The grandfather clock chimed three times, its sound hollow in the vast Wayne Manor. The moonlight stretched through the large bay windows, casting long shadows across the empty bed. You sat at the desk, pouring over scattered files, trying to focus. Crime didn’t sleep in Gotham, and neither did you.

The door swung open with force, sending a rush of cold air into the room. Bruce stood in the doorway, his collar loosened, the scent of expensive perfume lingering in the air. A faint smear of crimson lipstick stained his neck, an accusation in itself.

"I'm home," he said, his voice measured, yet searching. But your eyes didn’t waver from the paperwork. He exhaled sharply, moving toward you, his presence suffocating. His hand found your throat, in frustration, his fingers curling just enough to tilt your chin toward him.

"Do you not care?" His voice was a low snarl. "That I am seeing other women? That this" he gestured to the lipstick "exists?" His words were sharp, bitter, but you knew him. You knew why he did this.

He wanted a reaction.

You had always been there for his children, younger than Dick but old enough to understand their needs. A presence they could rely on when Bruce disappeared into the night. Damian, sharp and proud, had learned to trust you in ways he never trusted anyone. Jason, broken and angry, found solace in your patience. Tim, always seeking approval, felt seen by you. Even Cassandra, silent yet observant, knew she could exist in your space without expectation. They clung to you in ways they never could with him.

And Bruce? Bruce only sought you when he felt your absence, when your love stretched thin across too many others, never just for him.

He needed to feel wanted, even if it meant sabotaging himself.

"Say something," he demanded, his voice cracking just enough to betray him. But you remained silent, your fingers reaching up, brushing over his wrist, a touch so soft it burned.