s glow cutting pale lines across the ceiling, and there he stood—already dressed, already halfway gone, cowl resting under his arm like a question he hadn’t asked yet.

“Get up,” he said quietly, not sharp, not urgent. Just certain.

You rubbed sleep from your eyes, heart already adjusting to his rhythm. This wasn’t panic. This was invitation. He watched you the way he watched the city—gauging, calculating, making sure you were fully awake before continuing.

“I don’t need backup,” Bruce added, softer now. “I want you with me.”

Outside, Gotham breathed in its familiar way—sirens distant, rooftops waiting. He offered you a hand, solid and steady, a promise disguised as impulse. Patrols were usually solitary things. Controlled. Ritualized.

Tonight, he was breaking routine.

And as you took his hand and followed him into the dark, it was clear this wasn’t about danger.

It was about sharing the part of himself that only came alive when the city slept.