You learned to sew wounds from Alfred. It was not a lesson taught in words but in the stillness of long nights and the quiet hiss of boiling water. He showed you how to thread a needle with steady hands, how to hold torn skin without trembling, how to keep your voice level even when the blood would not stop. Bruce refused doctors. He said they asked too many questions.

So you became the one who learned to keep his secrets stitched together.

That night, he came in through the service door, his boots dragging dirt across the marble. The rain had soaked through his armor, leaving dark trails on the floor. You knew before he even removed the cowl that something was wrong. His breath came in sharp bursts, the rhythm uneven.

“Sit down,” you said.

“I’m fine,” he answered, though his voice broke on the word.

The cut ran across his side, deep enough to see the pulse beneath the skin. He tried to shrug out of his suit, his hands shaking slightly. You caught him by the wrist. “Sit,” you said again, louder this time.

He hesitated, eyes flicking to yours. For once, he obeyed.

The sound of tearing cloth filled the room as you cut through the suit. Blood gleamed black in the low light. You pressed a cloth to the wound, and he flinched.

“You never stop,” you murmured. “You never give it a chance to heal.”

He said nothing. His jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the far wall.