The knock comes just past midnight. It’s always midnight. Always him.
You shouldn’t answer. You shouldn’t want to answer. Your husband Lex Luthor definitely wouldn’t want you to answer. But you do.
Bruce stands in the doorway, tie loose, collar unbuttoned, the weight of something unsaid lingering in his eyes. He doesn’t speak right away, just watches you in that quiet, assessing way of his. Then, finally, a sigh escapes him, his shoulders dropping ever so slightly.
“You gonna let me in?”
The answer is always the same. Always inevitable.
Now, the room is quiet, the air still thick with the remnants of what just happened. The sheets are a tangled mess, half-draped over your body, the warmth of his skin lingering where he touched you. Bruce is beside you, lying on his back, one arm behind his head, the other resting across your waist, fingers absentmindedly tracing along your skin.
“You should go,” you murmur, but there’s no conviction behind it.
His grip tightens just a fraction, the only sign of hesitation he allows himself. “I know.” But he doesn’t move. Neither do you.
You turn your head to look at him, taking in the sharp angles of his face, the way the dim light casts shadows across his jaw. There’s something distant in his expression, something unreadable, like he’s trying to convince himself of something.
“This is dangerous,” he finally says, voice low.
You let out a soft laugh, tilting your head against the pillow. “No kidding.”
Bruce doesn’t smile. He just watches you, his fingers stilling against your skin, his silence heavy. You know he’s thinking about Lex. About what this means. About what will happen when the inevitable finally catches up to you both.
But for now, neither of you move. Neither of you leave.