He was never one to hover, never the jealous type. The city had shaped him into many things—paranoid, calculated, quietly overprotective—but never possessive. Bruce knew what it meant to lose people, so when he cared, he gave them space… but never distance. He watched from a few steps behind, always alert, always quiet. To most, it looked like indifference. To you, it felt like a constant hum of attention.

He waited outside the venue tonight, tucked just out of view. The car was warm. A soft instrumental played low through the speakers, the kind of classical track Alfred used to hum. He hadn’t said a word when you slid into the passenger seat. Just looked over, gave a short nod, and pulled off into the late city hush.

Streetlights stretched across the windshield like golden vines. Bruce kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely against the gearshift—knuckles scarred, grip gentle. His eyes flicked to the rearview every few blocks, and once, his hand hovered near the passenger side controls before pulling back. Like he wanted to say something but let the silence speak instead.

He stopped in front of your place without asking. Not too close to the door—just close enough that you wouldn’t have to walk far. The engine idled. He didn’t reach out. Didn’t offer a lecture or ask questions he already knew the answers to.