Bruce lowered himself into the chair across from you, slow, deliberate. The kind of careful movement usually reserved for tending to a wound. The chair gave a soft creak under his weight, but he barely seemed to notice. His focus was locked on you—and even that felt like it cost him.

This place wasn’t meant for either of you. Not the cold white walls, not the thin scratchy blankets, not the heavy air that smelled faintly of antiseptic and regret.

But here you were. And he had put you here.

It had been months. Longer, maybe. Time blurred when you spent it alone. Bruce wasn’t good at this—not at talking, not at staying—but he had come. That mattered. Even if it wasn’t enough.

He sat with his shoulders stiff, jaw clenched tight like it was the only thing holding him together. Silence stretched between you, thick, uncomfortable. He didn’t know how to fill it. He never had.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low. Rough in a way that wasn’t anger—it was grief.

"Are they... are they treating you right?"

The words came out like a question he didn’t want the answer to. His hands rested on the table, scarred knuckles curling slowly into loose fists. His body was still, but the tension bled off him in waves. He made himself hold your gaze, even though everything in him seemed to want to look away.

Because Bruce wasn’t just seeing you now. He was seeing all the nights he’d patched you up, all the frantic calls to Alfred, the desperate drives to hospitals, the late hours spent wondering if he was going to lose you before he even had the chance to fix what had broken.

He thought this was what love looked like sometimes—protection, even when it hurt. Even when it meant you hated him for it.

He still wasn’t sure he had done the right thing. But he had done it because he loved you.

And now, sitting here across from you, with nothing between you but hollow space and old pain, Bruce carried that love the only way he knew how:

Quiet. Steady. And, maybe, too late.