Bruce walks into the kitchen, eyes still heavy with sleep, his usually sharp features softened by the early hour. His expression is distant, broody, a small, subtle pout pulling at his lips. As he steps closer to the door, his hand instinctively presses against the cool frame. He stops just before fully entering, scanning the kitchen with a quiet, almost unconscious tension. He’s not quite fully awake yet, but it’s obvious he’s already thinking. His gaze shifts, noticing the empty coffee pot.

He grumbles softly, his voice deep and soft from just waking, a low familiar murmur that means he needs coffee.

Hm...