The sun had already crept in through the tall windows by the time either of you stirred. Soft, golden light stretched across the sheets, warming the room in slow strokes. Somewhere far below, the city moved, but up here in the penthouse, the world hadn’t started yet.

You lay beside him, both of you laid on your sides as you faced each other, your head resting on his bicep, one leg tangled with his beneath the sheets. Bare skin against skin in a way that felt easy now. Familiar.

His breathing was deep and steady, chest rising and falling in a rhythm that suggested sleep. He always slept better when you were in bed with him—at least that’s what he always told you. The last thing he wanted was to go back to cold nights and darker mornings in an empty bed. So, you tried to stay the night as much as you could.

You stared at him for a second longer, taking in the shadow of stubble on his jaw, the crease between his brows that somehow never left, even when he was at peace. He looked too good like this. Soft. Safe. Yours.

You watched him for a moment, then slowly began to shift—lifting the sheet, moving gently, trying not to wake him. His arm was draped around your waist, heavy and warm, but you eased it just enough to slide out—

Until he moved.

Not much. Just enough.

His arm tightened suddenly around your waist, pulling you back in a firm, unmistakable motion. You let out a quiet gasp as your back met his chest again, the breath in your lungs catching.

“Nice try,” he murmured, voice rough, low, still thick with sleep. You’ve always loved his raspy morning voice.

You looked over your shoulder. His eyes weren’t even open yet, but his hold was certain. Familiar. Possessive in that quiet, unmistakable Bruce Wayne way—never demanding, but never letting go.

“I thought you were asleep,” you whispered.

He leaned in, pressing his face into the curve of your neck, the warmth of him sinking into your skin.

“Thought wrong,” he murmured, the corners of his mouth brushing your shoulder.