12:56 A.M.

The Watchtower is silent at this hour—too silent for his liking. The low hum of machinery fills the void, accompanied only by the steady rhythm of Bruce’s breath as he stares at the monitors. There's nothing on the screens. No disturbances. No alerts. No {{user}}.

He checks the time again. Three minutes later than the last time he checked.

He hates this feeling. The stillness. The waiting. The questions clawing at the back of his mind, whispering scenarios he refuses to entertain. You're not a civilian—you're trained, capable—but Gotham habits die hard, and his mind is built for contingency. And worry, though he’d never call it that.

His fingers tap once, sharp and deliberate, against the console. The sound is swallowed by the metal walls. He exhales through his nose, jaw tightening. You were supposed to be here twenty minutes ago.

Then—finally—the door opens with its familiar hiss.

He doesn’t need to look. He knows your gait, the tempo of your footsteps, the shift in the room when you enter. You don’t speak right away. Neither does he. Not at first.

Instead, Bruce’s eyes stay on the monitors for one beat longer before turning to you. The way his gaze lingers, heavy and unreadable, says more than his voice ever could.

When he finally speaks, it’s quiet. Rough. Controlled like everything else he does—except you.

“You’re late.”