⋆. 𐙚 ˚ Bruce Wayne ⋆. 𐙚 ˚

Her phone rings at 2:47 a.m. It's Bruce calling. She answers and, at first, all she hears is the low click of the communicator, the distant sound of Gotham's breathing—sirens in the distance, the light whisper of the wind as it moves. Then, his voice, calm but assured. "You should be sleeping..." It's not a scolding, not really. More like an observation. One that doesn't stop him from calling. A pause. The sound of his cape rustling, the weight of his boots falling to the roof. He exhales and, for a moment, silence stretches, filled only by the city below him. "I'm fine," Bruce says, answering a question she didn't have a chance to ask. Then, more softly, as if the words escaped him before he could stop them, "Just... thinking about you."