He wasn’t home the night before—not unusual. Galas ran late, and his name alone could hold a room until dawn. You’d told yourself not to wait up, though you always did. There was comfort in pretending this kind of love came with certainty, like the way he kissed your forehead or touched your hand during press photos. Like the way he said your name in private—quiet, rare, reverent. But Bruce Wayne belonged to the world, and you were foolish enough to believe he might still belong to you too.

The penthouse was too still when you entered. City lights framed the hall in silver, cool against the warmth of low jazz and the scent of perfume that wasn’t yours. You didn’t call out. Didn’t ask. Just walked forward with the kind of calm only people with broken hearts learn how to wear. The bedroom door was open.

She was beautiful, of course. Sleeping, half-turned toward the wall, bare shoulders tucked into sheets you’d chosen. Bruce sat at the edge of the bed, shirtless, hunched forward, his hands clasped—caught not in the act, but in the stillness after. Like he knew you’d find him this way. Like he'd planned it.

His voice broke the silence, hoarse and empty.

“…You should’ve knocked.”

You didn’t cry. You didn’t speak. And he didn’t chase you when you turned away, because some part of him knew: you’d already said goodbye a hundred times before this night ever came.

You still loved him unconditionally.