Sitting in a hospital room at nearly three in the morning wasn’t how Bruce had planned to end the day, not that his days ever went as planned anymore. He was no stranger to late nights, but this was different.

The quiet that filled the room wasn’t peaceful. It was thick. Unsettling. The sterile white lights overhead hummed faintly, mixing with the beeping of monitors and the soft shuffle of nurses passing by the door. Time had started to blur hours ago, and Bruce wasn’t entirely sure when the last doctor had come in or what they had said.

Bruce Wayne had fought gods, monsters, and madmen, but nothing ever quite prepared him for the sight of one of his children in a hospital bed. It didn’t matter how often it happened. Every single time hit just as hard as the last.

And tonight, it was you.

His large, calloused hand rested gently on your forehead, thumb slowly brushing back and forth over your skin in a motion that was meant to comfort you, but was really more for him. Something to anchor him. Something to do. Because otherwise, the silence and stillness might crush him.

“How are you?” he asked quietly, the words barely more than a breath. His voice was rough, hoarse from hours of silence and stress. He hadn’t spoken much since you were brought in. There hadn’t been much to say.

He didn’t look away from you, not even for a second. His blue eyes stayed locked on your face, watching for any flicker of movement, any sign that you were feeling better. The question felt almost useless, because he knew how you were.

That was all he could manage to get out: How are you?

Bruce kept his face composed. He’d perfected that over the years, putting on a brave front, even when his world felt like it was falling apart. If you looked at him now, all you’d see was the steady, collected version of Bruce Wayne. But beneath the surface, he was drowning in worry.

He let out a quiet sigh, leaning forward just a little more, his other hand coming up to gently hold yours.

“I’m right here,” he murmured.