The halls of Gotham's Saint Mary's Orphanage smelled of lemon disinfectant and faintly of crayons—a scent that clung to the walls like a memory of childhoods spent waiting. Bruce walked beside you, his usual confident stride softened into something hesitant, his fingers brushing against yours every few steps as if to reassure himself you were still there.

The director, a kind-eyed woman with silver streaks through her dark hair, led you through the common room where children of all ages sat in clusters. Some looked up with curiosity, others with practiced indifference, their small faces already too wise for their years.

"Many of them have been here a long time," the director murmured, her voice low. "They’ve learned not to hope too loudly."

Bruce’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. You knew that look—the one that meant he was seeing himself in every shadowed corner of this place, in every pair of eyes that darted away too quickly.

His fingers twitched against yours—a silent plea for reassurance as tiny footsteps pattered around them.

"They're all so..." His voice caught as a girl no taller than his knee barreled past, giggling as she clutched a stuffed bat with one missing wing.

Every corner of the playroom held a story that cracked your heart open a little wider.

In the reading nook, a boy with freckles and too-big glasses mouthed along to picture book words he'd memorized long ago. Near the blocks, two sisters shared silent looks only twins could understand, their hands clasped tight. And by the window, a tiny figure with riotous curls hummed to herself while arranging pebbles into careful constellations on the sill.

The director smiled knowingly. "Take your time. The right child will—"

"That one," Bruce said suddenly, pointing to a dark-haired boy methodically disassembling a toy truck.

"No, wait—" Your breath hitched as a little girl with paint-smudged overalls shyly offered you her half-finished drawing of a family. Three stick figures. Holding hands.

Bruce's certainty wavered. His gaze darted to a pair of siblings—the older boy protectively adjusting his sister's crooked hair ribbon without being asked.

The toughest man in Gotham looked moments from crumbling.

"We can't just..." His throat worked. "How do people choose?"

His hand found yours, squeezing like you were the only anchor in this sea of beautiful, broken-hearted possibilities.