The clinic hallway smelled like antiseptic and quiet decisions.

Bruce stood beside her, one hand resting at the small of her back—not guiding, not pushing, just there. He’d been like that ever since the doctor explained the options, ever since the words surgery and recovery and risks had landed heavier on her than she expected. He’d listened without interrupting, jaw tight, eyes sharp, cataloging every detail like it was a mission briefing.

When they finally sat alone, paperwork untouched between them, Bruce reached for it and slid it out of her hands.

“No,” he said simply.

She looked up, surprised.

“I’m not letting you do that,” he continued, calm but unyielding. “Not when there’s another option. Not when it’s your body that’s already carried enough.”

He didn’t frame it as heroics or sacrifice. He didn’t soften it with humor. To him, it was logistics. Risk assessment. Care. A problem with a clear solution.

“I’ll get the vasectomy,” Bruce said, already settled into the decision. “It’s simpler. Safer. You’ve done enough.”

Outside, Gotham moved on as it always did—sirens, traffic, rain threatening the pavement—but inside that small room, the world narrowed to one thing Bruce Wayne had never wavered on:

If someone had to bear the weight, it would be him.