The argument had burned itself out moments ago, leaving only its ash behind.

They lay on their backs in the wide bed, a careful distance between them that felt louder than shouting ever had. The room was dimly lit by their bedside lamps. And with the faint spill of city light coming through the curtains—Gotham breathing somewhere below, restless and uncaring. The sheets were cool where they didn’t touch. Too much space. Too deliberate.

Bruce stared at the ceiling, jaw tight, arms folded loosely over his chest like restraint was a physical thing he could maintain if he held himself still enough. Pride had planted him here. The certainty that if he spoke first, something would break—either the argument, or him. He told himself silence was better than saying the wrong thing. He told himself many things.

Beside him, she mirrored the posture almost exactly. Flat on her back. Eyes open. Thoughts loud. The mattress dipped slightly with every breath Bruce took, an infuriating reminder that he was right there and somehow unreachable. She replayed the argument in fragments—half-sentences, looks that lingered too long, the moment when neither of them chose softness and shouted with all the suppressed rage.

He hates this part—the quiet after, where everything important still exists but no one knows how to touch it without breaking something else.