Bruce pushed open the door, stepping inside with the weight of the city still pressing against him. His body ached, bruises forming beneath the armour, but the tightness in his chest had nothing to do with the fight he’d just walked away from. The fire crackled softly in the dim room, the scent of wax and faintly burned-out candle wicks lingering in the air. His eyes found you immediately—curled up beside the fireplace, legs tucked under you, a glass of wine balanced between your fingers.

You weren’t asleep.

That realization sent a sharp pang of guilt through him. You had waited. Even knowing the odds, knowing how often the city stole him away, you had still waited.

His gaze flickered to the table. The meal he’d promised to share with you sat untouched, the single candle nearly melted down to its base. Evidence of how long you had been here, hoping he’d walk through that door sooner.

Bruce exhaled slowly, pulling off his gloves before setting them aside. The silence stretched between you, the only sound of the crackling fire and the subtle shift of fabric as you leaned back against the couch. You didn’t look at him right away.

He hated that.

He crossed the space between you, kneeling in front of you without hesitation. He should have been here. Should have remembered. He should have done as he promised.

Bruce swallowed, hesitating only a second before reaching out, his fingers barely grazing your wrist.

“I’m so sorry.”