Archive of Our Own

The neon sign outside sputters, casting a flickering crimson glow over the rain-slicked streets of Gotham. Each flash illuminates the cracked sidewalk and puddles that mirror the city’s fractured skyline. The cold night air carries the scent of wet asphalt and distant smoke, mixing with the faint hum of cars passing by.

Inside the diner, the world is warmer, quieter, except for the occasional clink of cutlery and the soft hiss of the coffee machine. The air is thick with the familiar smell of burnt coffee and grease, a comforting aroma that clings to the vinyl booths and cracked tiles.

You’re behind the counter, sleeves rolled up, wiping down a table that was barely used tonight. The night shift isn’t glamorous, actually far from it. Most customers have long gone, leaving you with the quiet and your own thoughts.

Your fingers ache from hours of work. The late nights blur together in a monotonous rhythm, marked only by the occasional stray customer or the buzz of the flickering overhead lights. You’ve grown used to this routine, these quiet hours where the city’s shadows seem to stretch a little longer, and the neon signs outside hum like distant sirens.

The bell above the door chimes sharply, breaking the steady drone of the night.

You glance up, expecting a late-night regular or a tired cop in need of caffeine. Instead, the door swings open to reveal a figure that makes your heart hitch in surprise.

Bruce Wayne.

Not the flawless billionaire you see on the news or in the glossy magazines. Not the dazzling socialite smiling at gala events or flashing his charming grin on TV. This man is different, soaked to the bone, suit darkened by rain, hair plastered unevenly to his forehead. There’s a tension in his shoulders, a weight in his eyes that doesn’t match the polished veneer the public sees.

The bruises on his knuckles and the subtle stiffness in his movements suggest he’s been through something far rougher than a boardroom meeting.

The regulars fall silent as he moves through the diner, his presence magnetic yet quiet. No one interrupts, no one stares openly, except you.

You meet his gaze steadily, refusing to treat him like some untouchable icon. He’s human too.

He slides into a booth at the back, the one with cracked red vinyl seats and a flickering neon light buzzing above. He orders black coffee in a voice low and rough, stripped of the usual charm, replaced with something raw and weary.

You take a deep breath and bring the steaming cup across the room, careful not to spill. Your hands brush briefly as you set the cup down, a small spark that you both notice but don’t acknowledge.

“Thanks,” he says quietly, eyes drifting toward the rain-streaked windows.

Outside, the world blurs into a watercolor of lights and shadows, rain muffling the usual chaos of Gotham. Inside, the diner feels like a refuge from everything, crime, corruption, expectations.

You clear your throat, breaking the silence. “Crazy night to be out, huh?”

He offers a dry chuckle. “Gotham doesn’t do quiet.”

There’s a pause, filled only by the soft jazz playing low from the jukebox and the drip of rain outside.

“How long have you worked here?” he asks, voice curious.

“Long enough to see the city’s underbelly up close,” you reply, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “You’d be surprised how many stories you hear when no one else is around.”

His gaze sharpens, but it’s gentle. “Must be exhausting.”

“Or it keeps you grounded,” you say.

He nods slowly, the hint of a smile touching his lips.

Minutes pass. He orders a slice of cherry pie but barely touches it. You watch, sensing the distance he’s trying to maintain, from the world, from you, maybe even from himself.

Without thinking, you slide another slice over with a small, “On the house.”

He looks up, surprised, vulnerability flashing in his eyes. “Thank you.”

You shrug, brushing it off, but inside something tightens, a connection forming in the quiet diner glow.

He asks about your life, and you tell him in fragments: the long nights, the broken dreams, the stubborn hope.

He listens, really listens, and for a moment, the city’s weight seems to ease from his shoulders.

Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, he speaks of shadows, of fights no one sees, and the price of trying to make things right.

You don’t press. Some things aren’t meant to be spoken aloud.

Time slips away until the rain slows, and he checks his watch with reluctance.

He stands, leaves a generous tip and a folded note beside the plate.

Thank you for the company tonight. — B.W.

His eyes meet yours one last time, a silent promise hanging between you before he disappears into the misty Gotham night.

You fold the note carefully and tuck it close, a fragile hope in the heart of a city that rarely offers kindness.

The diner felt emptier after he left. You’d never noticed how loud the neon sign buzzed until now, how the smell of burnt coffee clung a little heavier without someone new to distract you. You looked down at the note again, the simple scrawl of his handwriting standing out on the receipt paper.

Thank you for the company tonight. – B.W.

It wasn’t much, but it lingered.

You folded the note carefully and slipped it into the pocket of your apron before clearing the untouched pie from his table. You told yourself it didn’t matter, that he was just another customer, even if the weight in his gaze had made you feel seen in a way you couldn’t quite explain.

The rest of your shift passed in a blur. A group of tired paramedics came through, laughing too loudly at something only they understood. A pair of men in suits nursed black coffee and whispered in a booth until the dawn cracked faintly through the windows. You refilled cups and wiped tables, but your mind kept drifting to the man who had sat alone in the corner, radiating quiet tension.

You told yourself he wouldn’t come back.

But he did.

Two nights later, the bell chimed again, and there he was.

He didn’t look much different. Still wearing a dark suit, though the collar was undone this time, tie stuffed haphazardly into his jacket pocket. There was a fading bruise along his jaw, half-hidden by the dim diner light.

He didn’t go for a different booth or glance around for a change in routine. He went straight back to the same corner, sliding into the same spot like he belonged there.

You grabbed a fresh pot of coffee before he could ask.

“You’re back,” you said as you set the cup down.

He gave a small, almost sheepish smile. “I thought the coffee was good.”

“Flattery doesn’t work here,” you said, pouring the steaming liquid into his cup.

“Good,” he said quietly, meeting your eyes. “I could use a place where it doesn’t.”

You hesitated, unsure how to respond, so you just nodded and set a menu on the table even though you doubted he’d use it.

This time, he ordered a sandwich.

You hovered nearby as the cook slapped together the order in the back, stealing glances at him when you thought he wasn’t looking. He sat with his hands wrapped loosely around the coffee cup, shoulders hunched as if the weight of the city still clung to him.

When you returned with the plate, he looked up with a soft “Thanks,” and you realized you’d been holding your breath.

He didn’t eat much again, but you didn’t call him on it.

Instead, you refilled his coffee and slid into the booth across from him when the diner quieted down. You weren’t supposed to, company policy and all, but there was something magnetic about him, and you told yourself you were just being a good hostess.

“You work a lot of nights,” he said, gesturing at your apron.

You shrugged. “Someone’s got to keep this place running. And I like the quiet.”

“Most people hate the quiet,” he said.

“Most people can’t handle their own thoughts,” you countered.

That earned you another faint smile, the kind that made you feel like you’d won something you didn’t realize you were playing for.

He took a sip of his coffee, watching you with an intensity that made you shift in your seat. “Do you ever think about leaving Gotham?”

“All the time,” you said without hesitation. “But then I think, if I go, who’s going to keep the coffee hot at two in the morning for people like you?”

His expression softened, a flicker of something passing behind his eyes.

“Maybe the city needs you more than you think,” he said.

The way he said it made your chest tighten.

You wanted to ask what kept him here, what battles he was fighting, but you didn’t. You could tell he wasn’t ready to share, not yet.

Instead, you offered him another slice of pie, sliding the plate across the table without a word.

He took it this time, eating slowly as if savoring something he didn’t get to have often.

And just like that, you realized you wanted him to come back again.

The next few days passed in a haze of routine. The diner was its usual mix of the strange and mundane. Construction workers grabbing late meals, a couple arguing quietly in the corner, a man who ordered coffee and stared at the door for an hour before leaving.

But you found yourself glancing at the door more often than usual, listening for the familiar chime.

When it finally rang again, your heart jumped before your brain caught up.

He stepped in like he belonged there now, shoulders a little less tense, though there was still a heaviness about him. He was in a different suit this time, charcoal gray, and the bruise on his jaw had faded to a yellow shadow. He gave a small nod as he passed the counter, sliding into his booth without waiting to be seated.

You didn’t bother asking what he wanted.

“Coffee?” you said, already carrying the pot.

He smiled faintly. “You’re good at this.”

“It’s my job,” you teased, filling his cup.

“It’s more than that,” he said quietly, eyes meeting yours.

The comment lingered, warming you in a way the diner’s heaters never could.

You busied yourself behind the counter, trying not to stare. But it was hard not to notice the way he looked different here, away from the world’s expectations. The press painted him as untouchable, a billionaire playboy who glided through life with charm and ease. But here, in this tired diner at 2 AM, he was just a man nursing a cup of coffee like everyone else.

And he kept coming back.

By the fourth visit, it had become a routine.

He’d walk in, and you’d pour his coffee before he sat down. Sometimes he ordered food, sometimes just pie. Sometimes he talked; other nights, he simply sat in silence, eyes fixed on the rain-soaked streets outside.

But he was always polite. Always watching you with that quiet intensity, as though he was searching for something in your face.

You started to look forward to his visits, to the sound of the bell over the door announcing that your night would be a little brighter.

One night, when the diner was nearly empty, you dared to sit across from him again.

“You know,” you said, tapping your fingers against the table, “people might start thinking you like the coffee here.”

His lips curved into the smallest of smiles. “I do.”

“Liar,” you teased. “This is Gotham. The coffee’s terrible everywhere.”

He chuckled, the sound low and warm. “Then maybe it’s the company.”

Your breath caught at the sincerity in his tone.

You leaned back, trying to play it cool. “You must have better places to be. Fancy restaurants. Charity galas. Whatever it is billionaires do at night.”

His gaze softened, and he shook his head. “Not tonight.”

The way he said it made you feel like maybe the diner was more than just a stop on his way somewhere else.

You didn’t push for more, though. He was a man with walls, and you respected that. But you couldn’t help wondering what had drawn him here in the first place.

Another week passed.

Bruce came in again, later than usual. His suit was wrinkled, and there was a cut on his lip this time, fresh and still faintly bleeding.

You felt a pang of worry as you set the coffee down. “Rough night?”

He hesitated, then nodded. “Something like that.”

“Do you need—” You stopped yourself before finishing the sentence. Do you need help? That wasn’t your place.

He seemed to understand anyway. “I’m fine,” he said softly, though he didn’t sound convincing.

You wanted to ask what had happened, but you bit your tongue. Instead, you refilled his cup and slid a piece of pie across the table.

He looked at you for a long moment before saying, “You don’t ask questions.”

“Not my job,” you said with a shrug.

“Still,” he murmured, “most people would.”

“Most people don’t want the answers,” you said quietly.

Something shifted in his expression then, like you’d said something that mattered.

For the first time, he reached out, brushing his fingertips lightly against yours as you cleared the plate. The touch was brief, almost accidental, but it sent a jolt through you.

“Thank you,” he said simply.

You nodded, unable to find words.

The bell over the door jingled as you locked up for the night, the echo of it lingering in the quiet like an unfinished thought. Bruce had left hours ago, but the imprint of his presence still felt tangible. You caught yourself rubbing your fingertips where his had brushed yours, the phantom warmth refusing to fade.

You told yourself not to think too much about it. He was a customer, nothing more. Customers came and went. But when you turned off the neon sign outside and were left with only your reflection in the darkened glass, you realized you didn’t believe it.

Bruce didn’t return the following night. Or the night after.

By the third, you were convinced you’d scared him off somehow. You told yourself it was ridiculous. He had a life, responsibilities, places to be. The man was Gotham’s most eligible bachelor. He didn’t owe you anything.

And yet, you still found yourself listening for the chime of the diner door each time the wind rattled it.

When it finally rang again on the fourth night, you nearly dropped the mug you were drying.

He stepped inside quietly, as though he didn’t want to disturb the rhythm of the place. His suit was clean, though slightly damp from the drizzle outside, and he looked less ragged than he had the last time you’d seen him.

“Coffee?” you asked, voice soft, already reaching for the pot.

“Please,” he said, the corners of his lips curling faintly.

You poured his cup and hesitated before sliding into the booth across from him. “You disappeared for a while,” you said.

Something unreadable flickered in his eyes. “I had to… take care of things.”

“You’re always taking care of things,” you said before you could stop yourself.

His brows lifted slightly at the edge in your tone, but then he nodded as though he understood. “It’s part of who I am,” he admitted quietly.

You busied yourself with the sugar dispenser, not wanting to press, but the words slipped out anyway. “You look tired. More than usual.”

He gave a small, wry smile. “I am.”

“Do you ever… stop?” you asked.

The question hung in the air like the smell of coffee grounds. He didn’t answer right away, and for a moment you thought he wouldn’t.

Then, softly: “Not really. I don’t know how.”

There was no self-pity in his voice, just a quiet honesty that made your chest ache.

You reached across the table before you realized what you were doing, your fingers brushing his hand lightly. He didn’t flinch. If anything, his shoulders seemed to relax slightly at the contact.

“Then maybe you should try,” you said. “Even if it’s just for a little while.”

He looked at you for a long time, and something unspoken passed between you.

Later that night, when your shift ended, he offered to walk you to the bus stop. You almost declined, out of habit, but the thought of his company was too tempting to turn away.

The streets were slick with rain, the city lights reflecting off the puddles like fractured stars. Bruce walked beside you with a quiet, steady presence, his hands in his coat pockets, gaze sweeping the shadows as though searching for threats.

“Do you always walk your waitresses home?” you teased gently.

His lips quirked. “Only the ones who give me free pie.”

You laughed softly, the sound echoing in the stillness of the empty street.

The bus stop was deserted when you reached it. You turned to him, unsure what to say now that the night was ending.

“Thanks,” you said at last. “For walking me.”

He nodded, his expression soft. “Thank you. For… letting me be here.”

The bus pulled up then, hissing to a stop. You hesitated on the step, glancing back at him.

“Will I see you again?” you asked before you could lose your nerve.

His gaze held yours for a long, steady beat. “Yes,” he said simply.

And somehow, you believed him.

He kept his word.

Bruce started showing up more regularly again, though never on a predictable schedule. Sometimes he appeared two nights in a row, other times not for nearly a week, but you learned to recognize the sound of his footsteps on the diner’s linoleum floor before you even looked up.

You’d pour his coffee before he sat down, and he’d give you a small smile of gratitude every time. Those quiet smiles became something you carried with you through the rest of your shifts, through the cold bus rides home, through mornings spent dozing off in your tiny apartment.

But it wasn’t just about the coffee anymore.

One night, the diner was busier than usual. A group of night-shift workers filled the booths near the front, laughing loudly over plates of pancakes and hash browns. A pair of young women came in for milkshakes, snapping pictures of themselves with the flickering neon sign.

Bruce sat at his usual table in the corner, quietly nursing his coffee. He seemed content to stay out of the bustle, but you noticed his eyes following you whenever you moved through the diner, as though he was making sure you weren’t overwhelmed.

At one point, a man at the counter grew loud and belligerent, slamming his empty mug down and demanding more coffee in a way that made your skin crawl. You refilled his cup and tried to step away, but he reached out and grabbed your wrist.

“Hey,” he said, leering up at you. “You gonna smile for me or what?”

You froze, forcing a polite smile and tugging your arm back. “Please let go, sir.”

Before the man could respond, a quiet but firm voice cut through the noise.

“She said let go.”

You turned to see Bruce standing a few feet away, hands in his coat pockets but posture radiating calm authority. His voice was low, but it carried across the diner in a way that made the other customers fall silent.

The man at the counter hesitated, then released your wrist with a muttered curse. He threw a few bills on the counter and stormed out into the night.

Bruce watched him go, his jaw tight, before turning back to you. “Are you alright?”

You nodded quickly, though your heart was still pounding. “Yeah. I’m fine. Thank you.”

He studied you for a moment, then returned to his booth without another word. But when you brought him a fresh cup of coffee a few minutes later, he reached out and brushed your fingers lightly with his own.

“Don’t let people treat you like that,” he said softly.

You swallowed, the warmth of his touch grounding you. “I’m used to it,” you admitted.

“You shouldn’t be,” he murmured.

The words lingered long after you returned to the counter.

The next time Bruce came in, the diner was nearly empty again. He looked tired, the shadows under his eyes darker than usual, and there was a stiffness in his movements that made you frown.

“Are you hurt?” you asked as you set his coffee down.

He hesitated, as though debating whether to lie, then shook his head. “Just a long night.”

You weren’t convinced. “Lift your hand,” you said, gesturing at his right arm.

He blinked at you. “What?”

“Just—do it,” you insisted gently.

With a faint sigh, he did as you asked. The cuff of his sleeve rode up slightly, revealing bruised knuckles and a faint cut across his index finger.

You exhaled sharply. “That doesn’t look like nothing.”

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” he said, his voice low.

“Still,” you muttered, grabbing the small first-aid kit you kept behind the counter. “Let me at least clean it up. You’ll get an infection.”

He looked as though he might protest, but something in your expression must have changed his mind. He let you guide him out of the booth and over to the counter, where you carefully cleaned the cut with antiseptic.

The moment was quiet, intimate. He watched your hands as you worked, and you could feel his gaze even when you didn’t meet his eyes.

“Thank you,” he said softly when you finished.

You shrugged, suddenly flustered. “Just… don’t punch anything else for a while, okay?”

His lips curved into the smallest of smiles. “I’ll try.”

You wanted to ask what he’d been doing to get hurt, but you didn’t. You’d promised yourself you wouldn’t ask questions he didn’t want to answer.

Instead, you handed him his coffee and tried to ignore the way your chest tightened when his fingers brushed yours again.

The diner was empty by the time your shift ended. You’d lingered at the counter longer than usual, wiping it down twice, then three times, trying not to glance too obviously at the man sitting in the corner booth.

Bruce had been unusually quiet tonight. Even quieter than his usual reserved self, his gaze distant as if his mind were elsewhere. But he hadn’t left. Not when the last customer exited. Not when you started shutting down the coffee machine and locking up the register.

It was only when you hung up your apron and shrugged into your coat that he finally stood, straightening the lapels of his jacket with a slow, deliberate motion.

“Heading out?” you asked, more to fill the silence than anything else.

He nodded, eyes flicking to you for the briefest moment before he said, “I’ll walk you again.”

You hesitated. “You don’t have to.”

“I know,” he said softly.

And that was that.

The streets outside were damp from an earlier drizzle, the air thick with that familiar Gotham chill that never seemed to lift, no matter the season. You walked side by side, your boots clicking softly against the cracked pavement.

For a while, neither of you spoke. It wasn’t uncomfortable, exactly, just charged. Like every word unspoken weighed more than the ones you could say aloud.

“You didn’t have to stay so late,” you murmured at last. “I mean… I know you have other things to do.”

Bruce’s hands were buried deep in his coat pockets, but his voice was steady when he answered. “I didn’t mind waiting.”

Your heart gave a traitorous little jump. “You waited… for me?”

He glanced down at you, the corners of his mouth softening. “Yeah.”

The word was so simple, so unguarded, that you didn’t know how to respond.

The bus stop wasn’t far, but the walk felt longer tonight. Every time you brushed shoulders, it felt deliberate. Every time your hands swung a little too close, you wondered what it would feel like to close the distance.

You told yourself you were imagining it, that he wasn’t thinking the same thing. But when you reached the stop and turned to face him, the way his gaze held yours told you otherwise.

“Thanks for walking me,” you said, your voice quieter than you meant it to be.

He nodded, stepping just a little closer. “I don’t like the idea of you out here alone.”

“You make it sound like Gotham’s dangerous or something,” you teased, trying to lighten the moment.

But he didn’t smile. His jaw tightened slightly. “It is,” he said, voice low.

You swallowed, unsure what to say.

The bus hadn’t arrived yet. The street was silent, the city around you seeming to fade into nothing as Bruce’s presence filled the space.

He stepped closer, close enough now that you could feel the heat radiating from his body against the chill of the night. His eyes searched yours, and for a heartbeat, you swore he was about to lean in.

Your breath caught.

His hand lifted slowly, hesitantly, fingers brushing the edge of your cheek like he was afraid you might disappear.

And then the sharp hiss of the approaching bus broke the moment.

Bruce froze, his hand hovering inches from your skin, before he stepped back with a quiet exhale.

“Your ride’s here,” he said softly.

You nodded, heart hammering. “Yeah.”

Neither of you moved for a beat too long. Then the bus doors opened with a mechanical groan, and you forced yourself to climb the steps.

You turned just before the doors closed, hoping, praying for one last look.

He was still there, standing in the glow of the streetlight, eyes fixed on you like you were the only thing anchoring him to the ground.

And then the doors shut, and the bus pulled away, leaving you wondering what might have happened if you’d had just one more minute.

The bus ride home felt endless. You sat pressed against the window, watching the darkened streets slip past in a blur, but all you could think about was him, his hand lifting to your cheek, the way he’d looked at you like he was holding back something dangerous and fragile all at once.

You told yourself you were imagining it. That men like Bruce Wayne didn’t look at people like you that way. But your fingers kept drifting to the spot where his hand had almost touched, and you couldn’t shake the quiet ache blooming in your chest.

Bruce didn’t come to the diner for days.

Every shift stretched longer without the sound of the door chime announcing his arrival. You tried to stay busy, pouring coffee, refilling salt shakers, cleaning, but your mind kept slipping back to the memory of that night.

By the fifth day, you’d nearly convinced yourself it had all been in your head. That you’d misread the entire thing, that he was never coming back.

So when the bell over the door finally rang and you looked up to see him standing there, you nearly dropped the pot of coffee in your hand.

“Bruce,” you breathed before you could stop yourself.

He looked exhausted. More than usual. His suit jacket was missing, his tie undone and draped over his shoulders, and there was a faint cut near his temple. But when his eyes met yours, he smiled faintly, and the tightness in your chest eased.

“Coffee?” you asked, already moving toward his usual booth.

“Please,” he said, voice softer than you’d ever heard it.

You poured his cup and hovered for a moment before sliding into the seat across from him. “You disappeared.”

“I know,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry.”

There was something raw in his tone, something that made you want to reach across the table and take his hand, but you stayed still. “I thought maybe you weren’t coming back,” you admitted.

His gaze flicked up, sharp and intent. “I wanted to,” he said. “I just… couldn’t.”

You nodded slowly, even though the answer didn’t make sense. You didn’t ask for more. You’d learned by now that he’d tell you what he could, when he could.

The night was quiet until the door burst open.

A man stumbled in, hood pulled low, muttering under his breath. You caught the glint of something metallic in his hand.

A gun.

“Cash,” he barked, voice cracking. “Now.”

Your heart lurched. You froze behind the counter, staring at him.

“Did you hear me?” he shouted, raising the weapon. “Empty the register!”

You fumbled for the till, fingers trembling, but before you could move, Bruce stood.

“Don’t,” he said quietly.

The man spun toward him, the gun jerking in his hand. “Stay where you are!”

Bruce stepped forward, calm and steady, every line of his body radiating control. “No one has to get hurt,” he said. “Put the gun down.”

The man’s eyes darted between you and Bruce, panic flickering across his face. “Shut up!”

You could see it, the moment he decided he was going to pull the trigger.

“Bruce,” you whispered, terrified.

In a blur, he moved. You didn’t even see how he did it, but suddenly the gun was on the floor and the man was pinned against the counter, gasping for breath. Bruce’s arm pressed firmly against his chest, holding him there without effort.

“Leave,” Bruce said, his voice low and deadly. “Now.”

The man scrambled out of the diner, leaving the gun behind.

You stood frozen, heart pounding. Bruce bent to pick up the weapon, ejecting the magazine with practiced ease before setting it far out of reach. Then he turned to you.

“Are you alright?”

You nodded shakily, though your knees threatened to give out. “You… you just—how did you—”

He stepped closer, catching your arms gently. “Breathe,” he said softly. “It’s over.”

The warmth of his hands on your skin was grounding, and you let out a shaky breath. “Thank you,” you whispered.

The police came and went, taking the weapon and the security footage. By the time they left, the diner felt oppressively quiet.

You stood behind the counter, arms wrapped around yourself, still trying to process what had happened. Bruce lingered nearby, his posture protective.

“Do things like that… happen a lot?” he asked quietly.

“Not usually,” you admitted. “I guess… it’s Gotham.”

He exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. “I hate this city sometimes,” he murmured.

You looked at him for a long moment. “Then why stay?”

He hesitated, as though the answer was too heavy to put into words. Finally, he said, “Because someone has to.”

The intensity in his voice made your breath catch. You stepped closer before you realized what you were doing. “You don’t have to do everything alone, Bruce,” you said softly.

His eyes softened. “I don’t want you to get hurt because of me.”

Your heart thudded. “I’m already hurt when you’re not here,” you whispered before you could stop yourself.

He blinked, startled. “You…?”

You felt heat flood your cheeks but didn’t look away. “I wait for you,” you said. “Every night. And when you don’t come, it feels like—” You shook your head. “I don’t even know what I’m saying.”

Bruce closed the distance between you in two steps. His hand came up, brushing your cheek with a gentleness that made your chest ache.

“I wait for you, too,” he said quietly.

Your breath hitched as his face drew closer. You could feel the warmth of his breath, the brush of his nose against yours.

And then he stopped.

His hand trembled slightly where it cupped your face, and you could see the war in his eyes. “If I do this,” he murmured, “I won’t be able to stay away.”

You didn’t care. You wanted him to close the distance, to stop holding himself back.

“Then don’t,” you whispered.

For one suspended moment, you thought he would. You could feel it, the tension, the pull between you.

But Bruce exhaled softly and stepped back.

“I can’t,” he said, his voice rough.

You stared at him, heart breaking and hopeful all at once. “Will you come back?” you asked, barely above a whisper.

He looked at you like you were the only thing tethering him to the ground. “Yes,” he said simply.

And somehow, you believed him.

Bruce reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper, sliding it across the counter. “For you,” he said.

You opened it once he was gone, heart hammering. Inside was a simple note in his neat handwriting:

“Thank you for giving me somewhere to breathe. – B.W.”

You folded the note carefully, tucking it into your apron pocket like a secret.

And as the rain began to fall outside again, you found yourself smiling, hope blooming quietly in your chest.

Because you knew he would come back.