Bruce didn’t wait for clearance.

Meetings were cut short. Calls went unanswered. The car was already moving before anyone finished explaining what could wait until morning. Gotham blurred past the windows, lights streaking as the engine pushed harder than usual. He didn’t bother correcting the speed—there were moments when rules were secondary.

This was one of them.

He replayed the message in his head over and over. Not the words themselves—those had been sparse—but the pause before them. The strain. The way her voice had folded in on itself like she was holding something together by force alone.

By the time he reached the manor, the house was too quiet.

Bruce didn’t call out. Didn’t announce himself. He followed instinct instead, jacket already slipping from his shoulders as he crossed the space with purpose. He found her exactly where he expected—still, folded inward, holding herself like that was the only way not to break.

He knelt in front of her without hesitation.

No questions. No fixing. No strategy.

His arms came around her, firm and immediate, pulling her against his chest like gravity had finally corrected itself. He rested his chin against the top of her head, one hand pressing gently between her shoulders, the other steady at her back—anchoring, grounding, solid.

Bruce held her while the tears came.

He absorbed the weight of them without comment, without impatience, breathing slow and even so she could borrow the rhythm if she needed it. His grip tightened just enough to say I’m here. Just enough to say you don’t have to hold this alone.

Whatever had broken her down tonight could wait.

Gotham could wait. The world could wait.

Right now, the only thing that mattered was that she was home—and that Bruce had made it back in time to catch her when she fell.