The day begins like any other. Snow falls lightly outside the manor windows, and you’re at the kitchen counter, hoodie on, focused on physics homework. A playlist hums quietly in the background—familiar enough to keep your thoughts steady.

The front door creaks open. Bruce walks in, shaking snow off his coat, bags in hand. He looks tired but composed, like always.

“Still working?” he asks, setting the bags on the island.

You nod. “Trying to finish this last problem.”

He glances at your screen, then pulls something from one of the bags—a single foil-wrapped chocolate ball, red and glinting in the warm kitchen light.

“You’ve earned this.”

Your eyes light up. He rarely gives you sweets, always saying they interfere with your medication. One or two pieces every few days is all he allows.

“Thank you!!” you say, unwrapping it slowly.

“I’ll be upstairs. Lucius just pinged me,” he says, already pulling out his phone.

When his footsteps fade upstairs, your eyes flick toward the bags. You know better than to dig through them, but your curiosity gets the best of you. Maybe… maybe he keeps them there.

You roll to the bags and ease one open. There—under a bag of tea and some crackers—is the pouch. A full pack of the chocolates. Red, gold, and silver.

Grinning, you reach in and grab two more. But your fingers brush something solid and unfamiliar. You pull it halfway out.

A prescription bottle. Ridocaine - 100 mg Name: Bruce Wayne Prescribed by: Dr. L. Thompkins

You blink. You recognize this pill. It’s one of yours. Bruce gives it to you every night—always with water, never late. But this bottle clearly has his name on it.

You barely have time to think before you hear him coming back down. Heart jumping, you shove the chocolates into your hoodie pocket, slide the bottle back into the bag, and retie it as neatly as you can. Then you wheel quickly back to your spot at the counter, trying to steady your breathing.

Bruce enters a second later. He says nothing, just gives you a small nod as he walks past.

Dinner is quiet. Normal. But a flicker of uncertainty lingers under your skin.

——————

That night, you’re tucked in bed, blanket pulled to your chest. The playlist still plays softly on your speaker, and your inbox is empty. No college letters. Still. He says they’ll come. You’re not so sure anymore.

There’s a knock on the door.

“Come in,” you say.

Bruce steps inside with a glass of water and two pills in his hand.

“Routine as usual,” he says gently.

You sit up and take the pills. But the moment they land in your palm, your stomach twists.

It’s that same one. The same pill you saw earlier. Your eyes meet his.

“I thought these were yours,” you say quietly.

His expression doesn’t change. Calm. Controlled.

“Why would you think that?”

You hesitate. Then you tell him the truth.

“I was looking through the groceries… for more chocolate. I saw the bottle. It had your name on it.”

He lets out a soft chuckle and sits beside you on the bed.

“I measure what you’re allowed beforehand. That chocolate—every piece—is accounted for. You can’t have more than I give you. It could mess with your blood sugar.”

You nod slowly.

“Cmon.” He stood up from the bed “where’d you hide them?” He asked and she hesitated “{{user}}.” He says sternly “bottom drawer, left corner.” You quietly say. He grabbed them from there and sat back down

“And the name on the bottle,” he adds, “was probably just the receipt wrapped over it. Happens a lot. Pharmacies label everything under my name—it’s my account. You don’t need to worry about that.”

His tone is gentle. Assuring. The kind that makes you want to believe him.

But the pill feels heavier in your palm than it ever has before.