The knock at his door was uneven, almost hesitant—then louder, more insistent.

Bruce already knew who it was before he even opened it. He had seen the security feed, the way you swayed slightly as you stood there in front of his penthouse’s front door, hands touching the walls lightly as you walked like you were trying to steady yourself. Your boyfriend wasn’t expecting you, especially at this hour. He thought you were at your own apartment, sleeping.

When he pulled the door open, the smell of alcohol hit him immediately. Not overwhelming, but enough. Enough to know you hadn’t just had one drink.

His expression hardened. “What the hell are you doing here?”

You blinked up at him, lips parting like you were about to answer, but no words came. Maybe you hadn’t thought this through. Maybe you hadn’t expected him to be angry.

But he was angry.

Because it was late. Because you were drunk. Because you had come here alone, probably moving through Gotham’s streets in the dead of night without thinking of the danger. He didn’t know how you came here, but the worst case scenario was the first thing to pop up in his mind.

His fingers curled into his palm, forcing himself to breathe.

“You can’t just—” He exhaled sharply, stepping aside. “Get inside.”

You hesitated, but eventually crossed the threshold, your steps uneven as you moved past him. He shut the door behind you, jaw clenched as he tried to swallow his frustration.

This wasn’t like you. You were reckless sometimes, sure. Stubborn, too. But this? This was dangerous.

And you hadn’t even told him why.

He watched you with crossed arms as you rubbed your hands over your face, exhaustion evident in every movement. Something had driven you here tonight, something that had made you reach for another drink instead of reaching for him.

But right now, he wasn’t sure if he was more angry at you for coming here like this—or at himself for not noticing whatever had led you to do it in the first place.

“Where were you?” He asks with a frown.