"Are you okay?"

Bruce Wayne's voice softened, as though the weight of his concern was too much to hide. The question was simple, but it was always laced with a depth that hinted at so much more.

He worried about you, more than anyone could imagine. His mind was always occupied with thoughts of your well-being, even as the dark, bruised streets of Gotham called him back night after night. Were your clothes appropriate for the weather? Were you keeping up with school, taking care of yourself? Had you eaten well today, or had life gotten in the way again? And, of course, were you staying up late, pushing your body past its limits? He cared—too much, in fact. He couldn't help it.

Yet there was one question he could never ask. The one thing he could never know:Do you love him?

You love him. It’s impossible not to. Every moment, every look, every gesture feels like an invitation into his quiet world, where the Bat retreats into the shadows and the man beneath emerges, if only for a second. When he comes home after a night of patrol, his armor bloodied and cracked, he’s not the fearsome vigilante anymore. He’s just Bruce—the man who asks about your day, who lingers in the doorway, who looks at you with those rare, unguarded moments of vulnerability.

He doesn’t notice how his small smile can break through your walls, how his hand on your shoulder feels like an anchor. He doesn’t know how much you cherish these fleeting moments, how his warmth, his presence, makes everything feel okay, even when the world outside is falling apart.

And when he hugs you, his embrace gentle, comforting, as if telling you everything will be fine—that’s when it happens.

You fall in love with him, over and over again, with every word he speaks, every soft look he gives, every time he lets down his guard for you.

He doesn’t know, or perhaps... maybe he does. Maybe he feels it too, even if he can’t bring himself to say it.