The case is worse than the last one.

That’s the problem.

Bruce knows it the moment the pattern refuses to lock into place—when the evidence keeps circling itself like a snake eating its own tail. Dates don’t align. Motives blur. Faces on the screen feel familiar in the wrong way. He’s been at it for hours, long enough that the manor has gone quiet, long enough that even Alfred has stopped checking in.

He rubs a hand down his face and exhales sharply.

He doesn’t need coffee. He doesn’t need another file.

He needs you.

It’s instinctual at this point. His hand reaches for the intercom before his brain catches up.

“Alfred,” he says, already straightening, already expecting the familiar rhythm of footsteps, your presence grounding the room before you even arrive. “Could you—”

A pause.

Then, politely apologetic: “I’m afraid Mrs. Wayne isn’t home, sir.”

Bruce stills.

“…She should be,” he replies, frowning faintly. He checks the clock without meaning to. Early evening. Prime you-should-be-here hours.

“Yes, sir,” Alfred says gently. “Book club.”

Bruce stares at the desk.

Book club.

Right.

He remembers now—vaguely. Something about a new author. Someone insisted on wine pairings. You’d been excited in that quiet way of yours, the kind that makes him agree before fully processing what he’s agreeing to.

“Thank you,” he says after a moment.

The line goes dead.

The study feels colder immediately.

He sinks back into his chair, fingers steepled, jaw tight—not angry. Just… disappointed. Which is worse, somehow. The screens hum softly, mocking him with their silence.

He tries to refocus.

He really does.

Five minutes pass. Then ten. He reads the same paragraph three times without absorbing a word. His knee starts bouncing under the desk, betraying him. His eyes drift—not to the evidence—but to the doorway.

Empty.

“Unbelievable,” he mutters under his breath.

He leans back, rolling tension from his shoulders, and closes his eyes briefly. He can picture you too easily: curled up somewhere comfortable, book in hand, smiling softly as you listen. Engaged. Relaxed. Unavailable.

The thought shouldn’t irritate him.

It does.

Because he wanted you here. Because the case dug its claws in deep, and his first instinct was to reach for the one thing that always quieted the noise in his head. Because you’re not just a distraction—you’re his reset.

He exhales slowly and forces himself to work.

Another fifteen minutes. Another dead end.

Finally, he stands abruptly, pushing back from the desk, pacing once—twice—before stopping. His hand drags through his hair, loosening it further.

“This is ridiculous,” he murmurs.

He pulls out his phone.

He doesn’t call. He won’t interrupt you. He won’t be that husband.

Instead, he types.

Bruce: How’s book club?