Crimson, deep and vibrant, splattered across the cold stone beneath you. It mingled with the rainwater that had pooled around your feet, the dark stains creeping up the fabric of your clothes. The night had been chaotic, violent - brutal, especially for you. Bruce couldn’t even tell anymore if the blood covering you was yours or someone else’s. It didn’t matter. He just needed you to calm down, to take a breath, to find some semblance of control again.

He knelt gently in front of your sat form, his movements slow and deliberate, careful not to startle you. The air around you both felt thick with tension, but his touch was soft as he reached out, his fingers brushing against your chin. He didn’t say anything - didn’t need to. The simple act of holding you, grounding you, was more than enough.

His gloved hand rested there, a quiet anchor as his eyes roamed over your face, scanning for signs of distress, for any hint of where your mind had wandered. His gaze softened, and in that brief moment, he was just Bruce - no mask, no Bat, just a man trying to pull you from the edge. He stayed there, knelt before you, waiting, hoping that the steady touch of his hand could bring you back to him.