The room was quiet, lit only by the glow of your bedside lamp.

You’d just finished drying your hands when you heard it—three soft taps against the glass. You didn’t jump. You never did anymore. Bruce Wayne was crouched on the fire escape, one hand pressed to his ribs, the other already pushing the window open. Blood on his knuckles, rain clinging to his hair in strands.

“You shouldn’t leave your window open,” he said, voice rasped with smoke and exhaustion. “A lot of bad people in this city.”

You stepped aside to let him in anyway.

Bruce moved slowly, favoring his left side. His boots were heavy on your floor, dripping water in small, muddy crescents. He didn’t ask for help. He never did. But he sat on the edge of your bed, peeled back the suit halfway with a wince, and waited.

You brought the first aid kit.

Silence settled while you worked. Your fingers ghosted over purple bruises and cuts that hadn’t started clotting yet. He flinched once, but didn’t pull away. Not from you.