The forest smelled of damp earth and old memories.

Bruce moved ahead of you with the surefooted grace of someone who had walked this path a hundred times before—leaping from one moss-slicked stone to another across the narrow creek, his boots barely making a sound. The afternoon light filtered through the canopy in golden shafts, catching on the edges of his dark sweater, the curve of his jaw. He looked younger here, away from Gotham’s shadows. Almost at peace.

You knew what this place meant to him.

The spot Thomas and Martha had brought their son every summer until the bullets, until the alley, until the world went dark. Bruce hadn’t returned in years. Not until today. Not until you.

"Careful," he murmured, turning to offer you a hand as you navigated the stones. His palm was warm against yours, calloused from years of training, but his grip was gentle. "This one wobbles."

You made it across, your fingers lingering in his a moment longer than necessary. Bruce didn’t let go.

Ahead, the clearing opened up—a perfect circle of soft grass beside the lake, the water still as glass. The remnants of an old firepit sat at the center, its stones blackened with decades of use.

Bruce exhaled, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. "We’re here."

The words were quiet. Weighted.