The room is quiet except for the slow, irregular rhythm of your breathing, still tangled in the aftermath. Moonlight slices through the blinds, scattering across the sheets and landing on him—Bruce. Disheveled. Hair falling across his forehead, chest still rising and falling with that perfect, infuriating precision that makes your chest ache. Your fingers trace absent-mindedly along his jawline, down to his neck, noticing the faint smudges of your lipstick lingering there, marking him like a trophy.

He shifts slightly, and you notice the boxers on the floor—discarded in a way that is so effortlessly him. He doesn’t care. He never does. And you can’t help but adore it. It’s reckless. Wild. His control gone, and yet every line of his body still screams deliberate restraint, even in this softness, in this private chaos that belongs to only the two of you.

Your lips brush along his collarbone, lingering where your marks are fresh. He catches your wrist gently, not stopping you, just guiding—always guiding. You feel it—the subtle heat that stays, the low hum of satisfaction vibrating beneath your touch. Bruce Wayne, the man the world thinks is untouchable, is wholly yours. And somehow, it makes your heart pound harder than any chase or rooftop fight ever could.

He exhales sharply, a single word leaving his lips without thought: “You’re impossible.”

Impossible. The word is heavy, weighted, but you know him well enough to hear the pride hiding behind the restraint, the obsession hidden behind the casual dismissal. And you smile, because yes, you are impossible. For him. And only him.

You tug lightly at his hair, messing it further, making him look less perfect, less like the man the world worships, and more like yours. He doesn’t protest. He never does, not when you take him apart like this—layer by layer, mark by mark, moment by moment.

Your fingers brush along his abs, grazing the faint remnants of your kiss, and his eyes catch yours. That deep, calculating gaze, still filled with the cold fire you love so much, softens just enough for you to see it. Vulnerable in the way only you are allowed to witness.

“I—” You start, but your voice catches. There’s no need for words. Everything—the scent, the heat, the intimacy, the marks you left—speaks for you. He leans closer, brushing his lips against yours again, messy, claiming, wanting.

You press against him, feeling every taut muscle, every beat of his chest, memorizing. Again. Always. You’re smitten. More than ever. Helplessly, irreversibly, hopelessly enchanted by Bruce Wayne. And in this quiet aftermath, you realize you wouldn’t have him any other way—disheveled, marked, impossibly yours.