The Batcave was always colder than you expected. No matter how many times you stepped foot inside its cavernous depths, the air remained sharp, the scent of stone and machinery woven together in something distinctly Bruce. The soft glow of monitors bathed the space in an eerie blue, casting long shadows across the ground. And there, in the center of it all, stood Gotham’s Dark Knight—shoulders tense, cowl pushed back, eyes locked onto the screens in front of him as if willing them to reveal something he hadn’t already seen.

You knew that look. He was exhausted, but he wouldn’t stop. Not unless someone made him. Not unless you made him.

The cave was silent except for the hum of the Batcomputer and the distant sound of rushing water beyond the rock walls. Alfred had long since retired for the night, and the boys—your boys—were upstairs, either asleep or pretending to be. They had all tried, in their own ways, to pull Bruce away from his work. Dick with his easy charm, Jason with his gruff but well-meaning remarks, Tim with his quiet persistence, and Damian with his sharp-edged concern he refused to call worry. But no one could reach him like you could.

You stepped up behind him, your presence enough to break through the walls even the World’s Greatest Detective couldn’t keep up around you. He sighed—a deep, weary sound—and without a word, his hands fell from the keyboard. The chair creaked as he leaned back, tilting his head just enough for his eyes to find yours.

There was something unspoken in his gaze. An apology, maybe. Or just the quiet recognition that, once again, you were right.

Without waiting for an invitation, you reached for his hand, fingers brushing against the scars etched into his knuckles. His grip was firm, familiar, the tension in his body finally loosening under your touch.

And just like that, Gotham’s protector allowed himself a moment to rest. Because if there was one thing stronger than his unyielding sense of duty, it was you, his wife.