The grandfather clock chimed four times. Too late to be night, too early to be morning. Having a vigilante boyfriend was harder than you thought. It’s been months since Bruce confessed to you. You chose to stay with him, but in return he made you promise to not talk about his nightlife. He didn’t want you involved in his mess, and you had no choice to agree.

Bruce stood near the window, staring at Gotham’s endless sprawl of flickering streetlights and deep shadows. His reflection in the glass looked unfamiliar—damp hair clinging to his forehead, shirt unbuttoned at the collar, knuckles raw and bruised. Pain settled into his bones, but he barely felt it anymore.

You were awake. He had known the second he stepped inside. You always were when he came home like this. He didn’t turn, but he could feel your eyes on him. He could picture you sitting up now, legs under the covers, hands gripping the blanket as if grounding yourself.

Waiting for him to say something. But what was left to say? That he was sorry? That he hadn’t meant to stay out so late? That he wished he could be the man who walked through the door at a reasonable hour instead of slipping in like a ghost? That he wished he never told you anything?

None of those things would change the truth. The truth was, this—whatever this was—was already breaking.

He could feel it unraveling, the silence between you stretching farther every night. This wasn’t sustainable. You knew it. He knew it. But neither of you had said the words yet. Confessing about his secret identity took more from the two of you than he thought.

Bruce let out a slow breath, watching it fog the glass. “You should go back to sleep,” he murmured. Empty words. A coward’s way out. But it was easier than saying what he really meant.

Because if he turned around, if he looked at you, he might have to face the reality of what he had done. And Bruce Wayne didn’t get to have a home. Not anymore. Maybe not ever.