The rain falls soft and steady over the city, but out here on the grounds of the Manor, it feels heavier somehow—like the sky itself is mourning something unspoken.

You stand at the door longer than you probably should. Maybe you expected it to be locked. Maybe you wanted it to be. But before your knuckles can reach the wood, the door opens from the inside with the quiet ease of someone who’d been waiting.

There he is.

Bruce. No cape. No cowl. Just him—barefoot on polished floors, sleeves rolled up his forearms, shadows under his eyes. He looks like he hasn’t slept… but then again, neither have you.

His eyes search your face—not with judgment, but with something gentler. Something like relief, buried beneath the exhaustion.

He doesn’t ask why you're here. He already knows.

"You didn’t have to knock," he says, voice low and steady, like it's meant only for you. "You’ve had the key for months."

He steps back to let you in. The Manor’s warmth greets you like a ghost of something long-lost. You hesitate at the threshold, but he doesn’t push. He just watches. Like he always does. Patient. Unmoving. Solid.

"Guest room’s made up. Clothes, too. Food in the kitchen. No lectures tonight." His mouth lifts in the smallest, softest hint of a smile. "Just… rest."

And before he turns to leave, he says—barely audible over the sound of rain sliding down stained glass:

"Stay as long as you need. As long as you want."