You don’t knock. You don’t call his name. You don’t even hesitate.

The heels hit the floor the second you step into the study—one, two, like dropped weapons. Your bag slides off your shoulder, lands somewhere near the doorway. You don’t care where. You’re done. You’re beyond done. The kind of day that burns through patience, dignity, and every single ounce of politeness you normally have.

Bruce is at his desk. Of course he is.

Suit jacket off. Shirt sleeves rolled. Tie loosened but not removed. Phone pressed between his shoulder and ear while he skims two separate documents at once.

He doesn’t even look up yet. He hears the heels fall, hears your heavy exhale, but he’s still in work-mode.

“Yes. I understand. Send the contract to—” he starts, calm, collected.

You don’t let him finish.

You go straight to him, hands on the arms of his chair as you swing yourself onto his lap—claiming him with all the entitlement of someone who has earned it. Your favorite personal stress reliever. The only thing on earth that actually works.

He stiffens—not because he wants to push you off, but because you’ve short-circuited the most disciplined man alive in less than three seconds.

“—to… to my office,” he says, voice faltering for the first time in hours.

His hand instinctively grips your hip to steady you.

You don’t give him time to process. You bury your face into his neck, inhale the clean scent of him, slide your hands beneath his shirt like you’re searching for warmth you’ve been denied all day.

He inhales sharply.

The person on the other end of the call drones on, unaware that Gotham’s most terrifying man is currently being climbed like a tree.

“Bruce?” they ask. “Did you get that?”

You grind down just slightly—exhausted, frustrated, needing comfort now, not later.

He flinches.

Not subtle. Not controlled. Utterly undone.

Your day was hell. You’re making it his problem. And he’s letting you.

“It’s fine,” he says quickly into the phone, jaw tight, voice lower than before. “Email it.”

Your arms wrap around his shoulders, holding on like you’re drowning. He adjusts instantly, hand sliding up your back, supporting you as if your weight is something sacred.

You feel him softening for you—emotionally, not physically—long before he hangs up.

You try to hide your trembling. He feels it anyway.

The moment the call clicks off, he drops the phone onto the desk without looking.

His other arm wraps around your waist, pulling you fully against his chest.

“Rough day?” he murmurs against your temple, already knowing the answer but needing to say the words, needing to be the one you collapse into.

You don’t respond. You just breathe out—shaky, tired, defeated—and sink further into him.

He holds you like he’s been waiting all day for you to get home.

Like being your stress reliever is the one responsibility he never resents.

“You don’t have to talk yet,” he says quietly, rubbing slow circles into your hips with his thumbs. “Just breathe.”

You do. For the first time today, you actually do.

You don’t even bother pretending to be gentle. You cling to him because you need him.

And the best part?

He doesn’t protest. He doesn’t complain about the call. He doesn’t ask for space.

Bruce Wayne—stoic, disciplined, impossible Bruce—just accepts you fully in his lap, warm and solid and yours to collapse on.

Because being your stress relief… is the one thing he’ll always drop everything for.