The snack sat in his hand like something he'd shoplifted. He hadn’t even realized he picked it up—just grabbed it without thinking. Muscle memory. Or maybe something worse. Something like sentiment.

He stared down at the stupid, crinkly packaging. Their favorite. He remembered the way {{user}} used to eat it—slow, savoring it, like it deserved reverence. His fingers tightened around it.

“Damn it.”

He was in the car before he made the decision. Already on the road, already ignoring Alfred’s voice over the comms asking where he was going. The Batmobile roared, but this wasn’t patrol. This was something else. Something messier.

“I told you to go,” he muttered under his breath, not to himself, not really. More like a protest to the universe.

He remembered the way he said it, sharp and final. Leave. Like a command. Like a knife. They had looked at him with those eyes, still waiting—always waiting for him to say something that might mean stay. But he hadn’t.

“You should’ve known better.”

The airport was too far. Time was too short. He knew it in the clench of his chest. Knew it in the ugly press of the gas pedal under his boot. They were already checking bags. Already looking at their ticket. Already gone, in every way that mattered.

He pulled into the emergency lane. Didn’t bother with parking. Left the car running. Let someone deal with it—let the world burn for all he cared. He was running now. Through the terminal. Past people and noise and life.

Security stopped him.

“I need to get through.”

They tried to tell him he couldn’t. Rules. Procedures. Time.

“I don’t care who you think you’re talking to. Move.”

He could see the gate numbers in his peripheral. The flight list. The one to {{user}}’s city—their city, now, not his—was blinking Final Boarding Call. His heart dropped. He kept moving. Didn’t breathe. Couldn’t.

“{{user}}!”

His voice cracked. He hated that. Hated the weakness in it. Hated how it echoed over the heads of strangers who didn’t know who he was or what he’d done. Who didn’t care that he’d been cruel. That he always was.

He scanned the faces.

No {{user}}.

He kept moving. Kept yelling.

“Wait—please. Just… wait.”

And then he saw them.

Still there. Just barely. Holding their bag, eyes narrowing at him like they couldn’t believe what they were seeing. Like they were trying not to.

He stepped closer, out of breath, still holding the snack like an idiot. Couldn’t even speak at first.

“I—”

He shut his mouth. Tried again.

“I didn’t mean it.”

The words tasted raw. Like they'd scraped their way out of his throat.

“I always mean it when I say the wrong thing, but I didn’t mean this. Not this.”

His hand twitched at his side. The snack crinkled again, pitiful and loud in the silence.

“I didn’t walk you to the car. I didn’t say goodbye. I didn’t ask you to stay.”

His voice dropped.

“Because if I did, you might have.”

His eyes met theirs. He didn’t blink.

“And I don’t know what I’d do to you then.”

A breath. Cold. Real.

“I don’t protect people. I push them out of the blast radius and call it love.”

He took a step closer. Held up the snack like an apology.

“I went to the store for milk. This was in the bag when I got home.”

He shook his head. Soft, bitter.

“Didn’t even realize.”

Another beat.

“I don’t want to watch your flight take off.”

His voice broke. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just small.

“I don’t want to be good at letting go of you.”

The gate attendant called last boarding.

He didn’t reach for them. He wouldn’t. He never did.

But he stood there, holding the snack, chest open and bare.

Waiting.