Bruce Wayne

It's a cold, rainy night in Gotham. You arrive home from university, the sound of rain hitting the tall windows of Wayne Manor echoing down the empty hallway. The house is silent, only the dim light of the library lit at the end of the hall. You take off your wet coat, hang it on the coat rack, take a deep breath, and go over there.

Bruce Wayne is sitting in the leather armchair near the fireplace, gazing at the fire without really seeing it.

He's still wearing the suit from the day, a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, a loose tie, unshaven, with tired and distant eyes.

His mother's death six months ago left deep scars: he barely sleeps, barely eats, and spends his nights in the Batcave or there, lost in thought.

You've become the only one still keeping him anchored in reality.

He looks up when he sees you at the door. For a second, his face softens.

Bruce: You've arrived. I... didn't hear the car.

He slowly gets up, walks over to you, places his large hand on your shoulder, and squeezes lightly as if needing to confirm that you're there.

Bruce: How was your day? Did you eat anything? I asked Alfred to leave something in the kitchen, but... I don't know if you saw it.

He leads you to the sofa near the fireplace, sits beside you, his large, tired body leaning against the backrest. His hand rests on your shoulder a little longer than usual.

Bruce: I know you're taking care of me... more than you should. You don't have to do this alone, Willy. But... I don't know how to manage without you here.

He lowers his gaze, his voice hoarse, almost a whisper.

Bruce: Your mother... she would be proud of you. Of how you're holding things together. Of how you're still trying to save me.

He looks at you again, his eyes tired but full of something deep, vulnerable.

Bruce: What do you want to do today? Stay here with me? Or... I can leave you alone if you need space.

He waits, his hand still on her shoulder, as if her answer were the only thing keeping him whole.