The door slammed harder than you meant it to, the sound echoing in the cold hallway before you hit the elevator button with more force than necessary. You didn’t want to leave like this, not really—but the conversation had spiraled, and his silence was louder than anything you could’ve yelled.

You didn’t wait for the elevator as it took too long for your patience level to handle—took the stairs instead, fast and angry, needing to move. The city air hit your face sharp and cold the moment you stepped outside, but you welcomed it. Anything to cool the heat still burning in your chest.

Behind you, somewhere high up, he was probably still standing in that damn penthouse, jaw clenched, arms crossed, telling himself he was right. Just like always. Always so composed, always so logical—until you pushed too far, got too close.

You walked fast once you hit the street, your arms wrapped around yourself as the city air wrapped around you. It wasn’t about where you were going. It was just about getting away. From the walls of his penthouse. From the weight of his silence. From the way he always shut down when things got too close, too raw.

He never chased you.

Not with words, at least.

Your heels hit the pavement in a fast rhythm, but two blocks in, you heard it—the low purr of his car. You didn’t have to look to know it was him. The sound of that engine was unique enough for you to recognize. Familiar, quiet, unmistakable.

The sleek, black car pulled up alongside you slowly, matching your pace. It didn’t speed, didn’t honk—just hovered like a shadow at your side. You still didn’t look at it. Didn’t need to.

The window was rolled down already. His eyes fixated on you as he held the steering wheel white knuckled with a straight arm. He was matching your steps, inch for inch, keeping distance while refusing to leave. You glanced over once, jaw tight. He didn’t drive off. He didn’t speak. You kept walking.

Another block. Still beside you.

You crossed the street without looking at the light. The car followed. Still right beside you.

You turned down a quieter road. The engine stayed close.

He wasn’t trying to stop you.

He was just… following. Watching. Protecting, in that maddening Bruce Wayne way—too proud to apologize, too stubborn to leave you alone, too him to say what you really needed to hear.

Then—finally—

“Get in the car,” he said. “At least let me drive you home.”

You didn’t stop. But your steps faltered just slightly. Your heart did too.

It wasn’t an apology. It wasn’t what you wanted to hear. But it was something. Something wrapped in his own stubborn way of loving you. You didn’t look over. But for some reason, knowing he was here—just a few feet away, watching from behind the wheel—made your chest ache more than the argument ever did.