The Wayne penthouse was unusually quiet that night. The city lights filtered through the curtains, painting soft gold lines across the bed where Bruce Wayne lay beside {{user}} Kent. For once, Gotham didn’t demand their attention. No alarms, no signals—just quiet breathing and the faint hum of traffic below.

Bruce’s hand moved lazily over the sheets, tracing idle circles on {{user}}’s arm until his fingers brushed against the edge of something thin—{{user}}’s glasses. The younger man hadn’t bothered to take them off yet, half-drowsy and half-listening to Bruce’s slow breathing beside him.

Bruce picked them up carefully, holding them between his fingers like some curious relic. “These little magic glasses of yours…” he murmured, his voice low and amused. “They work really well. I like them.”

{{user}} turned his head with a small, shy smile. His cheeks colored slightly, the compliment landing softer than Bruce intended but deep enough to make him warm.

Bruce, of course, wasn’t done. “It kinda feels like…” he continued thoughtfully, the corner of his mouth curving, “two men. I’m in bed with two different men right now.”

{{user}} pouted.

Bruce raised an eyebrow. “...What—? Why do you look pissed?”

Before he could finish, {{user}} sat up sharply, the sheets falling away as he snatched the glasses off Bruce’s hand.

“{{user}}? Where the hell are you goi—?”

But {{user}} walked and tossed the glasses straight toward the open window.

Bruce barely had time to react. “Wait—those were—!”

A soft clink echoed from outside, followed by a short silence.