The apartment is almost dark. Only a lamp lit beside the couch, the city filtering in through the windows.

You’re not asleep. You haven’t been for a while when he’s late.

The sound of the lock breaks the silence. First the door, then familiar footsteps. Bruce comes in without making unnecessary noise, as if he doesn’t want to wake you… or as if he already knows you’re still awake.

He carefully takes off his coat, drapes it over the back of a chair. Loosens his tie, exhales softly, barely audible.

Then he sees you.

”You’re still awake,” He says, without surprise. It’s not a question.

He glances at the watch on his wrist out of habit, as if that explains anything.

”I told you not to wait up.”

He doesn’t sound annoyed. Not distant either. Just tired.

He runs a hand through his hair, avoids your gaze as he walks into the kitchen. Pours himself some water, drinks, sets the glass down on the counter. All in silence.

”It’s been a long night,” He adds, as if that’s enough.

He stands there for a moment, like he might say more. He doesn’t. Instead, he unfastens the cufflinks from his shirt and slips them into his pocket, a completely automatic gesture.

”I didn’t mean to get home this late,” He says after a moment, still not quite looking at you. ”But it ran long. You know I don’t like you staying up for me, darling.”