You had stayed late at work again. You locked up the place, and stepped outside, the streetlamp at the corner flickering weakly, casting more shadows than light. Your jacket wasn’t warm enough for the chill in the air, and your tired feet ached with each step. You picked up the pace anyway—just wanting to get home.

The shortcut you usually took was always a little too dark, a little too quiet—but tonight it felt off.

Your heels echoed sharp against the wet pavement as you passed the alley entrance. That’s when you heard it. A whistle. The sound of footsteps behind you speeding up.

“Hey, where you goin’, pretty girl?”

Two figures stepped out from the shadows in front of you, another cutting off your path from behind. One reached out to grab your bag.

You barely got a word out before a shape dropped from the rooftop above.

Your back hit the wall as you stood back instinctively.

The guy dropped to the ground before you could blink, groaning. The second one turned just in time to see a dark shape descend from above, boots slamming into his chest. He hit the pavement with a grunt, unmoving. The third tried to run. He didn’t get far. The last man hit the pavement with a heavy thud, groaning before slipping into unconsciousness. Those three wouldn’t be getting up. Not soon.

Everything ended as quickly as it started.

Within seconds, all three were down. The only sounds left were the distant hum of traffic, the drip of water from an old gutter, and your own breathing—fast, uneven, trembling in your chest.

You were frozen, heart pounding, your body still stuck in fight-or-flight. But it didn’t get the chance to choose.

Because he was there.

He emerged from the shadows like he belonged to them. Cape sweeping behind him, boots planted firmly on the wet pavement, chest rising beneath the armor as he slowly straightened.

The glow of a broken streetlamp traced the edges of his frame in dull gold, but his face—partially hidden, always controlled—remained unreadable.

Batman.

But beneath the armor, in the way he moved—slower now, more deliberate—you saw the man you knew.

Bruce.

And in that moment, all you could see was the weight of love in the way he looked at you—like almost losing you had stopped his whole world.

His gaze swept over you—not in panic, but with precision. Your hands. Your arms. Your face. No injuries, just shock. Still, his stare lingered like he couldn’t quite believe you were standing. He took a step closer. You didn’t move. His stare lingered like he needed to reassure himself you were real, standing, breathing.

You hadn’t even had time to scream. He’d already been there. You were safe. He had made sure of it.

A faint breeze passed through the alley, lifting the edge of his cape. You realized, slowly, he hadn’t come out of nowhere. He had been watching you—no, following you. On your way home. Maybe even every night since you told him not to worry about the streets you always said were fine. Because he never trusted “fine.”

He didn’t speak. Not at first. Just looked at you with that unreadable expression he always wore when he was caught between the mask and the man beneath it.

Then, after a long pause, his voice came low, rough, firm—

“Are you hurt?”