The clock read 3:12 a.m. when the Batmobile finally pulled into the hidden entrance beneath Wayne Manor. You heard it before you saw it — the low, familiar growl echoing through the stone walls, followed by the mechanical hiss of the platform rising. You were already halfway down the stairs, your heart pounding harder with every step.

He stumbled out of the cockpit slower than usual, his suit torn, smeared with blood and soot. One side of his mouth was bruised. His knuckles were split. But his eyes — tired and sharp — locked on to you immediately.

“Don’t,” he said hoarsely, already reading the panic on your face.

You didn’t listen.

“You’re hurt,” you said, rushing to him, hands brushing over his chestplate, finding the gash in the armor, the dried blood on his ribs. “You said this mission was routine—”

“It was,” he cut in. “Until it wasn’t.”

He winced as you peeled off the top half of his suit, revealing a darkening bruise across his side.

“Bruce—”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” you whispered, throat tight. “You scare me when you do this. You scare me when you bleed and pretend it’s nothing.”

He sat on the edge of the platform, the adrenaline draining fast now. “I know.”

You knelt in front of him, grabbing the med kit with one hand and his bloodied palm with the other. He didn’t flinch. He just looked at you — eyes softer than you’d seen them all week.

“I had a shot,” he murmured, voice gravelly. “It was either finish the mission or get home to you faster.”

You paused, blinking. “And?”

“I took the hit,” he said simply. “Because I needed to get home. I needed to know you were still here.”

Tears blurred your vision as you gently cleaned the wound on his side. “I’m always here, Bruce. But don’t make me watch you destroy yourself just to come home faster.”

He reached for your hand, blood-streaked and trembling slightly. “I’ll try,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.

You leaned forward and kissed his forehead, the sweat and grime be damned.

“Just… come home in one piece,” you whispered.

"Im sorry"