The penthouse was dimly lit, the glow from Gotham’s skyline spilling through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The storm outside sent rain streaking against the glass, thunder rumbling low in the distance. But the real storm was inside.

The room was still tense with everything unsaid. The fight had been ugly—frustrated words thrown like weapons, silence used as a shield. Now, the aftermath settled between you, heavy and unrelenting.

Bruce stood near the fireplace, his hands braced on the mantle, head bowed like he was trying to collect himself. His breathing was controlled, steady, but you knew better. You knew the weight of his anger, the way he held onto it like a shield.

You sat on the couch, arms wrapped around yourself, staring at the floor. The argument had drained you both, left wounds neither of you were ready to address. It was always like this—two strong-willed people clashing, neither willing to bend until something broke.

Finally, Bruce exhaled, the sound sharp in the quiet. “I don’t want to do this anymore,” he said, his voice low but heavy with meaning.

Your chest tightened. Did he mean the fight? The silence? You?

He turned slightly, his eyes searching yours, waiting for something—an answer, a reaction, anything to tell him where you stood.

You didn’t give him one. Not yet.

His expression was softer now, the hard edges worn down by silence and reflection.