The sound of the door unlocking pulled you from your thoughts. It was late—too late—but you had given up on sleeping hours ago.

Bruce stepped inside, the dim light of the penthouse casting sharp angles over his face. He was looser than usual, the careful control he always carried worn down by whatever the night had thrown at him. The scent of whiskey lingered on him, mixing with the faint trace of cigars and expensive cologne.

He had been out with the guys, he had let you know he would be late beforehand. He also told you that you didn’t have to wait up for him, but you couldn’t sleep without him anyways.

He was in a good mood, relaxed. You could tell by the way his shirt was untucked, by the slight smirk still ghosting his lips—like he’d actually let himself enjoy the night, let himself forget for a little while. But now that he was home, the weight of the alcohol was settling down on his shoulders.

He leaned a hand against the door for a second to steady himself, exhaling before pushing off and making his way toward you.

Catching your gaze, he gave you a lopsided grin, voice lower, rougher than usual.

“Missed me?”