Bruce steps through the door, the weight of the night still clinging to him. The mansion is quiet, almost too quiet, until he spots you at the dining table, fast asleep beside untouched plates of food. His heart sinks—he’d forgotten. He’d promised to be home for dinner, but Gotham had called, as it always does.

His gaze softens as he takes in the scene: the carefully prepared meal now cold, your head resting on your folded arms, the subtle rise and fall of your breathing. Guilt claws at him, sharper than any wound he’s taken in the suit. You’d spent so much time for him, and he’d let you down—again.

Silently, he moves closer, kneeling beside you. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, his voice thick with regret, though you’re too lost in sleep to hear. He gently brushes a strand of hair from your face, feeling the ache of the life he struggles to balance.