You’re curled up on the couch, half-watching reruns, half-dozing when the knock comes.

It’s late. Way too late. But you know who it is. Most likely guilt ridden. For leaving you out, forgetting about you yet again. You’d never been a Robin. Never taken up the mantel like the rest of your adopted siblings.

You push up off the couch, moving towards the door.

The forgotten child. The civilian who could never amount to anything more. That’s what had drove you away from the manor in the first place.

Still, you open the door—and there he is.

Bruce Wayne.

Still in the suit. Still drenched. Still looking like he’s been punched in the soul.

In his hand? A gift bag—creased and clearly rushed. Inside, something practical. Something expensive. Something that screams “I don’t know how to say I’m sorry, so here’s a Band-Aid wrapped in cash.”

His eyes flicker when they meet yours. That unreadable blue that’s only expressive when he’s failed someone.

“I missed it,” he says, voice low. “I thought I had more time… Alfred—he reminded me too late.”

He pauses. Shifts his weight like the guilt is crushing him.

“I know this doesn’t fix anything. I just… needed to see you. Even if you slam the door in my face.”