مسحورة بلمستك الرقيقة
entranced by your delicate touch

MARYAM MOVED FLUIDLY around her apartment, her hips gently swaying to the soft rhythm of Sade's voice drifting from the record player.

The place was a haven — quiet, warm, and alive with small, intimate touches that made it feel like home.

She stood at the sink, washing the dishes with a kind of calm, rhythmic grace, as if the simple motion could scrub away the weight of everything that had happened.

Her apartment was the one place in Gotham where she could catch her breath, especially after everything the Riddler had dragged into her life. She couldn't bear to leave the mess he'd left behind, so she cleaned with purpose, the clink of glass and the swirl of water washing away the chaos.

It was as if she could erase the lingering discomfort with each dish she washed, as if she could return to a world that felt... safe.

The flicker of candlelight filled the room, casting soft shadows that danced across the walls, mingling with the calming scent of jasmine and oud. The music from the vinyl player swirled through the air, a quiet backdrop to the hum of the city outside, a world that felt miles away from this haven she'd created.

In the open kitchen where she stood, the warmth of the space flowed naturally into the living room, a cozy embrace of light and comfort. The room itself was an oasis — large, plush cushions piled on a big, inviting couch, draped in red Persian rugs that softened the cool edges of Gotham. Walls lined with bookshelves and framed photographs.

A small glass table sat in front of the couch, its surface scattered with magazines, an old cup holding a solitary flower, a few remotes, trinkets, and candles, their gentle flames flickering in rhythm with the calmness of the room.

This was more than just a place — it was her sanctuary, her refuge from the storm outside.

The Narrows may have pressed in on her from all sides, but within these walls, Maryam had shaped something that felt untouched by the chaos.

It was hers, her peace.

The TV across the room flashed the latest news, and for once, the words on the screen brought a sense of relief. The Riddler was finally in custody, locked away behind bars.

Maryam didn't allow herself the luxury of a sigh just yet, but a weight lifted, something she hadn't even realized she was carrying.

She hadn't hesitated when the news came through.

She'd come straight back here; no stopping for anything, just a need to cleanse her space, both physically and mentally.

Showered, cleaned, and now this quiet moment, just her and the music and the flicker of candles, as if the world outside had paused, allowing her to simply exist for a little while.

The doctor knew Bruce would be angry ( furious, even ) that she hadn't listened to him. She could almost hear the weight of his words, the concern laced with frustration, warning her against getting involved.

But this time, she couldn't fight herself. Not when the pull of her own instincts was so strong.

So, she sent him a quick text, one that she knew wouldn't ease his mind, but it was the best she could do. Then, she put her phone down and came here.

To this place.

To her own sanctuary.

And as much as she understood the danger, as much as she knew she should stay away, the decision had already been made the moment she'd stepped into her apartment.

But, as always, the universe had other plans.

At first, she didn't hear it. The music was too loud, and she was too lost in the rhythm of it all, swaying softly to the beat, rearranging the dishes on the counter.

The candlelight flickered around her, casting a warm glow over the space, and for a moment, she allowed herself to forget about the chaos outside.

But then she heard it. A tap. At first, it was faint, almost like a whisper, lost in the hum of the music. But the sound came again — louder, more insistent, like something or someone was trying to get her attention. It was coming from the window next to the small kitchen where the emergency stairs led up.

Curiosity piqued, Maryam turned her head, narrowing her eyes in the dim light.

And there, in the shadows, stood a gigantic fucking bat.

Her breath caught in her throat, and for a split second, she wondered if she was imagining it — if her mind had finally snapped under the pressure of it all.

But no.

It was him.

Her Bruce.

She gasped when she saw him, his body swaying as if he might collapse at any moment.

Without thinking, she ran to the glass door, sliding it open to let the cold air bite at her bare skin.

She barely noticed the chill.

"Bruce," she whispered urgently, as she reached him, steadying his towering frame, guiding him to the kitchen counter. The weight of him pressed heavily against her, but she was determined to get him inside.

She dashed back to the door, quickly locking it and drawing the drapes shut to block any curious eyes from the outside world.

When she turned back, Bruce was hunched over, his breathing shallow.

She couldn't help herself, the words bursting from her like a crack of thunder. "What the fuck happened?"

"Shot." His voice came out in a rough, painful grunt, barely audible.

Her heart lurched, but she didn't let herself panic.

She moved swiftly to him, her hands reaching out instinctively. "Where?" she asked, voice trembling.

He didn't answer immediately.

No, He was fading, on the edge of consciousness, his mask still obscuring his face.

She gently cupped his masked face with both hands, her touch soft but firm, pleading with him.

"Where, Bruce? Please, tell me, baby." Her words were a whisper of desperation, even as she fought to keep her composure.

He closed his eyes, his breath shaky, feeling the warmth of her hands gently pressing against the coolness of his mask. Her touch grounded him, a momentary escape from the pain that surged through him.

"Left," he rasped, voice hoarse. "Left shoulder." He repeated, struggling to focus.

Maryam didn't hesitate.

Her fingers were already moving toward his mask, her urgency thick in the air. "You need to take off your suit. I can't help you like this — "

Before her fingers could even graze the edge of the mask, he reached up with surprising strength, his hand curling around her wrist.

His grip was firm but gentle, as if he were holding onto her for more than just physical support.

"I'll do it," he muttered through ragged breaths. "You'll electrocute yourself."

She didn't answer, her jaw tightening as she shook her head, muttering a curse under her breath in Arabic. The sound of it was sharp, a mix of worry and frustration, but she didn't push further.

Her eyes, however, betrayed her emotions — frustration, concern, and something else, deeper and worrying. She exhaled, nodding, even though it felt like swallowing her protests.

"Bruce," she began, voice steady but firm as she took his arm, guiding him with care. "We need to go to the bathroom. Everything we need is there."

He didn't resist, letting her lead him through the warm, inviting living room.

They passed the soft glow of the candles, the shelves lined with books, and the low hum of music still lingering in the background. Her hand on his arm was steady, presence grounding.

Down the hallway, they entered a small bathroom.

She flicked on the light, and the room was bathed in a soft, orange glow. The space was modest but immaculate, with neatly folded towels and a few potted plants on the windowsill.

"Here," she said, her voice softer now as she helped him onto the counter by the sink. He sank onto it heavily, exhaustion visible in every movement.

"It's okay," she murmured, her hands instinctively brushing over his arm to steady him. She stepped back slightly, assessing him, her expression torn between determination and worry. "We've got this."

Bruce didn't waste a second dismantling his suit, letting the pieces fall to the floor with dull thuds, his movements sluggish and pained. Meanwhile, Maryam opened the cupboard just above him, reaching for her medical kit with practiced urgency.

She placed the kit on the sink beside him, her eyes flicking to his face. Bruce was struggling to remove his mask, but the sharp pain in his shoulder made it nearly impossible. She saw him wince, his hand faltering.

Without hesitation, she raised her hand to help.

"I've got it," she murmured, but Bruce shook his head weakly. "You'll hurt yourself, Milou," he said, his voice rough, tinged with both warning and affection.

"I'll be careful," she replied softly, her tone leaving no room for argument.

And she was.

Her fingers worked with delicate precision, finding the edges of the mask and lifting it gently, as if it were as fragile as glass. When his face was finally bare, she set the mask carefully on the sink beside them.

Her breath hitched as her eyes traveled over him, truly seeing him now.

His body was a map of pain, etched with scars that told stories she couldn't begin to imagine. Bruises bloomed across his skin like dark flowers, and bloody scratches marred his arms and torso.

Her gaze landed on the worst of it — the bullet wound near his shoulder, blood trailing in thin rivulets down his abdomen, pooling in the grooves of his muscles.

He looked like a fallen warrior, a tragic painting brought to life.

No, He looked like something crafted by Aphrodite herself, yet left unfinished, as if the goddess had poured beauty and suffering into his form in equal measure.

Maryam swallowed hard, pushing back the emotions threatening to surface. This wasn't the time for awe or pity.

She reached for the kit, her hands steady even as her heart raced.

"You're a mess, Bruce," she whispered, words laced with reproach and tenderness. "But I'm going to fix you."

Bruce lowered his head, his dark hair falling forward like a curtain, shadowing his face.

It was as if he couldn't bear for her to see him like this; vulnerable and broken.

The sight of him like that tugged at something deep in her chest.

"Hey," Maryam said softly, stepping closer. Her fingers threaded gently through his disheveled hair, brushing it back to reveal his face. "It's okay," she promised, her eyes meeting his, grounding him in her unwavering resolve. "I swear it will be."

Before he could respond, she leaned in, pressing a featherlight kiss to his cheek.

The subtle warmth of her skin lingered against his, and the faint, comforting scent of her surrounded him.

He closed his eyes for a moment, the simple gesture anchoring him in the midst of the chaos.

Maryam pulled back and opened her kit, her movements brisk and purposeful.

"It's going to hurt," she warned, matter-of-fact but not unkind.

The doctor began to pull out supplies — cotton, gauze, antiseptic, and a pair of sterilized tweezers. Each item was laid out methodically on the counter beside him.

She glanced at him again, a flicker of a smile tugging at her lips, though her eyes remained serious. "But you've had worse, right?"

She was trying to lighten the mood, clearly, but he only sighed, the sound heavy with exhaustion.

"Alright, let's do this," the doctor said briskly.

She didn't have gloves, so she washed her hands thoroughly, scrubbing with soap as if she were back in med school, and then doused them with alcohol for good measure. She repeated the process with the tweezers, the small metal tray, and a needle-nose clamp she'd retrieved from her kit.

Maryam moved back to him, pulling her hair into a messy knot to keep it out of the way. "Okay, I'm going to check the wound first," she explained, keeping her tone steady, calm, professional. She placed her hand carefully on his shoulder, her fingers brushing the torn skin to assess the entry point.

As soon as she pressed lightly around the wound, his hand shot out, gripping her waist instinctively, the other bracing against the counter.

The tension in his body radiated through his touch, and she stilled for a moment, the butterflies stirring in her stomach.

She didn't say anything, though.

There was no space for distractions now.

"It's been a while since my residency," she admitted, peering closely at the wound. Her brow furrowed as she noted the jagged edges and the faint glint of metal visible beneath the layer of blood. "But I think it's just a fragment, maybe half the bullet. You're lucky — another inch, and it might've grazed your heart."

He grunted, his jaw tightening, as she picked up the sterilized tweezers.

"Alright," she murmured, positioning herself so the light illuminated the wound. "This is going to hurt. A lot."

She began by cleaning the area as gently as she could, using gauze soaked in antiseptic.

The sting of the solution made him flinch, but he didn't say a word, only gripping the counter tighter.

Next, she used the needle-nose clamp to open the edges of the wound slightly, exposing the embedded fragment.

Maryam leaned closer, her eyes narrowing in focus.

She inserted the tweezers, her movements slow and deliberate, carefully maneuvering around blood vessels and muscle. The metallic edge of the fragment was slick with blood, and it took several tries to get a secure hold.

Bruce's breathing turned shallow, and his hand on her waist tightened. She paused for a moment, glancing up at him.

"Almost there," she whispered, voice soft but steady.

With a firm but precise tug, she finally dislodged the fragment, the sound of metal scraping against tweezers filling the small space.

She let the piece fall into the tray with a metallic clink, a splash of blood following in its wake. Without hesitation, she pressed a clean gauze firmly against the wound, working swiftly to staunch the bleeding.

"Got it," she said, exhaling deeply.

Maryam worked quickly to clean the wound, checking for any remaining fragments, then reached for the needle and thread from her kit.

"I need to stitch you up now," she whispered, already threading the needle while biting her plump lip. Her voice was soft, almost soothing, as if she was reassuring them both. "This'll be over soon, I promise."

As she leaned in to focus on the wound, the strap of her light, silky nightdress slipped off her shoulder.

Bruce, even in his pain, noticed.

Slowly, deliberately, he lifted his hand from the counter and placed the strap back where it belonged. The gesture was tender, almost reverent, his fingers brushing her skin lightly before he let his hand drop.

God, she looked so beautiful, Bruce thought, gaze lingering on her face as she worked with quiet determination.

Maryam paused, as though she could feel his gaze.

Her eyes flicked up to meet his, and a soft smile played at her lips, tender and knowing.

Then, she turned her attention back to her work, hands moving with practiced precision despite the adrenaline coursing through her veins.

The orange glow of the bathroom lights flickered softly against her focused expression.

"You're doing great," she murmured, more to herself than him, but her voice carried the same quiet reassurance.

The needle pierced his skin, and though he barely flinched, she could feel the tension in his body as she stitched the wound closed with careful precision.

Each stitch was deliberate, the thread pulling the torn skin together, creating a small semblance of order in the chaos of his battered body.

Once the final knot was tied, she bit the thread cleanly, her movements precise and practiced.

Gently, she pressed a fresh piece of gauze over the stitches, smoothing it into place before securing it carefully with medical tape.

"There," she said, stepping back to assess her work. "You're patched up. Just... don't do anything stupid to rip it open, okay?"

Bruce nodded, though he could hardly bring himself to meet her eyes, the weight of the moment pressing down on him.

But Maryam wasn't done yet.

Her gaze flickered over the rest of his battered body, taking in the minor scratches that had been left behind in the chaos. She moved to grab a cotton pad, soaking it with disinfectant.

"What are you doing?" he asked, his voice rough, but there was a strange tenderness to the way he said it, as if the idea of her taking care of him was foreign.

"Taking care of you," she answered softly, without hesitation.

"You don't have to," he muttered, but she didn't even look up from what she was doing.

"But I want to," she replied, tone calm, unwavering.

She dabbed the cotton pad against the smaller scratches, her hands gentle but firm.

Each press stung, but like always, Bruce didn't utter a sound.

Only a grunt escaped him here and there, or the occasional clenching of his jaw as she worked.

The only indication of his discomfort was the firm grip he had on her hip, his hand tightening slightly with every movement.

Maryam wiped the blood that had trailed down his abs, her breath catching in her throat as she noticed the firm muscles beneath her hands.

She felt her cheeks heat up, and quickly glanced away, hoping he hadn't caught the blush creeping up her neck.

Trying to maintain control, she swallowed hard before whispering, "Turn around."

He raised an eyebrow at her, his expression confused. "What?"

"Do as I tell you, Zorro," she teased gently.

Bruce hesitated for a moment, then slowly let his hand fall from her hip and turned around.

As he did, Maryam's gaze softened, her eyes taking in the full extent of the damage on his back.

Scars.

Stitches.

Marks from battles fought and endured.

Yet, even in the chaos of his injuries, there was something strikingly beautiful about him. The beauty marks scattered across his skin were like small stars, untouched and still vibrant amidst the pain.

She didn't say anything for a moment, just let the silence hang in the air between them.

He was a force of nature, untamed in every way possible — yet here he was, letting her care for him, in a moment of vulnerability that felt almost surreal.

Her fingers traced the jagged lines of his scars, the rough tissue of his skin contrasting against the softness of her touch.

Bruce tensed at the sensation, his body instinctively recoiling, but she felt it, that subtle shift, and gently pulled her hand away, her voice a soft murmur of apology.

"It's fine," he replied, though his voice was low, almost unreadable. The words were a quiet reassurance, though the tension in his muscles told another story.

She didn't press the matter, instead grabbing another cotton pad and gently cleaning the remaining wounds.

Her touch was delicate, almost reverent, as if each mark on his body told a story she was trying to understand without needing to ask. When her fingers brushed against a bruised area near his right shoulder blade, the dark, ragged bruise that still hadn't healed properly, she couldn't help but linger.

Bruce didn't flinch this time.

He simply let her touch him, his breath steady but slow, like he was allowing her to find her way in a part of him he rarely showed anyone.

The quiet between them stretched out, filled only by the sound of her soft movements.

Finally, he broke the silence.

His voice was rough, like he hadn't spoken in days, like the weight of the world was pressing on him, but still, there was that edge of vulnerability. "Joker."

Maryam didn't need to ask.

She met his gaze in the mirror and gave a small, solemn nod.

No words were needed.

She understood.

Then, without thinking, her lips pressed softly against the bruise.

Bruce's breath hitched, a shudder running through him, his chest tightening as if the world had just shifted around him.

He felt like he was about to crumble, every wall he'd built around himself trembling at the simplest of touches.

Maryam leaned into him then, her cheek resting against his shoulder, her arms wrapping around his waist.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice muffled against his skin.

For what? Bruce didn't know.

He couldn't find the words to question her, and maybe, he didn't need to.

She was there, holding him, offering something he didn't even know he needed. Her warmth, her presence — it felt like a balm to the cold, fractured pieces of him that he kept hidden away.

He let his hand rest over hers, his fingers intertwining with hers.

If he could stay in this moment, basking in the simplicity of her comfort and care, he would.

Then after some minutes, she separates herself rom him and he turns around to face her.

She set the bloody tweezers and cotton on the metal tray with a soft clink and let out a tired sigh, leaning against the counter to her right.

Bruce leaned back next to her, close enough for their shoulders to almost touch.

Their eyes met, and neither of them looked away.

The strap of her black nightgown slid off her shoulder again, the delicate fabric pooling lazily against her skin.

Neither of them moved to adjust it, as if the moment was too delicate to interrupt

From the living room, soft music played faintly in the background, filling the silence with a calm, almost soothing rhythm.

The sharp scent of antiseptic and the faint metallic tang of blood still hung in the air, but it didn't feel oppressive. It just was — a part of the moment, like everything else.

Neither of them spoke, as if words might shatter the fragile stillness that had settled between them.

They stood there, together, but apart, the silence thick between them.

It was a silence that held something — something deep, something unspoken. It was the kind of silence that only two people who understood each other's pain, without needing to say a word, could share. In that space, they didn't feel like ordinary people.

They felt like ancient beings, as if the gods themselves had, for some reason, abandoned their divine thrones to experience something raw, something human.

Something messy.

Something that would change them forever.

"You're bothered," she said, breaking the silence.

"What do you mean?"

"You want to go back. Interrogate the Riddler."

He didn't respond, but his jaw tightened, the muscle twitching in quiet defiance.

She leaned closer, her voice softer now. "You know it's okay. I understand. But I think... maybe you need to relax, just for tonight. Let the chaos stay outside for once."

"Chaos doesn't wait," he muttered, his voice rough, low.

"And how do you plan to fight it if you're too exhausted to stand?" she countered, her tone firm but not unkind.

He exhaled, long and heavy, his shoulders sinking slightly as her words hit home. She watched him closely — the tension in his body, the exhaustion etched into his face.

Black makeup smeared around his eyes, streaked wetly down his cheeks, giving him the haunting intensity of a Caravaggio painting; raw, shadowed, and brimming with both vulnerability and danger.

His torso was still bare, bruises blooming like dark shadows against his pale skin, as though someone had taken a brush to canvas, painting pain and resilience in equal measure.

But then he turned to look at her, and she felt it.

The weight of his gaze, as though he were searching for something he wasn't sure he'd ever find.

His body was rigid, as if holding itself together through sheer will.

But his hand... it moved almost on its own.

Fingers hesitated in the space between them, trembling faintly before brushing against her collarbone. A soft, unsure touch. His fingertips lingered, grazing the delicate gold chain she wore, tracing its outline like it held the answer to something he couldn't put into words.

Her chest rose slowly, breath shallow, as she met his uncertain eyes.

The pendant, cool against his fingertips, felt like it had a story to tell, one only Maryam could explain. His thumb, rough from years of fighting and scars, traced the Arabic letters etched into the metal with a tenderness that surprised even him. Each letter, each curve of the script, seemed to hold a weight of its own.

Her skin was warm, soft, and for a fleeting moment, he allowed himself to just feel it.

To feel her.

The air around them thickened as the moments passed, and he could almost hear her breathing, steady and calm, as if she were grounded by something only she could understand.

She didn't pull away, didn't flinch.

Instead, she let him linger, let him trace the symbols that spoke of her — of her identity, her past, her strength.

It was the most vulnerable Bruce had ever felt in his life.

Not because of the pain in his body, but because of how much he found himself needing her, needing this moment.

Her presence was a balm, soft and warm, in a way that he'd never known he needed until now.

The world outside the bathroom, with its chaos and noise, felt distant, irrelevant.

There was only the two of them, standing at the edges of something deeper, something they hadn't yet fully understood.

But in that fragile silence, it didn't matter.

They were just two people — lost, but somehow whole, together in a way they never had been before.

She bit her lip, feeling the weight of his touch lingering, but she let him trace the delicate gold of the necklace, the one with her name in Arabic, her heartbeat quickening at the gentleness of his fingers.

He was so careful, as if the act of touching it, of learning something so intimate about her, meant more than just the words themselves.

Her voice broke the silence, soft, almost hesitant. "It's my name in Arabic."

He hummed softly in response, his hand moving away from the pendant only to glide down to her shoulder. The touch sent a shiver down her spine, his fingers tracing the curve of her skin with such a quiet intensity that it felt as if he was memorizing every inch of her.

He moved to her arm, and she felt the chill his touch left behind, like a whisper of something he couldn't quite express in words.

He gripped her waist then, pulling her closer, and her breath caught at the unexpected force.

She yelped lightly, hands instinctively pressing against his chest to steady herself.

Her eyes met his — turbulent, filled with desire and lust, an electric pull between them that neither of them could ignore.

Slowly, his lips came closer to hers, and just as they were a breath apart, she brought her hands up to his face, halting him.

"No, no, no," she whispered, a teasing smirk playing at the corners of her mouth.

He paused, a frown pulling at his features, uncertain for a moment.

"You need to shower, eat, and sleep, mister." Her words were soft but firm, the playful tone still laced with care.

"Milou — "

"Dont Milou me."

He sighed in defeat, a low, resigned sound.

His forehead leaned against hers, the proximity of their faces making her breath catch, but her fingers found their way to the back of his head, tangling gently in his hair.

She whispered against his skin, her voice soft with a pleading edge. "Please, Bruce."

His response came with a deep, slow breath.

"Fine," he muttered, voice rough, but still, he didn't pull away.

He stayed there, forehead resting on hers.

Then, without warning, he lowered his head, pressing his face into the curve of her neck, finding the warmth he needed in her.

His lips brushed against her skin, light, hesitant, as though he was savoring each kiss, each tiny gesture of intimacy. His mouth traveled over her neck, leaving soft, featherlight kisses, then nipping gently at the sensitive skin.

She could feel the tension in his body slowly release as he lost himself in the simple act of being close to her, but her voice cut through the quiet, curiosity in her tone.

"What happened?" Her words were gentle, almost delicate, as though she knew the answer already but wanted him to say it. She was asking about the wound, of course, but there was something deeper in her question — something she couldn't quite articulate.

He stayed quiet for a moment, his lips still at her neck, feeling the rise and fall of her breath under his.

She had a way of calming him, making everything feel less like a burden.

And in that silence, he allowed himself to just be with her, not thinking about the blood or the fight or the pain.

For once, he just was — with her, here, in this moment.

He didn't answer right away, but the question hung in the air, and as his lips brushed against her skin again, it felt like he was telling her everything without speaking a word.

"At the Iceberg Lounge," he finally murmured against the delicate skin of her neck, his voice low and strained.

She hummed softly in response, not pressing him further.

There was no need to ask more; she could tell by the tension in his body that he was done speaking about it.

Instead, she carefully pulled away from him, sensing Bruce's frustration as he let out a low groan, clearly irritated by how much care he needed.

She smiled softly at him, a flicker of amusement in her eyes as she gently removed his hand from her hip.

"Shower. Eat. Sleep." She repeated, voice firm yet gentle, as though she were guiding him through the motions. "I'll get you some clothes, my cousin's. They'll be outside the door," she added, trying to manage the small mess on the counter, her mind focused on helping him, even in these little details.

"Do you need help?" she asked innocently, her tone almost casual. "For the shower, I mean."

Bruce looked at her, his face marked with exhaustion, but a flicker of mischief softened his features. "Yeah, uh —" he hesitated, awkwardly searching for the words. Then a small, daring smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "You could join me if you want."

Silence fell, except for the sound of Maryam's jaw practically hitting the floor.

Then, it was broken by her loud, incredulous laugh. "No way ! Did you just try to flirt with me?"

He shot her an amused but sheepish glance, his smirk faltering just enough to make her laugh harder.

"Well, Mister Wayne," she said, trying to appear serious but failing miserably as a grin broke through. "Not today, I'm afraid." She continued before he could reply, noting the faint flush creeping up his neck. "And I hope you don't mind lavender shampoo," she teased, spinning on her heel with footsteps that were light but deliberate.

Bruce stood there for a moment, shaking his head with a faint smirk as her laughter echoed down the hallway.

The offer — half-joking, half-serious — hung in the air between them before he turned his focus to the shower.

His fingers moved slowly, methodically, to begin peeling off the remains of his suit.

The task stretched on, feeling like an eternity.

For a moment, he considered calling Maryam back, but he didn't.

She had already done so much for him, and he couldn't bring himself to ask for more. He'd done it alone before, and he could do it again.

The steam from the hot water filled the small space, clinging to the mirrors and softening the harshness of the bathroom's cold tiles.

For a fleeting second, the sting of the fight, the tension of the day, and the heaviness of his burdens seemed to dissolve into the rising mist. The heat seared against his bruised and battered skin, but he didn't flinch. He simply tilted his head back, closing his eyes as the water pounded against him, easing the tension wound tight in his muscles.

Even as the grime and dried blood swirled down the drain, the echo of her teasing laugh stayed with him.

It softened the hard edges of his thoughts, leaving behind something lighter — something he wasn't quite sure how to hold onto.

He could see her face in his mind : the way her hazel eyes had danced with amusement, her unguarded joy cutting through the darkness of the night.

Not today, he thought, a faint, wry smile tugging at his lips.

No, but maybe, just maybe, someday.

For now, he allowed himself this small reprieve, the rare comfort of knowing that, for once, he didn't have to carry it all alone.

────୨ৎ────

When he stepped out of the shower, his hair damp and his face free of its usual disguises, he pulled on the t-shirt Maryam had left for him.

It was soft, carrying the faintest trace of her scent, and he found it oddly comforting.

The smell of pasta lingered in the air, mingling with the low hum of music coming from the living room. Candlelight flickered softly, casting a warm glow that made the space feel alive, almost serene.

It wasn't extravagant, but it felt personal, like her.

Inviting in a way that made him pause.

His attention caught on the wall of books and photographs. He wandered over, running his fingers across the spines. Camus. Dostoevsky. Hugo. Shakespeare. Khadra. Plath. Nietzsche. Shafak.

A mix of classics, poetry, and romance, written in Arabic, French, Russian, and English.

Some familiar, others completely new to him.

She loved to read. That much was obvious.

But it wasn't just the books — it was the choices.

Thoughtful, layered, curious.

He smirked to himself.

His girl wasn't just beautiful; she was sharp, thoughtful, and full of surprises.

And he liked that more than he cared to admit.

Amid the books, there were photos scattered like quiet moments caught in time. Some were of her parents and sisters, others of extended family he assumed lived abroad. A few were just of her — different versions of Maryam through the years.

He smiled at one in particular: a younger Maryam, sitting stiffly on Santa's lap, her expression caught somewhere between skepticism and irritation.

His gaze shifted to the TV.

He'd expected to see the news, grim and relentless, but instead, The Nanny played softly in the background. He smirked.

She must have switched it, knowing the chaos outside didn't need to follow him here.

Clever, that one. Always thinking ahead.

He glanced toward the kitchen.

She stood at the counter, cutting tomatoes with practiced ease, the glow of candlelight dancing off her skin.

Without realizing it, he started toward her, his steps slow, deliberate.

As if she could sense him, she turned before he reached her, her hands stilling as she glanced up. "I made pasta. Something simple — I hope that's okay. If it's not, I can—"

"It's perfect," he said, cutting her off, the words spilling out without hesitation.

Her lips curved into a small, satisfied smile. "Good."

She smiled and continued slicing, her knife moving effortlessly through the ripe fruit. "You need a haircut."

"Yeah," he admitted, moving to lean against the counter beside her, watching her hands work.

They were so elegant, the red polish perfect on her nails, and it was hard to imagine they'd ever done the things she'd done in her past. Or that they now carefully examined lifeless bodies for a living.

Her lips curved mischievously. "You know who you're starting to remind me of?" She didn't wait for his reply. "Kurt Cobain."

He let out a low chuckle. "I like him."

"Who? Kurt Cobain?"

"Yeah, I mean Nirvana. One of my favorite bands."

She tilted her head, intrigued. "I have their vinyl, if you want to listen."

"Yeah, I saw."

Her smile widened knowingly. Of course, he noticed.

Placing the knife down, she turned to him fully. "Do you want me to cut your hair? Not too short— I like it long."

He arched a brow at her. "Now?"

"Yeah, why not?" she said with an easy shrug.

He sighed, running a hand through his damp locks. "Fine."

Her face lit up, her excitement contagious. "Great!" She clapped her hands together. "Sit."

"What—"

"Don't talk. Just sit."

"Yes, ma'am," he said with a mock salute, earning a laugh.

She disappeared briefly to grab scissors and a brush from the bathroom.

When she returned, she found him obediently perched on one of the high chairs by the counter, his broad shoulders still damp from the shower.

"Okay, head straight, and don't move," she ordered, brushing through his hair with delicate but firm strokes.

As she worked, the faint scent of lavender reached her — a blend of her shampoo and something distinctly him.

The familiarity of it tugged at something deep inside her.

"You smell like me," she remarked, a teasing lilt in her voice. "It's funny."

"I like it," he said without hesitation.

She glanced at him through her lashes. "What?"

"Your scent," he clarified softly. "It's comforting."

Her hands paused for just a fraction of a second before she resumed, a faint flush coloring her cheeks.

Maryam didn't respond, focusing instead on the task at hand.

Tongue peeking out in concentration, she trimmed his hair bit by bit.

Strands fell between them, gathering on the floor like scattered leaves.

She looked adorable, utterly absorbed in her work, and he couldn't help but stare.

Finally, she stepped back, handing him her phone as a makeshift mirror. "Well? What do you think?"

Bruce tilted the screen, examining himself.

His hair was shorter but still long enough to keep its rugged charm. "Thank you," he said, a shy smile tugging at his lips.

"Anytime, babe," she replied breezily, the nickname slipping out so naturally it felt like second nature.

Coming from her, it didn't feel cliché or cringy.

No, it felt absolutely right.

As she turned back to stir the sauce and drop the spaghetti into boiling water, Bruce grabbed a broom to sweep up the hair littering the floor.

This wasn't the life he imagined for himself, but in that moment — with her humming softly and the smell of dinner filling the air — it felt closer to peace than he'd ever known.

The domesticity of it all was so good, so unusual, yet comforting.

For someone who had resigned himself to a life confined to his tower and cave, this was something he never thought he'd have. And yet, here he was.

"God, I didn't even ask if you wanted a drink," she suddenly exclaimed, breaking the soft quiet of the moment. She turned to him, looking genuinely flustered. "I'm sorry, I don't have any alcohol— I don't drink — "

"Milou," he interrupted gently, his voice steady. "It's fine. It's just you and me, remember? And besides, I don't drink either."

Her shoulders relaxed, a soft smile tugging at her lips. "Okay," she said, her voice calmer now. "It's fine."

"Yes," he repeated reassuringly, his tone soothing. "Completely fine."

And it was.

It wasn't the lavish chaos of a gala or the tense stillness of his cave — it was something simpler.

Something real.

Just the two of them, in a quiet kitchen, sharing a moment that felt like home.

She chuckled softly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear as she turned back to the stove. "You're surprisingly easy to please for someone who's, you know... you."

He leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching her with a faint smirk. "And what's me supposed to mean?"

She glanced at him over her shoulder, amusement dancing in her eyes. "Oh, you know... billionaire, genius, brooding emo vigilante. Kind of makes you seem like someone who'd demand filet mignon and aged whiskey for dinner."

Bruce scoffed, shaking his head with a half-smile. "You're talking about someone else entirely. I don't need any of that. This —" he gestured around to her, the warm, softly lit kitchen, the quiet of the evening they were sharing — "this is enough. More than enough for me. As long as you're here, that's all that matters."

Her movements slowed for a moment, her fingers lightly tapping the wooden spoon she was using to stir the sauce.

"You mean that?" she asked, voice softer now, almost unsure.

"Of course," he said without hesitation.

She froze for half a second before turning to face him fully, arms crossed as she leaned against the counter opposite him.

"You know, you keep saying things like that, and I might start to believe you," she teased, tone light but her eyes warm.

"Good," he replied, his voice steady, yet there was a faint vulnerability in it. "Because I mean it."

She smiled at him, the kind of smile that felt like it could light up a city. "You're getting soft on me, Wayne."

"Maybe," he admitted with a small shrug, "but only for you."

Maryam bit her lip to hold back a smile, turning back to the stove to hide the flush creeping up her cheeks. "Keep talking like that, and I might burn this sauce."

Bruce chuckled, the sound low and rare, as he moved closer, leaning slightly over her shoulder. "You're too good for that. Besides, I trust you."

"Big mistake," she quipped, glancing at him. "You've known me for what — three weeks? I might still be capable of some culinary disaster."

"Technically, I've known you for over 20 years," he mumbled, then added with a smirk, "I've seen you handle a scalpel and a crime scene with precision most surgeons would envy. I think you can manage spaghetti just fine." He countered, voice carrying an affectionate lilt.

She shook her head, stirring the sauce one last time before lowering the heat. "You've got way too much faith in me, Bruce. I'm just a girl from nowhere trying to get by."

"'Nowhere' produced someone pretty extraordinary," he said, his tone steady but sincere.

Maryam stilled, setting the spoon down carefully as if weighing her next words.

She turned to him, her arms crossing loosely in front of her. "You keep saying these things, and it's not fair."

He tilted his head slightly, his brow furrowing. "What's not fair?"

"The way you see me," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "Like I'm more than I really am."

"You are," he replied without hesitation, taking a step closer. "You just don't see it yet."

For a moment, the air between them was charged, heavy with things unsaid.

Maryam searched his face, her resolve faltering under the sheer weight of his gaze.

"Bruce..." she started, but he cut her off gently.

"I know what you're going to say, but you don't have to. You don't have to be anything but yourself, Milou. That's more than enough for me."

She blinked, her throat tightening as she tried to swallow the unexpected emotion his words stirred. "You make it really hard to argue, you know that?"

He smirked faintly, leaning closer, voice dropping to a murmur. "That's the point."

She exhaled a laugh, shaking her head as she turned back to the stove. "Fine. You win. But only because I'm starving, and this pasta won't finish itself."

Bruce didn't move back, staying close enough that she could feel his presence, grounding and steady.

"Fair enough," he said, voice softer now, as if savoring the quiet moment. "But you should know something."

She looked at him from the corner of her eye, one brow raised. "What's that?"

He hesitated, a rare vulnerability crossing his features before he finally said, "I don't think I've ever felt this... at peace. Not like this. Not with anyone."

Maryam paused, her fingers tightening briefly around the spoon.

She didn't look at him, afraid he'd see the tears threatening to brim in her eyes.

Instead, she reached for his hand, giving it a small, steady squeeze. He squeezed back.

"You're not alone anymore," she whispered, words both tender and resolute. "And you never have to be again."

A comfortable stillness enveloped them as they waited for the pasta to cook.

Maryam lowered herself gracefully to the ground, her legs extending to the side, and Bruce followed her lead, settling down beside her.

After a moment, he broke the silence.

"I don't know how to feel about my mother," he admitted, voice uneven. "I —" He stopped, running a hand through his damp hair, frustration evident in the gesture. "I understand her in some ways. Maybe that explains what I do at night, but at the same time... I'm angry. And I don't even know why."

Maryam stayed quiet, giving him the space to continue.

Her gaze never wavered, holding steady even as he struggled with his words.

"It's... it's hard," he went on, tone quieter now. "Knowing my grandmother took her own life, and my grandfather's... and my mother... I think it stayed with her. She carried that weight."

The only sounds that filled the room were the soft bubbling of the pasta and the gentle music playing from the vinyl.

"Grief is... indescribable," she replied, her voice trailing off as her fingers absently traced patterns on her knee.

After a pause, she looked at him, her gaze careful. "Did you ever... have those kinds of thoughts?" she asked gently.

Her question hung in the air between them. When she finally glanced up, he was already looking at her. He swallowed hard, as if bracing himself, before answering. "Yes."

She nodded, her expression unreadable. "I guess your lack of fear when it comes to death makes a lot more sense now," she murmured. Her voice was measured, but it carried a weight of understanding. "I've had them too. Suicidal thoughts. Especially when I was younger."

They didn't speak for a long moment after that.

Neither reached out, neither offered empty reassurances.

They just sat there, facing each other, sharing the kind of silence only those who've truly known despair can understand.

Finally, Maryam broke the quiet. "Bruce," she said softly, almost hesitantly. "Do you still... think about it?"

"No," he said immediately, his voice firm, leaving no room for doubt. "Not since I met you."

And it was the truth.

The Riddler's chaos had forced him to confront the weight of loss, to feel the sharp sting of caring for someone deeply again.

He'd told Alfred as much before. But sitting here now, across from Maryam, he felt it even more strongly.

Because losing her wasn't something he could bear to imagine.

The thought alone made his chest tighten.

"I have thanatophobia," Maryam said, breaking the quiet.

"My therapist diagnosed me with it when I was younger. Death anxiety, or whatever they call it," Maryam said, her voice steady but tinged with a hint of vulnerability.

"It's not just the fear of dying itself... it's the fear of losing the people I love," she continued, her gaze drifting down to her hands. "I used to cry, panic even, just thinking about death. Which is kind of crazy, given the line of work I had when I was younger, but... I don't know. Maybe that's why I chose this job. To force myself to confront it even more, to face that fear head-on."

Her fingers traced small, absent patterns on her palm as she spoke again, her tone thoughtful. "It can be irrational, I know. But I think it's that fear — as overwhelming as it is — that kept me from ever doing something irreversible."

Bruce looked at her, his brow furrowing. "It's not irrational," he said firmly. "And it's not silly." His voice softened then, but the resolve in his tone didn't waver. "I'll never let you die."

She blinked, her gaze snapping to his as if she couldn't believe what she'd just heard.

They held each other's eyes, his promise filling the space between them.

"Only if you don't let yourself die," she replied after a pause, voice quiet but steady.

He nodded, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Deal."

"Deal," she echoed, her lips curving into a soft smile of her own.

He reached out slowly, his hand finding its way to her jawline, his thumb brushing against her skin as they continued to look at each other.

He wanted to kiss her, but then he noticed the glistening at the corners of her eyes — the beginning of tears.

She pulled away from his touch, turning her face quickly to wipe them away.

"You're crying," he said softly, his voice full of concern.

"No," she whispered, but the crack in her voice betrayed her.

"Look at me," he urged gently.

"No," she muttered, her voice barely audible.

"Maryam."

After a long pause, she slowly turned back toward him, biting her lip to keep from breaking down.

"What's wrong?" he asked, his voice low and careful. "Did I—"

"No, you didn't do anything," she answered quickly. "It's just me."

He didn't say anything more, not wanting to push her further. He simply stayed there, waiting, offering her the silence she needed.

"I just..." Maryam clenched her hands, her voice faltering. "You're gonna think I'm crazy."

"Never," Bruce replied, his voice steady and unwavering.

"I'm afraid I'll curse you," she confessed, the words spilling out before she could stop them.

He furrowed his brows, confusion flickering across his face. "What do you mean?"

"My mother's family..." She paused, trying to steady herself. "God, this is embarrassing," she murmured, shaking her head before continuing. "She's a direct descendant of the Romanov family, the ones who were supposed to be killed by the Bolsheviks. My grandmother, Anastasia, survived. And the lineage... it continued."

She stopped again, looking down, the weight of her words settling heavily in the air. Bruce's hands flexed, wanting to reach out, to offer her comfort, but he held back, listening intently.

"But we're cursed," she said, her voice trembling. "The women in the lineage. Everything we love or touch... dies. Or we do, unexpectedly." She paused, swallowing hard. "That's what my Uncle Andrei says. And I saw it with my mom and my dad, and I just..." Her voice broke, and she looked at him, tears now falling from her red eyes. "I'm scared of caring, of loving someone... knowing that."

She pressed her lips together, trying to hold herself together. "I don't want to ruin you."

Bruce couldn't stand to hear her talk like that, to hear her doubt herself so much.

He reached for her, gently wiping away the tears that slid down her cheeks.

"Hey," he said softly, his voice full of warmth and reassurance. "Look at me. I don't care. I was already ruined, you hear me? And you, you restored me."

She shook her head, disbelieving. "No —"

"Yes," he interrupted, his voice firm, but gentle. "And if that means it was the price of being with you, then I'd pay it a thousand times over."

She pulled back, her expression pained. "You don't get it," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "I could lose you... or you could lose me."

"No," he said, his tone unyielding. "I refuse."

She let out a soft, bittersweet chuckle through her tears. "You can't, Bruce. It's destiny. It's fate. It's the curse."

"Then we'll defy that destiny. That fate. That curse. Together." His voice was full of determination.

Maryam looked at him, and for a moment, it was as if the world fell away.

He gazed at her for a moment before gently taking her hands in his.

With a quiet, determined tenderness, he pressed his lips to her skin — once, twice, then a third time.

She nodded, her tears subsiding, a faint smile tugging at her lips. "Alright. Together."

"But I warned you," she added, almost like an afterthought.

"That you did," he murmured back.

Maryam looked at him, hazel eyes narrowing with an all-knowing glance, as if she could read him effortlessly. "You knew about my family," she said it more as a simple observation than as an accusation, like an undeniable fact.

He nodded, gaze soft but firm. "I had my suspicions, yes."

She hummed softly in response, expression unreadable.

Without saying another word, she rested her head on his shoulder.

And in that moment, neither of them needed anything more.

They simply stayed there, wrapped in the quiet comfort of each other's presence, the world outside fading away.

The doctor didn't know how long they stayed like that, but she didn't care.

She just savored the peace, the warmth of him beside her, and the unspoken promise of something more.

"I've never told anyone..." she whispered, voice fragile. "Do you promise you won't say anything? It could be dangerous, not just for me, but for my family too —"

"I promise," he interrupted, tone steady and sincere.

Eventually, Maryam stood, brushing her hands against her bare thighs.

The heaviness of the moment lingered, but for the first time in a long while, she felt like she could breathe.

She extended one to him. "Come on," she said gently. "Let me serve dinner. Go sit on the couch and relax."

Bruce hesitated for only a moment before taking her hand, letting her help him up.

"You're not going to let me argue, are you?" he asked with a hint of amusement.

"Nope," she replied, grinning as she gave his hand a light squeeze. "Couch. Now."

He made his way to the couch, sinking into it with a sigh that betrayed how much tension he'd been holding in.

The plush cushions seemed to embrace him, offering a comfort he hadn't realized he needed.

The Nanny still played on the TV, the cheerful dialogue filling the space with an easy, lighthearted atmosphere.

From the kitchen, he could hear the soft clink of plates and the quiet hum of Maryam's movements.

The smell of pasta and rich tomato sauce wafted through the air, and for the first time in a long while, Bruce felt something akin to peace.

A few minutes later, Maryam appeared, carefully balancing a plate of steaming pasta and a glass of water.

She handed them to him with a small smile. "Here you go," she said, voice warm.

"Thanks," he murmured, his fingers brushing against hers as he took the plate.

The brief contact felt grounding, real.

She disappeared briefly and returned with her own plate and glass, settling onto the couch beside him.

Not too close to crowd him, but close enough that he could feel her presence.

They ate in companionable silence, the quiet hum of the TV and the occasional clink of forks against plates the only sounds.

Bruce found himself stealing glances at her as she twirled spaghetti onto her fork, her expression relaxed, her movements unhurried.

It was simple.

It was ordinary.

And it was perfect in a way he'd never expected.

This — her, this moment — felt like home.

Something he hadn't thought he'd find, but now couldn't imagine living without.

After finishing her plate, Maryam set it aside on the coffee table and stretched out on the couch, resting her legs between them.

She hesitated, though, starting to pull her legs back when Bruce's hand gently clasped her ankle, keeping them in place.

"I don't mind," he said, voice calm and steady.

"Yeah, but I do," she replied quickly, trying to shift her legs again.

"Why?" He frowned slightly, curiosity flickering in his expression.

"Because... you'll see my toes," she muttered, avoiding his gaze.

Bruce froze, staring at her for a moment before a chuckle escaped him. "Yeah, and?"

"It's not romantic!" she exclaimed, her face flushing a deeper shade of red.

"Oh, because this is supposed to be romantic?" He smirked, his teasing only making her squirm more.

"No, I —" She stammered, her blush intensifying as she floundered for the right words. Clearly flustered, she finally huffed, crossing her arms. "God, you're so annoying! You knew what I meant!"

"No, I don't," he said, feigning confusion as he shifted her legs fully onto his lap, his hand resting lightly on her shin. "Please, enlighten me."

Her mouth opened and closed, no retort coming to mind.

Meanwhile, Bruce picked up his fork and resumed eating his pasta as if nothing unusual was happening.

It was good. Really good.

"What if I don't want to?" she muttered under her breath.

"Then don't," he replied easily, glancing at her with a slight smile. "But I do. So your legs stay."

Her blush deepened, and — despite himself — he felt heat creep up his neck too.

The silence between them was suddenly charged, awkward and intimate in equal measure.

Desperate to change the subject, Bruce took another bite and said, "You know how to cook."

The corner of her lips twitched at the pivot, though she still seemed flustered. "Thank you," she said softly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

Bruce leaned back against the couch, resting his arm along the top as he finished the last bite of pasta.

He set the plate on the coffee table, then glanced at Maryam, her smooth legs still draped over his lap.

She was scrolling through her phone, her thumb moving aimlessly as she tried to feign indifference to their earlier conversation.

The soft glow of the screen illuminated her features, but the slight furrow in her brow betrayed her thoughts.

Bruce's eyes fell to her legs, smooth and soft in the dim light.

Without thinking, his finger traced a faint scar on her tanned thigh, its texture standing out against her skin.

She immediately snapped her gaze to him, setting her phone down.

"How'd you get that?" he asked, voice low and curious.

"Russia. Training," she said simply, her tone measured. "Learned a lesson that day — fighting angry drains you. That's what my trainers always used to say."

He hummed thoughtfully, his fingers still grazing the scar.

"You never talk about it," he murmured.

"You never ask," she countered, her lips curving slightly.

"Only if you're comfortable," he added gently, his eyes meeting hers.

She held his gaze for a moment before humming in response. "Maybe someday. Not now."

Bruce nodded, his focus returning to her legs, bare beneath her nightgown.

She seemed to have forgotten — or maybe she didn't care.

"You know," he began, voice lighter, "you still have an accent sometimes. Especially when you're angry."

She raised an eyebrow, leaning back slightly. "It slips," she admitted with a small smirk. "I'm like a telegram, I guess."

That earned a low laugh from him. "Yeah, I've noticed. And for the record, I don't think your English is that great."

Her mouth fell open in mock offense, and she grabbed a cushion, tossing it at him. "Excuse me? I speak five languages fluently. You don't get to criticize!"

"Who says I was criticizing?" he teased, catching the cushion with ease. His eyes twinkled with amusement. "I think it's... exciting, actually."

She rolled her eyes, but her lips twitched, betraying her amusement.

Bruce shifted closer, taking her ankle in his hands and beginning to knead the muscles gently.

Her initial protest melted into a content sigh, her eyes fluttering shut.

"Oh, really?" she said, her tone teasing.

"Really," he replied with a hum, his fingers moving skillfully. After a pause, he added, "I want to learn Arabic."

Her eyes snapped open, and she laughed, the sound rich and warm.

"Why are you laughing?" he asked, genuinely curious.

"It's just... why?" she said, still smiling.

"For you," he said simply, tone sincere. "And because I find the language fascinating."

She shook her head, her expression softening. "You're full of surprises, Mr. Wayne."

He smirked, leaning down to press a light kiss to her ankle.

The unexpected gesture made her blush, her cheeks heating as she looked away.

"Anything for you, Milou," he said, voice low and intimate.

She stared at him, heart pounding at his words.

"What's gotten into you?" she murmured, trying to deflect her flustered state.

His hands lingered on her ankle, massaging absentmindedly, his fingers gliding over the soft skin as if chasing a sensation he couldn't let go of. 

No,  it wasn't just a habit. It was a craving, insatiable and consuming, like a painter's brush savoring the texture of a canvas, unable to resist the need to explore every detail, every curve, every whisper of warmth beneath his touch.

Her skin was like velvet, he thought : soft and smooth, a stark contrast to his own, roughened by years of reckless nights spent buried under the hoods of cars, his fingers forever stained with the scent of oil and metal. His hands had been shaped by violence, too — by punches thrown in the dim glow of streetlights, by knuckles split open against bone, by the raw ache of fights that never really ended, only paused. 

So many things a billionaire of his stature shouldn't do. And yet, he did them anyway.

But her skin — that woman's skin — despite a life that had been anything but gentle, was still somehow softer than his, warmer against the coldness he had long since accepted as his own. She hadn't grown up wrapped in privilege like he had. 

Far from it. 

Life had carved its hardships into her bones, yet it hadn't left her hardened the way it had him. There were scars, of course — little remnants of battles fought and won — but even those seemed deliberate, almost poetic. 

They weren't jagged, weren't haphazardly placed like his. 

They didn't pull or tug at her, didn't serve as constant reminders of wounds never quite healed.

His fingers moved slowly, tracing over her skin, lingering as if memorizing every inch. From her ankle to her calf, he followed the faint lines of old scars, some barely there, others more pronounced. His touch was unhurried, almost absentminded, yet there was something deliberate in the way his fingertips glided over each mark.

As he reached her knee, his thumb ghosted over a deeper, more prominent scar, pausing there, pressing gently as if trying to absorb its history through touch alone. It was not jagged or unsightly — no, even her scars carried a quiet elegance, woven seamlessly into her, like a reminder of strength rather than suffering. 

He traced it gently, not with pity, but with quiet fascination, acknowledging it, feeling it, as if trying to understand the story it carried.

It fascinated him really — the contrast of their bodies, of their histories. How someone like her, who had every reason to be just as hardened as he was, could still feel like this. Could still be this. 

As if life had tried to break her, and somehow, she had softened instead.

"Maybe I just like seeing you blush," he teased, voice a low rumble, never lifting his gaze from the warmth of her tanned skin.

She narrowed her hazel eyes playfully. "Careful. You're getting cocky."

He smirked slightly, his gaze still on her skin, his voice almost a whisper. "I'm not cocky, just...observant." His eyes flickered up to meet hers, the usual intensity in his gaze softened, but only just. "And I can tell when someone's trying to hide their reaction."

He leaned in a little closer, his presence growing ever so slightly more imposing, yet there was something undeniably gentle in the way he spoke. "But I wouldn't expect you to admit it."

Her legs still rested in his lap, his veined hands holding them gently, tracing slow circles over her soft calves. One of Maryam's arms was casually draped over the headrest, her hand resting lazily behind her head as she watched him, the silence between them filled with everything they didn't need to say. It was enough just to be there, sharing the quiet space, locked in the moment. Just that.

Then, without rushing, her other arm moved toward him, her fingers finding his jaw with a soft, almost hesitant touch. The instant her hand made contact, he felt something shift inside him.

His eyes closed instinctively, drawn to the warmth of her touch, the way it contrasted with the roughness of his own skin.

"You need to sleep," she said softly, her hand still resting on his cheek, tracing the sharpness of his jaw. One of his hands moved to cover hers, holding it there.

He didn't answer, just let out a long sigh. Maryam was about to shift her legs off his lap, but he held them there.

"Bruce," she warned, though there was a hint of teasing in her tone.

He finally let go, his grip loosening.

She stood up, collecting both her plate and his, carrying them to the kitchen before returning to face him, hands resting on her hips.

He couldn't help but think how beautiful she was, standing there in her light white nightgown. She looked like an angel, like something divine, like everything he hadn't known he needed.

"Come on, Zorro," she teased, tilting her head down at him. "Stand up, soldier."

She offered him her hand to help him up, but he gripped it, tugging her hard so she stumbled into his lap. She let out a surprised yelp.

Her hands landed steady on his chest, and he winced slightly from the pain, clenching his jaw to hide it from her. Instinctively, his hand went to her hips, feeling the softness of her there.

"Bruce Wayne!" she exclaimed, her voice a mix of amusement and mild frustration.

But instead of responding, he rested his head against her heaving chest, finding comfort in the warmth of her. Her hands tangled in his hair, gentle strokes that soothed him more than he expected. 

He had never thought he would let someone in like this — intimate moments with women had always been brief, shallow, a way to satisfy a need and nothing more. But with Maryam, he didn't want it to end. He wanted to stay in this moment, to drown in her warmth, her scent, her touch — everything.

If this was heaven, he thought, then every sin he'd ever carried with him, every mistake and regret, could burn away in the heat of her touch. Yes, this felt like heaven, like something pure and unblemished and he would surrender to it willingly, to her, and never look back.

He imagined the weight of it all, his past, the darkness he'd lived in; melting like smoke in the warmth between them, as though her presence could purify him, make him whole. 

The quiet comfort of her arms, the gentle rise and fall of her chest beneath his cheek, felt like a reprieve he'd never known, a peace he never thought he'd find.

Here, with her, he was just him.

"You're tired," she then whispered.

He sighed, the warmth of his breath spreading across her chest. Slowly, he lifted his head to meet her gaze. "Yeah."

"Then why the heck are you not going to sleep?"

"Cause I want to stay with you."

"Who said you weren't?"

"I don't want to impose or make you uncomfortable—"

"Don't you fucking start with me. I'm not playing right now."

"Milou, I'm serious—"

"And I am too. It's fine. You can come sleep with me. I'm not letting you sleep on that sofa, especially not when you're this wounded."

They were acting like teenagers, impulsive and unguarded, but neither of them seemed to mind. 

It was as if, in that moment, the world outside didn't matter — only the spark between them.

She kissed him softly on his left eye, then his right, her lips trailing down to his cheeks, his nose. When she reached his mouth, she paused, gently cupping his face in her hands. Bruce wanted to kiss her, to give in to the moment, but something held him back. 

He didn't want to cross the line, didn't want to push past the boundaries they'd set. The urge to kiss her was undeniable, but he fought it. He wouldn't indulge in that desire, not now. 

Not if she didn't want to.

Instead, he wrapped his strong arms around her waist, pulling her closer. She responded by wrapping her arms around his neck, holding him as they both sank into the embrace. They stayed there, the only sound between them the rhythm of their breathing.

His hand moved down, slowly, over the soft skin of her bare thighs, his fingers finding the warmth of her flesh, gripping gently. She squeezed him tighter in response, her breath hitching. The simple touch sent a spark of heat through both of them.

But then she noticed it — the faint wince in his muscles as her grip tightened. Her gaze softened with concern, and she pulled back slightly, her breath catching. 

"Are you okay?" she asked, her voice filled with worry.

"Yeah, yeah," he reassured her, voice breathless, his eyelids heavy with exhaustion.

Before she could ask anything more, he leaned in again, eager to close the distance between them once more. But Maryam wasn't having it. 

She gently held him back, her hands finding the hem of his shirt. With a quiet sigh, she lifted it up, exposing his side, checking the stitches there.

Her fingers skimmed over the healed skin, gentle and measured, a sense of relief settling in when she felt no signs of strain. 

The doctor rested her palm against his side for a moment, ensuring everything was intact, then looked up to meet his eyes. Her hand moved slowly along the curve of his abs, a soft sigh escaping her as she absorbed the warmth of his body.

"We need to sleep," she said quietly, her voice softer now, measured, as the weight of reality began to settle back in. She pressed a gentle kiss to the pulse in his neck, then started to shift in his lap, intending to stand, but Bruce only tightened his grip on her bare thighs, pulling her back against him.

Bruce chuckled, his voice a low rumble. "Maryam, you're killing me right now," he teased, the words light, but the hunger in his tone was unmistakable.

"What do you mean?" she whispered, her breath catching, eyes softening as she searched his face.

He leaned in again, this time pressing soft, lingering kisses along the curve of her neck, the spot he had always been drawn to. It was delicate, like her, and he could feel the way she responded, the way she tilted her head just enough to give him more of her neck.

He nipped gently at her skin, running his tongue over it, savoring the taste of her, the way she exposed herself to him so trustingly.

"Bruce," she breathed, a soft, almost breathless moan slipping from her lips. Her hands found their way down to his chest, her touch light but insistent, grounding him. "You need sleep," she said again, her voice coaxing, urging him to slow down, to relax, her fingers pressing gently against his chest as if to remind him of the quiet peace they both needed.

But how could he, when she was right there, so flushed, so soft, so intoxicatingly close ?

Every inch of her, a temptation he could barely resist.

God, he wanted her — wanted to take her right then and there, so badly. To feel her beneath him, to hear her cry out in nothing but pleasure. To make love to her, slow and devoted, every inch of her. But he knew better. He knew he had to honor her boundaries, her wishes, especially when they were for his own well-being.

As much as the heat inside him burned, he could wait. He would wait. No matter how long it took.

The billionaire smirked, exhaustion weighing heavy on him, but he didn't fight it.

"Alright," he muttered, sinking back into the cushions with a soft groan. He pulled her closer, the quiet between them settling like a gentle embrace, the warmth of their shared space wrapping around them both, grounding them.

"Come on then," she murmured again, her voice low, urging him with a quiet persistence.

"I don't want to—"

"Shut up. Don't start again."

"Okay," he replied with a resigned smile, the corners of his lips tugging upward despite himself. 

She moved quickly, adjusting her straps before standing up from his lap. Despite the flutter in her chest, she kept her composure, as if nothing had changed. As if they weren't just making out seconds ago.

They both took care of their business in the bathroom, and Maryam handed him a toothbrush before getting ready herself.

Bruce stood by the door, watching as Maryam placed the glass of water and pills on the nightstand. His eyes lingered on the pills for a moment before he crossed his arms, his usual defiance slipping into his voice.

"I won't take the pills, you know," he said, his tone calm but firm, like he was making a point he'd made before.

Maryam glanced over at him, the soft glow of the bedside lamp highlighting the exhaustion in her eyes. "Why?" she asked quietly, her voice almost resigned. She knew him too well — knew he hated relying on anything, especially if it meant showing weakness.

"I can do without them," he replied, as if that was the simplest, most obvious answer. But she saw the way his jaw tightened, the subtle signs of his tension creeping back in.

She exhaled a long breath, clearly worn from the unspoken arguments that had been circling them for days. "Bruce..." she started, but stopped herself, knowing there wasn't much she could say to change his mind.

The doctor pulled the covers over herself and settled into the warmth of the bed, already turning her back to him to give him the space he needed.

"I'll sleep by the door," he added, voice quieter now, laced with that familiar, unspoken concern.

Maryam didn't turn around, but she could feel the weight of his words, the layers of everything he wasn't saying. She knew he wasn't just talking about where he'd physically sleep. It was always more with him.

"Whatever helps you sleep," she murmured, tone soft, always soft.

She made a little more room on the bed for him, a silent invitation to come closer if he wanted to, but without pushing him. Maryam knew she couldn't fix everything, but for tonight, she could at least offer this quiet space.

Both settled in, the sheets warm, smelled of her, the silence between them comfortable, like the kind of peaceful comfort neither of them had felt in a long while.

They lay facing each other, the quiet of the room wrapping around them like a soft blanket.

"Thank you," he whispered.

"You don't have to thank me," she murmured back, voice warm and reassuring.

"But I want to," he said, the sincerity in his words impossible to miss.

"Then just know you'll always have a place, a home, here with me," she smiled softly.

Even in the dark, they could feel each other — the quiet comfort of shared space. Maryam reached out, her fingers brushing against his cheek, a light touch, hesitant, like she wasn't sure if he would pull away.

She leaned in slowly, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead, lingering for just a moment, silent but full of everything she didn't know how to say.

"Goodnight," she whispered then, breath warm against his skin as she turned her back to him, settling into the softness of the sheets.

"Goodnight," he murmured back, and for a while, there was only the quiet of their shared space.

The distant sounds of Gotham filtered through the walls, the faint hum of traffic, the occasional siren wailing in the night, reminding them that the city was still very much alive, even as they lay in the quiet of her room.

But after a moment, Bruce could no longer resist.

He shifted slowly, draping his arm over her waist and pulling her back gently against his chest.

A deep sigh escaped him as he tucked her close, his hand slipping under the hem of her nightgown, tracing soothing circles on her warm belly.

He holds her close, his arms wrapped around her tightly, as if afraid she might vanish if he lets go.

Maryam could feel the pressure of his body against hers, but she also noticed something — he was leaning on his injured shoulder, and it wasn't lost on her.

"Bruce, you're sleeping on your wounded shoulder," she said softly, concern lacing her voice.

"I don't care," he mumbled groggily, his fingers still tracing lazy circles on her skin.

"You're hurting yourself," she said, voice barely a whisper now, knowing that he wouldn't listen.

"It doesn't matter. I'm touching you," he replied, a slight rasp in his voice as he tightened his hold on her.

She sighed in quiet defeat, closing her eyes as her hand found its place over his, the warmth of his touch grounding her.

"I guess so," she murmured, her body softening as she leaned into him.

She felt his hand pause, his movements stiffening as he tensed. "If you don't feel comfortable—" he began, clearly worried.

"Don't you dare stop," she whispered, her grip tightening around his hand, holding it firmly in place, her touch conveying everything she didn't need to say.

He relented, the tension easing from his body as his hand returned to her skin, the warmth of her touch guiding him back.

After a beat, her voice broke through the stillness again, tentative but steady. "Will you be able to sleep?"

"I don't sleep," he admitted, voice low, trailing off as he tightened his hold on her and buried his face in the crook of her neck. He inhaled deeply, her scent calming him in ways he couldn't explain. "I just... think."

She didn't press him.

"I have light sleep," she confessed, her tone distant as though she were admitting something fragile. "But I'm so exhausted most of the time that I have no trouble falling asleep. It's just..." She hesitated, the pause heavy. "Sometimes I wake up screaming from nightmares. I move a lot, too, so... just so you know."

His response was immediate, firm. "I don't mind."

"Okay," she said softly.

And that was it.

That night, though, something shifted. Bruce didn't stay lost in thought, and Maryam didn't wake up screaming. They found something unexpected—something they hadn't known in far too long.

Peace.

They slept soundly, wrapped in each other's arms, like two ordinary people finding solace in the extraordinary.

For that night, they were just a couple.

Human.

Whole.

Bruce let go of the weight of his thoughts, allowing himself to simply rest. His body relaxed into the warmth of her presence, feeling the soft rise and fall of her breath and the warmth of her skin under his fingers.

It was a kind of comfort he hadn't realized he was craving until now.

Maryam, on the other hand, didn't need anything more than him. No pills, no distractions, no nightmares. Just being close to him was enough to make her fall into the kind of deep sleep that she rarely experienced.

Her rest was so peaceful, so undisturbed, that when the sun barely crept into the room, she didn't even stir.

The Bat, however, woke early, though his body longed to stay nestled beside her. He knew he couldn't, not yet — not when he still had things to face, things to do.

He brushed his lips gently against the back of her neck, a soft touch that barely made a ripple in her sleep. He wanted to stay, to bask in the serenity of the moment, but she looked so peaceful, so beautiful in her vulnerability.

Unable to resist, he gently tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, letting his fingertips linger against her skin for just a second longer. His heart gave a small flutter as he watched her, the quiet rise and fall of her chest the only sign that she was still there, still his.

With a soft sigh, he leaned down again, pressing a tiny, fleeting kiss to the top of her head, as if to thank her for letting him share in her calm.

It was the smallest of gestures, but it felt monumental to him — something simple, yet so full of meaning.

When he finally shifted from the bed, the room remained quiet, save for the faint sound of skin against satin sheets.

He drained the glass of water on the nightstand and picked up the unopened bottle of painkillers, his fingers lingering over it as he glanced at her.

After a moment's thought, he set it back down, deciding against it.

He moved quietly to the bathroom, collected his suit, and started to pack. But just before leaving, something stopped him. He walked into the kitchen, found a scrap of paper, and wrote a few words.

Thank you, Milou.

He paused for a moment, then set the paper down.

And then, finally, with a quiet breath, he left the comfort of her home, the warmth of her presence still lingering in his mind.

A/N : + 11,9k

Just out of curiosity : what song(s) make you think of Maryam, or Maryam and Bruce together? I'd love to hear your thoughts through music, it could be really interesting to see how you interpret their dynamic that way... SO PLZ TELL ME THANK U

I had Yebba's Heartbreak and Televangelism (boosted vocals) on repeat while writing this...

TBH, I have no idea what I just wrote. I don't even know if I like it. I just hope they weren't too out of character omg

Anyway, here I am adding scenes left and right like this is my personal movie project, but that's okay, right? I just hope I'm not boring you guys.

Oh, and about the almost-making-out scene... LOOK, I FEEL LIKE IT MIGHT BE TOO SOON ?? I mean, the movie technically only spans a week, but in this fic, I've stretched it out more — it's basically the third week now. A week just didn't feel like enough time, especially given the circumstances they're both in, mainly Bruce. But yeah.

Please lmk if the pacing feels right, especially when it comes to the plot and their relationship. Does it feel natural, or is it coming off as rushed ???? I'd really appreciate your opinions on this, seriously, I REALLY NEED YOUR OPINIONS/FEEDBACK LOL.

(For the detail about the pills at the end, I drew inspiration from a Bruce Wayne imagine I came across on Tumblr. Unfortunately, I can't recall the username or find it in my likes or history right now, but if I manage to track it down, I'll be sure to update and credit them !!)

ANYWAYS, PLEASE lmk if you liked it because I'm debating redoing everything.

And sorry for any typos or mistakes! I haven't fully edited yet xx