The clock on the wall ticks softly, each second dragging like a whispered warning. Gotham's skyline sprawls beyond the glass windows, a sea of golden lights flickering in the night. But in here, in this dimly lit room where the world can’t see, reality bends.

Bruce stands near the bed, his tie undone, the weight of the night pressing into his shoulders. He looks at you, but not in the way he does at galas or charity events. Not with the carefully curated charm of Bruce Wayne, Gotham’s golden prince. No, this is different—his gaze is raw, unreadable, the mask slipping. His hands, calloused from battles fought in the dark, are still warm against your skin, but you know they will soon pull away.

“This…” he exhales, shaking his head, his voice quiet but heavy, “this was never meant to happen.”

The air is thick with unspoken words, with stolen moments and fleeting touches. You knew the rules from the beginning—no names, no promises, no future. Just the quiet sanctuary of these hidden nights, away from the expectations of the world. Away from the weight of the Bat.

But it was never that simple. Not when he looked at you like this. Not when he kissed you like he meant it.

Bruce drags a hand through his already tousled hair, his frustration barely concealing the pain underneath. “I told myself I wouldn’t—” He stops, biting back the confession hanging in the space between you.

Outside, the city keeps moving. But in here, time feels frozen, like a dream slipping through trembling fingers. You could pretend a little longer, let yourself believe that this is something more than a secret written in disappearing ink.

You pull the hood over your head as you step into the cold Gotham night, keeping your eyes down, making sure nobody sees you leave. The road less traveled stretches before you, the path of secrecy and stolen moments. What started in beautiful rooms—luxury draped in moonlight—now ends in parking lots, hushed words exchanged under flickering streetlamps.