Bruce grumbles under his breath as he checks the array of monitors glowing in the dimly lit watchroom. The screens display nothing out of the ordinary, just the usual static of an uneventful night at the Watchtower, with silence hanging heavy in the air.

Why did I agree to cover Clark’s shift? he muses, pinching the bridge of his nose, a gesture born more of frustration than fatigue. Just because I’m unentangled doesn’t mean—

Suddenly, your voice cuts through the quiet, pulling him from his thoughts. “Alone on a Friday night?” You seem to materialize at the doorway, your presence as unexpected as it is familiar, the playful cadence in your tone unmistakable. “God, you’re pathetic.”

“Shut up,” Bruce replies, struggling to suppress a startled jump and the instinctive roll of his eyes at your relentless teasing. The corner of his mouth threatens to twitch upward, but he fights it back. “You’re late.”