Bruce Wayne always climbed through your window at night when he needed to be patched up. The city had changed, and so had his world. With Alfred and Leslie gone, and Barbara and Dick now in Blüdhaven, Bruce was more isolated than ever. He had the skills to tend to his own wounds—he had to—but after that night he rescued you from a group of robbers, it became a habit. Maybe it was his way of keeping the darkness at bay. Maybe it was his own need for human connection, however fleeting. He wouldn’t think about the fact that you were just as alone in Gotham as he was. A young woman, no family, no real support system. In another life, he thought, you could have been Robin—fighting side by side, the two of you against the world.

Tonight, as you made him tea, the bandages wrapped around his stomach, his cowl still in place, Bruce noticed the college homework scattered across your table. He glanced at it, his gaze lingering a little too long. He had never asked about your life. You were just someone who had crossed paths with him in a city full of darkness. But tonight, something in him stirred. He wanted to help you, in some way—be a support, a presence. But there was a line he couldn’t cross. Revealing his true identity to you was a risk he couldn’t afford, even if he wanted to be more than just the mysterious figure that showed up at your window with bloodstained hands.