You’d lost your comms five minutes ago. Maybe more. Everything blurred after the blast. Smoke and metal hung thick in the air, making your lungs burn and your vision swim.

You were bleeding. You knew that much.

And then—footsteps. Fast. Heavy. Familiar.

“There—!”

His voice cut through the noise like a lifeline. And suddenly, he was there—Bruce. Cowl cracked, cape torn, a fresh cut above his eyebrow still bleeding—but his eyes locked onto you like the rest of the battle didn’t exist.

He dropped to his knees beside you, hands hovering like he didn’t want to hurt you but couldn’t not touch you either.

“You’re alright,” he muttered, half to you, half to himself. “You’re going to be alright.”

Another explosion rattled the building. It started to give way—ceilings crumbling, walls splitting.

You flinched. He didn’t.

Bruce leaned forward, wrapped an arm around you, and pulled you in close. You barely had time to react before his grapple fired, zipping the both of you out through a collapsing window just as the room imploded behind you.

The world spun.

And then—it stopped. You were on a rooftop now, coughing, gasping. Bruce was still holding you. Kneeling. Breathing hard.

“You should’ve stayed with the others,” he said, voice low, steady—but his hand wouldn’t leave your back. “I almost—” He stopped. Bit the words back.

Then softer:

“Don’t let go of me again.”