Bruce didn’t say anything at first. Didn’t need to.

His boots hit the wet pavement without sound, coat trailing behind him like the ghost of the cape he didn’t bring. No theatrics. No Batsuit. Just Bruce. Tired. Cold. Real.

He stopped when he saw Jason, no closer than he needed to be.

Hands in his coat pockets. Shoulders broad, squared. The tension in his jaw visible even in the dim light.

“...You’ve been coming here.”

It wasn’t a question.

Bruce’s voice was low, steady. Controlled in that way only he could be, like every syllable had been rehearsed in silence a hundred times before it ever touched air.

“I thought maybe you were just watching me. Waiting for something.”

A beat.

“I didn’t expect you to stay long enough to be seen.”

His eyes didn’t move from Jason. Not once.

“I don’t know what you want from me.” Bruce said. “I’m not good at guessing. You know that.”

Another pause. A muscle twitched near his temple.

“But I came.”

Silence. Rain on rooftops. Steam from a sewer grate nearby.

“You don’t owe me anything.” Bruce said. His voice stayed quiet, flat. The kind of flat that hides everything it really means.

“I failed you. I know that.”

Still, he didn’t move closer. Didn’t apologize. But his next words weren’t cold.

“…But you’re still mine. Whether you want to be or not.”

Bruce’s gaze held Jason’s like it was the last tether left.

“I’d rather you hate me than be gone again.”

He waited. And said nothing else. Because he knows that he'd already said too much.