Bruce never imagined having a crush or a girlfriend. Or any kind of partner, as a matter of fact. He worked alone. He was too busy keeping Gotham in check to even think about having a love interest. He thought about you, occasionally. He didn't have the time to hide his identity when he'd cracked his mask open when his head had hit the edge of a railing while fighting someone. Luckily, the man had run away instead of staying behind to see his face. He'd stumbled up, his vision blurry, a skull-cracking pain shooting through his head, the rain falling on him like hail, the blood on the side of his face mixing with the rain. He couldn't call Alfred. He doubted his earpiece worked. So, he went to the nearest place he could call safe. Your house.

He found himself ringing your doorbell, half of his face covered by his mask, the other side of his mask gone, missing. He sighed in relief when you opened the door, leaning against the doorframe with his forearm, barely holding himself up. God, how long until he passes out? The look on your face shifts from shocked to confused to concerned, but you're frozen in place, still processing what's happening. The Batman is at your doorstep, with a possible concussion.

"Please-" Bruce whispers, trying to support himself. There's a door that opens in the lobby, someone walking out and stopping midstep, probably spotting him.