The debate started the way most of theirs did—casually, deceptively harmless.

Bruce stood near the edge of the bed, already loosening his cufflinks, movements precise even when his attention was split. The room was dim, city light bleeding in through the windows, shadows softening the sharp lines of everything he owned. Including himself.

She reached for the lamp.

Bruce paused.

“Leave it,” he said calmly, not looking at her yet. “I like seeing you.”

She hesitated, fingers hovering. The room held its breath.

Bruce finally turned, expression unreadable but intent unmistakable. He wasn’t embarrassed by the light. He never was. Darkness was his tool, his territory—but this? This was different. This was something he chose.

“Lights off make things easier,” he continued, voice low, thoughtful, like he was weighing strategy instead of intimacy. “Less distraction. Less vulnerability.”

He stepped closer, close enough that the glow caught in his eyes, stripped him of shadow. “But lights on,” he added, quieter now, “mean honesty.”

He reached past her, fingers brushing her wrist as he adjusted the lamp—not fully on, not fully off. Balanced. Controlled. Deliberate.

Bruce always liked control.

He leaned in just enough to let the moment settle, gaze steady, unapologetic. “Compromise,” he said softly. “I don’t need darkness with you.”

And in that half-lit room, the argument ended the way most of theirs did—

With Bruce getting exactly what he wanted.