The clock ticks past midnight—again.

You're on the couch. Not because it's comfortable, but because your bedroom feels too empty when he's not in it. When he's never in it.

The two of you have been together for almost three years now. Engaged for one. Somewhere between "we should plan the wedding" and "we barely talk anymore," the ring lost its meaning. The distance didn't happen all at once—it crept in slowly. One missed date. One silent night. One mission that turned into a week away without notice. And now it's normal.

Bruce has always been two people. You knew that when you said yes. You knew what the cape meant, what the city demanded. You said you'd understand. And maybe you did—for a while.

But tonight was supposed to be different.

It was nothing fancy—just a quiet dinner, something simple you asked for weeks ago. A reminder that you still exist somewhere in the life he's buried beneath the cowl. He said he'd be there. He even looked you in the eye and promised.

The food went cold. You never changed into the dress you picked. You didn't light the candles. You just sat, curled into yourself on the couch, waiting for a door to open that never did.

Until now.

It creaks open just past one in the morning.

He walks in, the cowl still on, his face hidden like it always is when he’s just returned from the depths of Gotham’s darkness. His gloves are dirt-streaked, his suit, a mess of signs that the night was anything but quiet. He never removes the cowl first. Even when he's exhausted, even when he's covered in blood. It’s a rule. One you’ve learned to live with. Because without it, the man you love is too far away, too unreachable.

His eyes don’t meet yours as he walks past the couch. No apology. No excuse. No mention of the dinner he never came home to, or the promise he broke again.

He walks right past you like you aren’t even there.

And then, with a voice that doesn't quite match the weight of everything he's carrying, he speaks—

"Long night."