The cave lights flickered on automatically as Bruce stepped off the platform, suit half-peeled, shoulders heavy with exhaustion and jet lag. Gotham had been loud, cruel, relentless—and all he wanted was quiet. Routine. Familiar ground.

Then he saw you.

You stood there like nothing had changed, posture relaxed, expression unreadable, wearing one of his shirts like it belonged to you—which it did. It took him a second to register why his brain stalled, why his breath caught in a way that had nothing to do with patrol wounds or adrenaline. The subtle shift in the fabric. The unmistakable glint beneath it.

Bruce stopped dead.

“…Why,” he said slowly, disbelief threading his voice as he looked at you again, closer this time, like the answer might rearrange itself if he stared hard enough, “would you get your nipples pierced while I was gone on a work trip?”

There was no anger in it—just shock, concern, and something dangerously close to awe. He scrubbed a hand down his face, exhaling through his nose, already calculating infection risks, healing timelines, who had been there, whether it hurt, whether you were okay. Typical Bruce: mind racing a mile ahead while his eyes stayed right where they were.

He shook his head once, a sharp huff of a laugh escaping him despite himself. “I leave for five days,” he muttered, stepping closer, voice lower now, steadier, “and you decide to give me a heart attack.”

The cave felt warmer suddenly. Less like a bunker. More like home.