The quiet that followed Clark’s departure felt heavier than it should have. His sudden absence left an echo in the penthouse’s kitchen, where a bottle of red wine sat open on the counter, one glass still unfinished in Bruce’s hand. The other had gone untouched after Clark took off—literally—into the night sky. It had been a peaceful dinner, civil even, and yet Bruce’s grip on the wineglass was just a little too tight, his expression unreadable but unmistakably tense.

Most people wouldn’t understand the situation. It wasn’t conventional. But nothing about their lives ever was.

You were in a polyamorous relationship with Bruce and Clark—two men as different as night and day. It had started slowly, hesitantly. Bruce, ever cautious, had been the hardest to win over to the idea. But he had tried. For you. Because in his own quiet, careful way, he loved you.

And Clark? Clark had been open from the beginning. Warm, accommodating. He embraced the connection you all shared with a kind of idealistic grace only someone like him could manage. When he visited from Metropolis, it was always light and laughter. He brought the sun with him.

Tonight had been one of those rare evenings when the three of you managed to share a meal together. It wasn’t common—Bruce was tethered to Gotham, Clark to Metropolis. You, somehow, existed in the gravity between them.

Dinner had gone smoothly. The conversation had been warm. There was even laughter, soft glances exchanged, easy gestures of affection passed across the table. But Bruce had felt it—that pull. Not between you and him. Between you and Clark.

Now, with the kitchen nearly dark and only the soft hum of the city bleeding in through the tall windows, Bruce stood still, the weight of unspoken thoughts sinking into his shoulders. He wasn't angry. Not really. But the familiar claws of jealousy had curled somewhere deep in his chest.

He knew what he offered: stability, protection, fierce loyalty. But Clark? Clark offered hope. Lightness. The kind of love that felt effortless. And Bruce wasn’t effortless.

He didn’t need to ask if you loved him. He knew you did. But tonight he wasn’t questioning your love—he was questioning whether it was enough. Whether he was enough.

You stepped into the kitchen, quiet, observant. You knew him well enough to sense the shift in him. The silence stretched. Bruce didn’t look at you at first. Just raised the glass to his lips, then lowered it down again without drinking.

Finally, he spoke—low, dry, and almost too casual.

“He always gets that look from you.”