The elevator chimed softly as it opened into the penthouse, the city lights casting a silver glow through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Bruce stepped in, shoulders heavy under the weight of the day. His tie was already loosened, jacket draped over one arm, and the low ache behind his eyes reminded him once again how tired he was. He didn’t move right away—just exhaled, slow and quiet, like he’d been holding it in since morning.

He hadn’t texted. Hadn’t called. But he hoped—somehow—you’d still be there.

And you were.

Curled up on the couch, one leg tucked beneath you, wearing one of his sweaters far too big for you and sleeves pulled over your fingers. The TV was on low, but you weren’t watching. You looked up the moment you heard him come in.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just stood there in the soft light, taking in the quiet warmth of the space, of you — the only part of his life that didn’t feel like a battlefield.

“You’re late,” you said gently, not accusing. Just stating the obvious.

He nodded once, dropped his jacket over the arm of the couch, and let out a breath that sounded like it had been stuck in his chest all day.

“I had to attend a last minute meeting. This day felt like it was never going to end,” he murmured, voice hoarse with exhaustion.

He walked toward you, every step slow, dragging. He looked expensive and tired — all pressed shirts and undone edges. The man behind the image.