He comes home long after dark, the manor lights low, every hallway silent—too silent. Alfred had vanished the moment he heard the front doors slam, the dogs fled upstairs, and even the shadows in the hall seem to hold their breath as Bruce stalks inside.

You hear the footsteps before you see him—sharp, exact, military-precise. Each one landing like a punch to the floor.

And then he appears.

Still in the suit. Tie loosened but not removed. Jaw locked so tight a muscle ticks near his temple. Blue eyes burning with that cold, calculated fury he only ever lets slip when the day has truly devoured him alive.

He doesn’t acknowledge you at first. He moves past you—almost. Almost.

But then he stops.

Back still to you. Shoulders rigid. Breath uneven in a way that isn’t fatigue—more like a man trying to keep the dam from rupturing.

The League testing him. The board nearly signing a LexCorp weapons contract. Every incompetent voice scraping his nerves raw until the last sane cell in him was left screaming.

And now he’s here.

Here—with you.

Slowly, he turns his head, and those blue eyes land on you like a brand. Not angry at you. Never at you. But furious at a world that refuses to let him rest—and now you’re the only thing standing close enough to absorb the impact.

He steps closer. You don’t move. You know better. Everyone else hides when Bruce is like this. Everyone but you.

His gloved hand lifts—hesitant for half a second, as if he’s warning himself to get control. But control is something he lost hours ago. His palm finds your jaw, thumb pressing into the hinge just enough to tilt your head, just enough to remind himself that you’re real, that you’re his tether.

He drags in a breath.

“Come here.”

Two words. Low. Hoarse. A command softened only by exhaustion.

He presses his forehead to yours. That’s how you know he’s unraveling—the contact is too intimate, too raw, too unguarded for Bruce Wayne on a normal day.

His other hand finds your waist, fingers digging in the slightest bit too hard—stress bleeding through touch because he refuses to let it bleed anywhere else.

You feel his breath leave him in one long, shuddering exhale against your cheek.

“They almost signed the contract.”

Another breath—harsher. “That would’ve armed half the eastern corridor with weapons we can’t track.”

His grip tightens for a beat. Anger mutating into something darker, something restrained and feral at the same time.

“They didn’t listen. No one listened.”

His mouth brushes your jaw—not a kiss, not yet, more of a claim born from desperation than want.

Finally, finally, his voice softens—dangerously so.

“But you… you come to me anyway.”

His hands slide to your hips. Stressing. Anchoring. Dragging you closer until there’s nothing left between you but the heat of his breath and the last shred of his sanity.

He doesn’t speak after that. He doesn’t need to.

Because the next sound you hear—the low, guttural growl deep in his chest—is the moment the day finally breaks him…

…and he decides you are the only place he’s willing to fall apart.