The hum of the refrigerator was the only sound in the small kitchen, providing a low, mechanical soundtrack to Bruce’s exhaustion. He didn’t bother turning on the overhead lights; his eyes were already stinging from the neon glare of the city and the harsh fluorescent bulbs of Wayne Enterprises. He felt every one of his thirty-something years in his joints tonight. Between the board members who couldn't grasp basic logistics and the frantic, rain-slicked hours spent tracking escapees through the Narrows, he was running on nothing but caffeine and sheer stubbornness.

He had spent the last three days playing nurse to a feverish Tim, balancing spreadsheets on his lap while checking temperatures, all while Alfred was away. He was draped in a weary, bone-deep fatigue that made even the simplest tasks feel monumental.

He had let himself in with the key he wasn't technically supposed to have, shedding his damp clothes in a trail toward the kitchen. Now, standing in nothing but his dark boxers, he leaned against the cool metal of the fridge with the door ajar. The pale light spilled out across his scarred chest and the tired lines of his face as he tilted his head back, gulping milk directly from the carton. It was unrefined, reckless, and entirely unlike the man the world saw on the news.

The floorboard creaked behind him, a sound he usually would have seen coming a mile away. But here, in this space, his guard was dangerously low. Bruce froze, the carton still pressed to his lips, as he caught sight of you standing in the doorway. He didn't jump; he just slowly lowered the milk, his shoulders dropping as he offered a sheepish, half-lidded look.

"I didn't mean to wake you," he admitted, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that betrayed just how spent he was. He looked at the carton in his hand, then back at you, a faint, tired trace of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I’d say I can explain, but I think we both know I’m just hungry and tired."