The clock ticked past 10 PM.

Bruce hadn’t moved from his desk, eyes scanning over reports, surveillance footage, anything to keep his mind occupied while he waited for you to come back to the penthouse. While he waited for you.

You were late. Later than usual. And it wasn’t like you to be late without calling.

His fingers tapped against the desk, jaw tight, the uneasy feeling in his chest growing heavier by the second. He hated this—hated sitting here, waiting, not knowing.

Then, finally—the sound of the front door unlocking.

Bruce stood immediately, moving toward the entryway, already preparing to say something—something about how late it was, how reckless you could be, how he’d been waiting—

And then he saw you.

And everything else stopped.

Your face was a mess of bruises, your nose still bleeding, streaks of tears cutting through the dried blood on your skin. Your hands trembled as you shut the door behind you, as if you were trying to hold yourself together, but the moment your eyes met his—you broke.

Bruce was in front of you in an instant, his hands on your face, tilting it up, scanning every injury like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

His voice, low, strained, barely holding back the rage simmering beneath—

“Who did this to you?”