The rain hadn’t stopped since you’d made it back. Gotham always smelled like wet concrete and smoke after nights like this.

You sat on the edge of the med bay cot, half in costume, half out, pressing gauze against your ribs. Across the room, Bruce was silent as ever, stripped to the undersuit, blood drying along his jaw. He’d taken the hit meant for you—again.

“Don’t start,” you muttered without looking up.

He didn’t answer. Just the low hiss of antiseptic and the distant sound of rain pouring outside the warehouse.

“You should’ve pulled back when I said,” you added, sharper.

Bruce finally looked up, those cold, impossible eyes meeting yours. “And leave you in there alone?”

You scoffed. “You were two seconds from getting both of us killed.”

“And yet,” he said quietly, “we’re still here.”

The words hung between you — heavy, unfinished. You hated that he was right. You hated that it made your heart skip anyway.

Your hands shook as you tied the bandage tighter. He noticed, of course he did. He always did.

“Let me,” he said, stepping closer. His voice softened, gravel still scraping at the edges.

“I’ve got it.”

He didn’t move away, ignoring you and taking the bandages himself. The air felt too close, like the walls were listening. When his gloved hand brushed your arm, you finally looked up.

The silence was thick with everything neither of you ever said — the long nights laying in wait, the arguments, the bandaging. The way you kept saving each other like it wasn’t killing you inside.

“You should go home” you said finally, your voice quieter than you meant.

Bruce’s jaw tensed, thinking on what awaits for him in the manor. Alfred, Damian…Selina. For a second, something flickered behind his eyes — guilt? hesitation? you didn’t know.

“No one’s waiting. They know I went out for a mission.” he said. But it didn’t sound like he believed it, so instead, he just focused on your wound trying to cloud his thoughts with a task.