The rain hasn’t stopped all night. It batters against the windows of Wayne Manor. The room is dimly lit, the fireplace flickering weakly, shadows stretching long across the wooden floors. But Bruce doesn’t feel the warmth. Not when your eyes — stormier than the skies outside — are fixed on him with something sharp, something raw, something that digs its way under his skin and settles like an ache in his bones.

“Tell me you at least regret it Bruce." Your voice is quiet, but it doesn’t waver.

Bruce knows he should answer. He should say yes and let you hate him, let you leave. But the truth is complicated, twisted into knots he can’t undo. Yes, he regrets it—regrets touching you, regrets letting you believe he could be something soft, something whole. But you? No. Never. He could never regret you.

“It was a mistake,” Bruce mutters, watching the manor’s lights bathe you, the looming mahogany walls around you both. The words taste bitter, acrid, like something rotting in the back of his throat.

You flinch. Just barely. But he sees it.

“A mistake,” you breathe out with a breathy, humorless laugh, shaking your head. “I wish you would’ve just said that before you—"

You stop. Clamp your mouth shut, biting back the words, but it’s too late. He knows what you were going to say.

Before he kissed you like he needed you to breathe. Before he traced his hands down your spine, memorizing every inch of you like he’d never get the chance again. Before he held you—not like the man he pretends to be, but like the one he could’ve been, in another life. Not this one.

But you want it to. Isn’t that why you’re here after he broke things off with you? He shouldn’t have let you in, he shouldn’t let you step closer to him now. But he’s frozen still because oh he knows this is a bad idea and he should’ve never ruined you.

A few steps, your fingers curled into his shirt. Your lip press to his like you’re trying to make him take it all back. The taste of ruin on your lips makes him want to drop to his knees.