The restaurant glows softly around them, all polished glass and muted music, like the world outside has politely agreed to stop existing for a while. Bruce Wayne sits perfectly composed in his tailored suit, but the stillness never quite reaches his eyes.

His attention keeps slipping outward.

A faint siren in the distance tightens his jaw before he can stop it. A flicker of movement on the street outside draws his gaze mid-sentence. Even the way the waiter moves between tables registers somewhere deeper than it should, measured, assessed, catalogued.

He forces himself to refocus.

“I’m sorry,” Bruce says again, softer this time, the words carrying more weight than the polished smile he tries to pair them with. “This isn’t… usually how I am on nights like this.”

He tries to settle in. He really does.

But then his wrist moves.

Almost unconsciously, he glances at his watch.

The motion is subtle, practiced, the kind of habit built from years of never fully being off duty. His thumb brushes the edge of the watch face as if checking time might also check the city itself. His eyes linger a fraction too long on the display.

A quiet pause follows.

Bruce exhales through his nose, the smallest crack in his composed exterior showing through.

“I apologize,” he says, and this time it’s more immediate, more genuine. His gaze lifts properly now, steadier, more present than before. “I know I’m… distracted.”

His fingers rest lightly on the table, as if grounding himself there physically might keep his mind from drifting back into Gotham’s shadows.

“I’ve been meaning to make time for this,” he adds, voice lower, apologetic in a way that doesn’t feel rehearsed. “And I did. I just didn’t expect it to be so difficult to stay out of my other life for more than a few minutes at a time.”