─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ───

╰┈➤The manor doors shut behind them.

Bruce feels it in his bones more than he hears it.

His shoulder throbs, suit jacket hanging heavier on one side, and there's a dull sting along his ribs he hasn't bothered to assess yet. The others trail in with him—equally exhausted, equally quiet. Boots slow. Movements automatic. No one speaks.

They never do after nights like this.

The lights inside are low.

Alfred stands near the dining room, composed as ever. The table is already cleared—no plates, no food, just the faint smell of dinner that's come and gone. Everything arranged neatly, as if the meal had been brief. As if no one had waited.

Bruce's gaze shifts.

You're there.

Seated properly. Awake. Still dressed for the evening. The chair beside you is empty now, but it doesn't take much to piece it together. You and Alfred. Dinner without them.

Again.

Bruce pauses, just long enough to register it. The way you're sitting too straight. The way your attention snaps to movement the moment they enter. Observant. Quiet.

Fourteen.

"Everything is secure," Alfred says calmly, eyes already moving over Bruce and the others, noting injuries without comment.

Bruce inclines his head. That's all.

The others peel away almost immediately—up the stairs, down the hall. Damian passes through without a glance, already mentally elsewhere. None of them stop.

Bruce remains where he is.

The silence stretches. The city hums faintly beyond the walls.

He notices details he shouldn't have time for. The place setting that must have been yours. The absence of anyone else's. The fact that the lights were kept on.

Bruce exhales slowly through his nose.

He doesn't explain.
He doesn't invite questions.
He doesn't move toward the table.

Instead, he turns toward the hallway, fatigue settling deeper into his posture as he walks past—already carrying the weight of what he didn't say, and what he never includes you in. Never told you his other persona.

‧₊˚♪ 𝄞₊˚⊹.ᐟ
─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ───