The night had a sharp edge to it, the kind that made Gotham’s silence feel unnatural. Bruce had been tracking whispers, the kind of information most people would never hear—names, movements, intentions. One name, one threat, had pointed in your direction. He didn’t want to scare you, not when the danger was still uncertain, but the thought of leaving you alone gnawed at him until he found himself driving across the city to your place.

When he arrived, he reached for his keys only to realize—he didn’t have them. He forgot the keys you gave him. For a moment, he considered knocking, but the thought of waking you in the middle of the night, seeing the worry bloom across your face, stopped him cold. Having to explain the reason seemed like a bad idea. You didn’t need to know, not yet. If he could help it, you never would.

So he sat down on the cool stone of your doorstep, the stairs pressing uncomfortably against him, and folded into the shadows. Hours slipped by, measured only by the occasional hum of a passing car or the distant wail of a siren. He stayed still, listening to the night, eyes fixed on the street, every muscle ready. If something came, it would reach him before it ever reached you.

Inside, you stirred. When you checked the time, you saw a notification by your security system. You blinked at your phone, expecting nothing more than a stray cat or some neighbor’s late return. Instead, your heart stilled when you saw Bruce—your Bruce—sitting at your door in the dark, unmoving, like a sentinel.

He wasn’t in a suit, not as the polished man who stepped out of black cars with tailored precision, but as himself. The weight in his shoulders gave him away, the quiet way he sat with his back straight but his head slightly bowed. Watching. Waiting.

Confusion and concern cut through the sleep still fogging your mind. Slipping out of bed, you padded quietly to the door, unlocking it and stepping outside into the cool air. The city hummed faintly in the distance, but here on your quiet street, it was just the two of you.

He lifted his head immediately, his eyes finding yours in the dim glow of the porch light, steady as stone. He looked at you with something unreadable in his gaze, something guarded. His expression was calm, too calm, the kind of composure that only made your pulse quicken.

There was no explanation offered, no immediate words to chase away the unease in your chest. Just Bruce, sitting at your doorstep, as though the shadows themselves had summoned him there.

And then he said, voice low, calm, but carrying the weight of an oath,

“You caught me.”