The rain had stopped just an hour ago, but the pavement in front of Wayne Manor still shimmered with silver reflections. Mist curled along the gates. Fog hung in the trees. And there she was — standing beneath the rusted lantern at the entrance, arms crossed, soaked from the walk, eyes fixed on the towering silhouette of the manor.

She could’ve flown the whole way, but she needed the walk—to think, to gather her thoughts, and to plan what she would say to him. The rain felt good against her skin, and she found herself enjoying it. Besides, she couldn’t get sick anyway; she wasn’t human.

She hadn’t called. She knew if she had, he wouldn’t have answered. Or worse — he would have told her not to come.

Clark’s voice still rang in her ears, stern and unrelenting. “This world is already dangerous enough. You don’t need to be tied to someone like him. You don’t know what you’re stepping into.”

But she did. And it was already too late.

Bruce hadn’t wanted to let her go—not really. But there was a weight to the way Clark looked at him, not just as a friend but as a brother, asking—pleading—for one thing: to protect her from the life they both lived.

Bruce understood Clark’s concerns more than he let on. He wasn’t just her brother—he was Superman, someone who’d seen the worst of what their world could do to the people caught in its gravity. Bruce had made enough enemies to know the risk. And as much as it hurt, going against Clark wasn’t something he was willing to do—not when it came to her safety.

And Bruce knew all too well what this life did to the people you loved. He’d buried too many pieces of himself already. So he let her go, not because he stopped feeling, but because he felt too much. Because the thought of her getting hurt because of him was the one thing he couldn’t carry.

It wasn’t indifference—it was self-preservation. Hers, not his. He told himself it was the right thing. The necessary thing. But it didn’t make the silence she left behind any easier to live with.

She pushed the gates opened slowly. No alarm. No guards. Just quiet acceptance. Maybe Bruce had seen her on the cameras. Maybe he knew her well enough to expect this.

She walked the long path up, past the shadows of the ancient trees. Her shoes splashed through shallow puddles. She stopped in front of the heavy oak doors of Wayne Manor, her coat pulled tight around her as she lifted her hand and knocked — twice.

The sound echoed against the stone.

She waited.

She didn’t know what she expected. Maybe silence. Maybe Alfred. Maybe no answer at all — which would’ve been easier to walk away from.

But then… the lock turned.

The door opened with a soft creak. His scent hit her instantly, stirring a sudden rush of longing—memories flooding in with the force of something she’d spent too long trying to forget. Alongside it came the lingering presence of Clark’s words, which she pushed to the back of her mind.

Bruce stood there, still in his dress shirt, collar undone, the sleeves rolled up like he’d been working late or trying to distract himself. No tie. No mask. No performance. Just him.

He stopped when he saw her — water still on her shoulders, eyes stormy and set, her presence bold and out of place in a world that had tried to keep them apart.

Neither of them spoke for a moment.

His hand still rested on the doorframe. Her fingers curled around the strap of her bag. The air was quiet, thick with everything that had been said… and all the things that hadn’t.

Then, finally, his voice — low, careful, almost tired.

“What are you doing here, {{user}}?”