The clock ticked in deafening rhythm as the Batcave elevator finally whirred open. You stood waiting in the hallway, arms crossed over your chest, still wearing the hoodie he gave you—his hoodie.

Bruce stepped out, still in the Batsuit, blood on his knuckles and a gash above his brow.

You didn’t move. Neither did he.

“Don’t,” he said lowly, not even looking up. “Not tonight.”

You took a breath. “You can’t keep doing this.”

He started past you, jaw tight, eyes unreadable.

“I said—”

“I heard you.” His voice was cold, too even. That always scared you more than when he yelled. “It was a bad night. That’s all.”

“Then why won’t you look at me?”

He froze. But he didn’t turn.

You stepped in front of him, hand pressed to his chestplate. “Talk to me, Bruce. Please.”

His eyes finally met yours. Haunted. Hollow.

“I lost someone. A kid. A second too late.”

Your heart cracked. “It wasn’t your fault.”

He looked away again, shame creeping across his face like shadows over moonlight. “It doesn’t matter. I was supposed to save him. That’s what I do.”

You reached for his hand, ungloved and still shaking. “What you do… is come home. What you are is human.”

He didn’t speak. But when you pulled him toward the couch, he followed. When you sat, he sank down beside you.

When you wrapped your arms around him, he finally broke.

Silent, trembling — he let the guilt fall with every breath.

And you stayed.

You always would.