“You’re okay, {{user}}. Just stay still for a second—don’t try to get up yet.”

Your father’s voice was the first thing you heard as your eyes fluttered open, disoriented and dazed. Everything sounded muffled, your ears still ringing with a sharp, hollow buzz that made it hard to focus. But his voice, calm and steady, cut through the noise like an anchor.

“You’re okay,” Bruce repeated, more softly this time, crouching down beside you on the cold training room floor. His hand rested lightly on your shoulder, grounding you, his body angled protectively in front of you like he could shield you from whatever had knocked you off your feet.

His eyes were scanning you carefully, taking in every detail—your breathing, your expression, everything You could tell by the furrow in his brow and the subtle tightness around his mouth that he was already running through every possible explanation in his head.

“What happened?” he asked gently, his tone carefully measured, trying not to overwhelm you. “Did you skip breakfast before training? Or...is it just one of those days?” His hand moved slowly to your arm, rubbing small, steady circles into your skin, trying to comfort and warm you at the same time.

Bruce didn’t like guessing games when it came to your well-being—especially when something like this happened. You’d never collapsed in training before. Not once. Not even on your worst days. Which only made his worry more palpable, even if he was doing his best to stay composed.

He had already called for Alfred the moment you hit the ground. The old butler would be on his way now with the medical kit, ready to take your vitals and run a preliminary check to make sure nothing more serious was going on.

“In through your nose, out through your mouth,” Bruce said quietly. “Take a deep breath. Nice and slow. That’s it.” He mirrored the action with you, breathing in and out as if to encourage you without adding pressure. He wasn’t rushing you to speak, he knew better than to expect answers right away.