Cold air bit at the back of your neck as you sat curled up against the alley wall, the dim streetlight flickering overhead. The distant sounds of Gotham—cars, sirens, the occasional shout—felt muted compared to the storm of emotions raging inside you. You hadn’t planned where to go. You just ran.

And, of course, he found you.

Bruce stood at the entrance of the alley, barely a shadow in the dark. He didn’t say anything at first—just stood there, his cape shifting slightly in the breeze, his presence overwhelming even without a single word.

Then, finally—low, steady—“Come home.”

Silence.

He stepped forward, slow and deliberate, stopping just a few feet away. “You think I don’t want you?” His voice was quiet but edged with something unreadable.

Nothing from you.

A muscle in his jaw ticked. “You overheard me talking to Alfred.”

Not a question. A fact.

He let out a slow breath, kneeling down in front of you. The streetlight caught the sharp angles of his face, but his expression was softer than usual. Careful.

“I wasn’t talking about you,” he said, voice lower now. “I was talking about me.”

A pause.

“I didn’t know if I was good enough. If I was capable of giving you what you deserved.” Another breath. “But I never doubted you.”

His gaze didn’t waver, steady and unshakable. “You think I wouldn’t cross the entire city to find you?”

The air felt heavy, the weight of his words settling.

Then, one last time—“Come home.”