The rain poured relentlessly over Gotham City, drumming a relentless rhythm against concrete and glass, turning the streets into glistening rivers beneath flickering streetlamps. Bruce Wayne stumbled through narrow alleyways, every step agonizing. His usually fluid, powerful stride had given way to a limp, one hand pressed tightly to his side where blood oozed from a deep gash beneath his armored suit. The night's mission had gone sideways—a brutal skirmish with a violent new gang left him battered, disoriented, and alone.

He didn’t have time to patch himself up. Not properly. Not tonight. He needed shelter. Safety. Familiarity.

His thoughts cut through the pain like a whisper. There was only one person he could go to. One person who had seen both Bruce Wayne and Batman at their most raw. One person who had once loved him deeply—and, despite everything, might still care enough to open the door.

You, his ex-spouse. His once. His almost. His still.

Their marriage had fractured under the pressure of dual identities, long nights, and too many silences. Secrets had driven them apart—his refusal to let go of the cowl, your growing fear for what it was turning him into. But none of that mattered now. Not while the darkness was swallowing him whole.

The city offered no comfort, no sanctuary. Alfred was unreachable. The manor was compromised. He had no reason to come to you—except that you were the only person he trusted more than he feared being seen weak. And after all these years… he still remembered the warmth of your voice, the way you used to bandage his wounds without asking questions, the way silence with you was never empty.

He finally reached your townhouse, tucked away in a quiet district, its warm lights faintly glowing behind rain-speckled windows. His heart pounded harder than it had in any fight. Rain soaked him to the bone as he staggered up the steps, paused before the door, and let his fist hover—hesitant. How long had it been since you saw each other face to face? Since words weren’t exchanged through lawyers, or strained silence? He hated himself for what he was about to ask. For needing you again.

He knocked.

The sound echoed like thunder in the still night.

Seconds stretched. Then the door creaked open.

You stood there in a simple robe, barefoot, your expression caught between shock and something deeper—something ancient. Your eyes took him in: the soaked cowl, the blood, the way he leaned against the doorframe like it was the only thing holding him up.

He tried to smile, but his body betrayed him. His knees buckled slightly as he gripped the doorframe for balance.

“I didn’t know where else to go,” he rasped, voice low and raw.