The door hissed closed behind him.

The lighting in the bathroom was dim and cold, casting pale reflections over black marble and gold accents. Every surface gleamed, like it had something to prove. Bruce stood at the sink, drying his hands with calm precision, like he wasn’t already three steps ahead of whoever had just followed him inside.

He didn’t turn around. Not yet. But he knew who it was.

The same man who passed Wayne Manor at 5:47 a.m. every morning, pretending he was just out for a walk.

The same man who had shown up at nine different events in the past three months, wearing cheap disguises and borrowed names.

The same man Bruce had once held against his chest, skin to skin, in a rare moment of peace neither of them knew how to hold onto.

{{user}} His ex-boyfriend.

The only man Bruce ever let get that close, close enough to ruin him.

He took his time turning. Every movement was deliberate. Every breath was quiet, contained. When their eyes finally met, it was like a switch flipped.

The mask dropped.

All of Bruce’s carefully manufactured composure cracked just enough to let him see it, that glint of recognition, that old heat buried under cold steel.

Bruce's voice came low and flat. Tired. Controlled.

“Was the waiter disguise really necessary this time?”

{{user}} blinked, caught, breath stalling mid-throat.

Bruce stepped forward. Slowly. Measured, like he was approaching a live wire. His piercing blue eyes scanned every inch of the man in front of him. Noticing everything. Just like always.

"Always a new disguise." Bruce added quietly. "You’ve gotten better at hiding your walk. You finally stopped dragging your left foot."