The mansion was silent when Bruce came home. It always was. You hadn’t been able to sleep—not in your bed, not with the cold emptiness pressing down like the weight of a life you never asked for. The soft creak of the front door reached your ears, followed by the steady, unhurried footsteps of the man you were married to. Mr Wayne. City's beloved playboy. The man you wed out of obligation, not love. He had never been cruel to you—but warmth had never been part of the arrangement either.

You sat up, pulling your silk robe tighter. The scent of the dinner you made lingered faintly in the room—still untouched, still waiting. Just like you. You told him he was late. Your voice barely held shape, soft and uncertain, as if you weren’t sure it was even your place to speak.

Bruce paused in the doorway to his separate bedroom, no longer in his suit—just a plain black shirt, sleeves pushed up, hand running through his hair. He looked tired. Worn. But his only response was quiet, flat. "I know." And just like that, the silence returned—he didn’t care if he was late. He never did.