The phone felt heavy in your hand as you pressed it to your ear, the silence stretching between the occasional ringing.

Bruce wasn’t asleep when the phone rang. He never really slept—just drifted in and out of restless thoughts, caught between exhaustion and duty.

Still, when he saw your name on the screen, something in his chest tightened.

He answered immediately.

“Hello?” Bruce’s voice was low, edged with concern.

You hesitated, gripping the blanket draped over your lap. The room felt too quiet, the weight of the night pressing in around you. You shouldn’t have called—it was late, and you didn’t even know what you wanted to say.

“Can you come over?” Your voice was softer than you intended, barely above a whisper.

There was a pause on his end. Not hesitation—Bruce never hesitated. Just a beat of silence, like he was waiting to see if you’d say anything else. But you didn’t.

There was the sound of movement on his end. The faint rustle of fabric. Then, finally, his voice again—steady, low.

“Is something wrong?”