Your phone buzzes at 2:47 AM.

Bruce.

You answer, and at first, all you hear is the low crackle of the comm, the distant sound of Gotham breathing—sirens in the distance, the faint rush of wind as he moves.

Then, his voice, quiet but sure. “…You should be sleeping.”

It’s not scolding, not really. More like an observation. One that doesn’t stop him from calling.

A pause. The sound of his cape shifting, the weight of his boots landing on a rooftop. He exhales, and for a moment, the silence stretches, filled only by the city beneath him.

“I’m fine,” he says, answering a question you didn’t get the chance to ask. Then, softer—like the words slip out before he can stop them—“Just… thinking about you.”