The sound of a heavy door closing echoed through the vast Wayne Manor. You stood in the living room. It was late, but that wasn’t unusual. Bruce’s nights were always late. His days were always distant. His absence had become a shadow in your life—one that lingered even when he was physically present.

Tonight, though, something felt different. You weren’t waiting for him. You weren’t hoping for an explanation or the faint glimmer of warmth. Instead, you were replaying Harvey’s words in your mind. Words that had been softer, warmer, and far more genuine than anything Bruce had offered in months. Harvey was your lover — a secret affair.

The front door opened, and you didn’t need to turn to know who it was. You could feel his presence.

“You’re still awake.” It wasn’t a question. It was an observation, detached and neutral.

You turned, arms crossed, watching as Bruce shrugged off his coat and loosened his tie. The faintest hint of exhaustion traced his face, but his expression remained unreadable.

“Could say the same to you,” you replied.

Bruce glanced at you, his gaze lingering for a fraction too long. “Work. Meetings ran late.” He didn’t elaborate. He never did.

You watched him. “Is that what it’s always about? Work?”

“What else would it be?”

For a moment, neither of you spoke, the silence stretching thin and brittle between you. Then, his voice dropped, quieter, sharper. “Do you have something to say?”

Your throat tightened, but you held his gaze. “Do you?”

Bruce’s jaw clenched, his eyes narrowing slightly. He took a step closer, his voice low and measured. “Where were you this afternoon?”

Your pulse quickened. “Excuse me?”

“Don’t play coy,” he said, the edge in his tone sharper now. “You think I don’t notice when you disappear? That I don’t see what’s happening?”

His words were a knife, cutting through the carefully constructed façade. For the first time in years, Bruce’s mask cracked, and you saw something raw and unfiltered behind his usual stoicism: fury. And hurt.