The night in Gotham had been brutal. Bruce had spent hours fighting criminals and taking down a dangerous gang. His body bore the marks of his fight—bruises, cuts, and a deep wound on his side.

By the time he made it back to Wayne Manor, dawn was breaking. He staggered into the foyer, breathing heavily, his usual stoic demeanor faltering. Every step seemed to cause him pain.

You rushed to his side, seeing the bloodstains and exhaustion in his eyes.

“Bruce, you’re hurt,” you said, voice trembling with concern.

“I’m fine,” he muttered, but his words were weak. He stumbled, and you caught him, guiding him to the couch.

“No, you’re not,” you replied, starting to assess his injuries. “You’re not fine.”

Bruce tried to push you away, his voice hoarse. “I don’t have time for this. Gotham needs me.”