Bruce didn’t realize he’d gone too far until he saw her eyes shine.

It wasn’t intentional. It never was. He spoke the way he always did—direct, precise, assuming clarity was kindness. He corrected a detail. Pointed out a flaw. Meant it practically. Meant it to help. But the room went quiet in that way that told him something had cracked instead of clicked into place.

She turned away, shoulders tight, breath uneven. No argument. No anger. Just hurt.

Bruce froze.

He had faced crime lords, lunatics, the end of the world more times than he could count—but this? This was worse. This was personal. This was his fault.

An hour later, Gotham traffic parted for a low, quiet engine gliding into the manor drive. Sleek lines. Deep paint. Custom interior tuned exactly to her tastes—every detail researched, remembered, chosen with the kind of obsessive care he usually reserved for contingency plans.

He didn’t explain himself when he handed her the keys. Didn’t justify. Didn’t make excuses. Bruce Wayne wasn’t good at apologies made of words.

So he made one out of horsepower and precision engineering instead.

The car sat between them like an offering—silent, powerful, unmistakably his way of saying I’m sorry I hurt you. I see you. I’m trying.

Because Bruce loved fiercely, even when he failed softly.

And sometimes… He said the most important things without speaking at all.