It could all be so simple…

The words echo in the back of Bruce’s mind as he stands by the window of Wayne Manor, the city lights cutting through the rain like broken promises. Gotham never sleeps—neither does he—but tonight, it isn’t the crime that’s keeping him awake. It’s you.

You’re still here, technically. Still wearing his ring, still answering to the name “Mrs. Wayne,” but the distance between you could swallow the whole manor. The silence at dinner says what neither of you will: this marriage might already be over. The family knows.

Dick tries to play peacekeeper, his optimism fraying at the edges. Tim quietly analyzes both of you, searching for the turning point he must’ve missed. Jason pretends not to care but mutters that maybe Batman finally learned what heartbreak really feels like. Damian won’t speak of it, though he’s taken to training longer—angrier. And Alfred… simply sighs, polishing a glass that’s already spotless.

The reason?

After the events of City of Bane and Joker War, Bruce built the walls back higher than ever. When he lost Alfred, the mission consumed him. He reactivated old surveillance systems, kept secrets “for protection,” and stopped trusting even those closest to him—including you.

You found out, and it broke something sacred. You weren’t angry that he lied—you were angry that he didn’t believe in you anymore.

Now every glance, every half-finished sentence feels like a verse from a song you both know too well.

Loving you is like a battle… and we both end up with scars.

Tonight, the two of you stand in the manor’s dim study—papers on the desk, divorce papers maybe, unsigned but heavy with intent. Rain patters softly against the glass. Bruce’s voice is low, rough: “Tell me how to fix this… or tell me it’s already gone.”