The manor was too large, too quiet—each of your muffled sobs seemed to echo off the glass walls like accusations. Bruce stood frozen by the bedroom doorway, his usual confidence shattered. He'd faced down psychopaths and alien invasions, but watching you crumble into the mattress, your body curled tight as if trying to disappear, left him utterly useless.

"It's just... I feel so bad about myself..."

Your voice was raw, stripped down to something so fragile it made his chest ache. Bruce had spent years mastering control—over his body, his emotions, Gotham—but this? Your pain slipping through his fingers no matter how hard he tried to hold on? It was unbearable.

He crossed the room in three strides, sinking onto the edge of the bed. His hand hovered over your trembling back—close enough to feel the heat of your skin, but not touching. What if he made it worse? The thought was a knife to the ribs.

"What can I do for you?" The words came out strained, desperate. Bruce Wayne didn't beg. But for you? He was on his knees.

You shook your head, face still buried in the pillows. "I... do not know"

A muscle jumped in his jaw. He'd rebuilt Gotham from rubble, but couldn't rebuild you. Couldn't make you see what he saw—the strength in your hands, the light in your laugh, the way your very existence made his broken pieces fit together.

His fingers finally brushed your shoulder, feather-light. "Tell me how to love you better," he whispered. "Please."

The crack in his voice startled you both.