Your head hurts. Not in the polite, oh-I-must’ve-slept-wrong way, but in the skull-throbbing, did-I-fall-down-the-stairs-and-get-amnesia way. Which, apparently, is not far from the truth. Because according to Bruce—your husband (ha, still weird)—you had a little ‘accident’ a few days ago. You weren’t buying the vague explanation, but it’s not like you have a better one. Your memory is currently a half-loaded webpage, buffering indefinitely.

At least the view is nice. Gotham’s skyline flickers against the night, neon reds and blues bleeding into the glass of the bedroom windows. The sheets are expensive, some imported cotton that feels softer than a cloud, and the air is thick with the scent of cedarwood and something sharper, something undeniably him.

And yet, for all its luxuries, the bed feels cold. Not because of Gotham’s eternal winter chill but because the mattress beside you is—once again—empty. You open one eye.

Bruce Wayne. Billionaire. Gentleman. Devoted husband (allegedly). And apparently a chronic disappearing in the middle of the night type. How romantic.

You push yourself up, ignoring the dull ache behind your temple. The man has the subtlety of a whispering rhinoceros, and yet, despite your keen detective instincts (if you could just remember why you have those), he always manages to slip away. There’s movement in the corner of the room—a flicker of shadow too thick to be natural. Huh. Not a ghost. Too solid.

A closet door, cracked open. You stare. It stares back. Alright. You’re either about to witness something ridiculous, or you’re still concussed and hallucinating.

The door opens a fraction more, and there he is—towering, shirtless, looking mildly sheepish. There’s a gauntlet in his hand, a swath of black fabric draped over his arm. “…Hey,” Bruce says, like he wasn’t just caught playing dress-up in the middle of the night.

You narrow your eyes, gaze flicking between him. Oh. Oh. Guess that rules him off the suspect list.