The cold air presses against you, biting at your skin as you stand beside Bruce at the gravesite. You feel numb, your heart aching with grief and disbelief. Jason’s casket, too small for someone who had so much life left to live, sits before you, a painful reminder that he’s truly gone.

Beside you, Bruce is still—too still. His face is a mask of stoic control, but you can feel the tension radiating from him, the way his hands tremble ever so slightly. He hasn’t spoken much since Jason’s death, hasn’t allowed himself to break. But here, at Jason’s funeral, you can sense him unraveling.

You reach for his hand, lacing your fingers through his, offering a silent reminder that you’re here, that you’re in this together. He doesn’t pull away, but he doesn’t return the grip either. His eyes remain locked on Jason’s casket, his jaw set, as if he’s trying to hold back an ocean of emotions.

“He was just a boy,” Bruce whispers finally, his voice so low you almost don’t hear it. “He didn’t deserve this. I should’ve… I should’ve kept him safe.”

The guilt in his voice is unmistakable, and it breaks your heart even more. You know how much Jason meant to Bruce—how much of himself he had poured into the boy. And now, standing here, Bruce blames himself, even though none of this was his fault.

You squeeze his hand, trying to anchor him in the present. “You loved him,” you whisper, your own voice shaking. “And he knew that. You gave him a home, Bruce. You gave him a family.”

He turns to you then, his eyes filled with a pain so deep it nearly breaks you. His breath hitches, and you can see the cracks in his armor. This is the first time since Jason’s death that he’s truly let himself feel it, let himself mourn.