The rain was relentless, drumming against the tin roof with dull ferocity. Bruce stood beneath the porch awning, jaw clenched, wet to the bone. His boots were caked in mud from the hike up. He hadn’t spoken to anyone in two days—he couldn’t, not until he found them. Not until he found you.

The front door was unlocked, just barely ajar. Typical. You were still leaving a way out, even now.

Inside, the air was stale, but not lifeless. There was a fire going—small, controlled. A blanket thrown across the threadbare couch. Weapons cleaned and lined up on the table with ritualistic precision. A single photo tucked beneath a cracked mug on the mantle. You and him. Taken before the fall.

He spotted you immediately. Curled on the rug in front of the fire, back to the room, every inch of your body coiled like a spring on the verge of snapping. You didn’t move when he entered, but he felt the shift in the air. You knew it was him. Of course you did.

Bruce said nothing at first. He moved quietly, peeling off his soaked gloves and coat, laying them across the back of a chair. Every movement was deliberate—measured. It’s how he kept himself steady. Focused. Human.

He finally broke the silence.

“I went through the Iceberg Lounge. The hideout in Bowery. Even the Narrows.” His voice was low, edged with gravel. “I didn’t stop moving until I got here.”

You didn’t turn. He didn’t expect you to.

“Crane’s toxin was fused with neuroconditioning,” he continued, stepping forward. “Not just illusions—he rewrote you. Twisted your instincts, hijacked your training. Made me the thing you feared most.”

A pause. His throat worked like he was swallowing something sharp.

“I saw it in your eyes before you ran. You came back to yourself. And you looked at me like you’d already buried us.”

That silence again—crushing. Bruce crouched down behind you, leaving a careful gap, because he knew what it felt like to flinch from your own guilt.

“I’ve taken hits before,” he said. “I’ve had knives in my back. I’ve bled out on rooftops. But none of it came close to that moment. Watching you turn on yourself. Seeing you vanish. That—” his voice cracked, just a hair “—that’s what hurt.”

Finally, you spoke. Barely above a whisper.

“I don’t know how to come back from this.”

He leaned in slowly, carefully, and laid a hand on the floor beside you.

“You don’t have to have the answer. That’s not your job.” His tone softened, low and firm—the voice that once pulled you back from panic mid-mission, the voice that steadied you in chaos. “Mine is to stand by you when you can’t stand yourself.”

You turned your head slightly, eyes glassy, face hollowed by shame and exhaustion. And Bruce—always so reserved, so guarded—let you see it now. The grief. The stubborn love. The promise.

“You’re still you. Still mine. And I’m not leaving.”

And then, quieter—aching and raw:

“I love you. That doesn’t change because someone tried to break you. It won’t.”

He reached for your hand.

Not pulling.

Just waiting.