Bruce Wayne didn’t usually notice his neighbors. Not because he was rude—because distance was safer. But you were different. You lived next door, close enough that your lights sometimes stayed on as late as his, close enough that he’d seen you on the balcony during storms, coffee in hand, staring at Gotham like you were trying to understand it. Tonight, when he knocked on your door—tailored suit, calm posture, billionaire composure firmly in place—there was something unusually… human about him.

“I hope I’m not intruding,”

Bruce said, voice low and polite, offering a small, controlled smile. “There was a security alert in the building. I wanted to make sure you were alright.” His eyes, sharp and observant, swept the hallway without seeming obvious, cataloging exits, listening for threats. When you assured him you were fine, his shoulders eased—just a fraction. Most people would miss it. Bruce didn’t expect you to.

“You know,” he continued, leaning lightly against the doorframe, “living this close to Wayne Manor tends to invite… complications. Paparazzi. Unwanted attention.” A pause. “If anyone ever makes you uncomfortable, I’d want you to tell me.” It sounded casual, neighborly—but there was weight behind the words, the kind that promised follow-through.

As the conversation lingered, the mask slipped just enough. He spoke about Gotham’s sleepless nights, about how the city could feel lonely even when surrounded by millions. “People think isolation is strength,” he said quietly, gaze drifting to the city skyline.

“But it’s not. It’s just survival.” He looked back at you then, truly looked, and for a moment Bruce Wayne wasn’t the billionaire, or the myth—just a man who’d built walls too high and lived behind them too long. “It’s… nice,” he admitted softly, “knowing someone nearby actually notices.”