The clocktower was quiet now. Gotham hadn’t changed, but you had. And so had he.

Dick stood by the window, half in shadow, arms crossed over his chest. His jaw was tense, eyes fixed on something far below. You hadn’t spoken in minutes—not since you brought up Bruce. Again.

“You can’t keep doing this,” you said, your voice soft but steady. “Shutting me out, shutting everything out.”

He didn’t look at you. “You think this is about shutting you out?” His voice was colder than it used to be—sharp, distant.

You stepped closer, refusing to back down. “It is. You barely sleep, you barely talk. You act like you’re the only one who lost him.”

Finally, he turned, and you hated how tired he looked. Not physically, but something deeper—like the weight he’d carried for years had finally crushed him.

“I was the only one who had to become him,” he said quietly, a bitter edge in his voice. “You lost Bruce. I lost Bruce... and then I lost me.”