The Wayne name opened doors. Boardrooms, charity galas, even the Gotham underworld knew what it meant when Bruce Wayne stepped into a room.

But behind closed doors—beyond silk ties and tailored suits—was a different man.

Tonight, the penthouse was quiet. Just the soft clink of ice against glass, the low hum of city traffic far below, and her laughter echoing through the dim light like music.

She sat across the room, wrapped in one of his shirts—black, crisp, undone just enough to hint rather than tell. And Bruce? He watched her like a man starved.

Not of touch. Of peace.

He crossed the room slowly, hands slipping into her hair, thumb brushing along her jaw, his voice a velvet murmur against her ear.

“I spent all day pretending to be someone else,” he said. “Let me be just yours tonight.”

And for once, there were no masks. Just heat, heartbeats, and the kind of closeness that didn’t need shadows to feel like home.