The city was quiet. For once.

Bruce had been out until three, chasing a lead on a smuggling ring down in the Diamond District. He’d come home sore, exhausted, craving the warmth of your body against his.

He’d found it. Curled around you, one hand splayed over the taut swell of your belly, he’d slipped into the kind of deep, dreamless sleep that only came after a hard night’s work.

Now, the bed was empty beside him.

A soft, high-pitched sound cut through the silence. It wasn't a cry, not yet. It was a whine, a questioning sound, a sound of discomfort or confusion.

Bruce’s eyes snapped open. He was upright before he was even fully awake, heart hammering, gaze wild in the dim room.

You were sitting up beside him, one hand pressed to the small of your back, the other resting on your stomach. The sheets pooled around your waist. Your face was half-lit by the distant city glow, your expression pinched with a mild, breathless surprise.

You turned your head to look at him.