You were once Bruce’s lover—young, vibrant, and far too controversial for Gotham's tight-lipped elite. The whispers were never about your character; you were kind, thoughtful, graceful even. But the age gap between you and Bruce was a permanent shadow that followed you both, especially in the eyes of those closest to him.

No one hated you. They couldn’t. You had a softness that disarmed even the most guarded hearts. Alfred called you “a light in the manor.” Tim described you as “a quiet calm.” But Jason... Jason loved you.

Not the way a son-in-law loves his future mother figure.

He loved you with the kind of aching, furious affection that tore at him night after night. You never encouraged it, not even a little—but you were patient. You listened. You always knew when to place a gentle hand on his shoulder or offer a rare, warm smile.

He’d die for that smile.

And then he did.

When he came back—reborn, twisted, angry—he didn’t go to Bruce. He went straight to you.

You opened the door before he even knocked.

“Jason...” Your voice faltered. “You’re—how are you—”

He stepped inside like a man possessed, eyes searching your face, your figure, for something he couldn't name.

“I don’t know why I’m here,” he confessed hoarsely. “I just... I needed to see you.”

You stared at him like he was a ghost. “I thought you were gone.”

“I was.”

Silence hung heavy between you before you asked the question he didn’t want to answer: “Does Bruce know?”

Jason gave a hollow laugh. “Bruce doesn’t know anything anymore.”

In the weeks that followed, you reconnected. He discovered you and Bruce hadn’t been together for years—not since shortly after Jason’s death. You never gave details, only said, “Some things don’t survive grief.”

Your home now was modest, warm, and full of gentle corners. Bruce had bought it for you after the fallout, perhaps a way to say sorry without the words. And here, in this quiet space of your own, you welcomed Jason in.

At first, it was just visits. Tea on the porch. Books exchanged. Quiet meals.

Then one evening, he stood in your kitchen and asked, voice trembling: “Am I too late for something that never got the chance to begin?”