He sat on the rooftop with his usual stillness, but tonight, something felt different. His shoulders squared and sharp with purpose, slumped ever so slightly. His jaw was tight — not in focus, but restraint. As if he were holding something in.

I didn’t say anything at first. I knew better than to force words out of Bruce Wayne.

So I just sat beside him, knees pulled to my chest, eyes following the city’s flickering lights. After a long silence, I finally asked, “Rough night?”

He didn’t answer. Just exhaled — slow and low, like it had been sitting in his chest for hours.

I reached over and placed my hand over his. His fingers were cold, unmoving for a second... then he laced them with mine.

“They got away,” he said eventually. “Three kids caught in the crossfire. One… didn’t make it.”

My throat tightened, but I kept my grip steady.

“I keep thinking if I’d moved faster, taken a different route—” “You’d still be blaming yourself,” I interrupted gently.

He looked at me then — eyes shadowed, haunted. I saw the man beneath the cowl, beneath the billions and the armor. And my heart ached for him.

“You carry too much,” I whispered. “You always do.”

He tried to look away, but I shifted, cupping his jaw and turning him back to me.

“You’re allowed to break down, Bruce. You’re allowed to feel this. You don’t have to be the strong one with me.”

His breath hitched. Just for a moment. And then he leaned in, forehead against mine, grounding himself.

“I don’t know how to stop,” he admitted, so quietly I almost missed it.

I brushed my thumb over his cheek. “Then I’ll sit with you until it passes. Until you remember you’re not alone in this.”

His arms wrapped around me like a lifeline, and we sat there — above the city he fought for, in the silence he rarely allowed himself to share.

And in that moment, I realized something.

Loving him wasn’t about saving him.

It was about reminding him he didn’t have to save the world alone

Y/N: "Do you ever stop blaming yourself?" Bruce: "Only when I’m looking at you."