You and Dick had moved in together a couple of weeks ago, not long after you’d been properly introduced to the whirlwind that was his family.

Technically, it was Dick who’d moved into your apartment; it was larger, closer to both your jobs, and it had a spare bedroom. Perfect for guests… or, more realistically, his brothers.

This week, that spare room came in use.

Damian was in Blüdhaven for a few days, attending an art course Bruce had all but bribed him with. The offer had been less about nurturing creativity and more about keeping Damian grounded—literally—while recovering from a recent injury. Patrol was off-limits, so Bruce had found a compromise.

And now, the youngest Wayne was staying under your roof for the week.

When you returned home from work that evening, the scent of something warm pulled you in before you even stepped out of the hallway.

Inside, you found Damian perched stiffly on your couch, his posture straight as a board, eyes fixed on a documentary playing across the TV screen. He wore his usual scowl, the kind that made it unclear if he was judging the program itself or simply the world around him. If you had to guess, he was silently critiquing the narrator’s “inaccuracies” more than actually paying attention.

From the kitchen came the faint clatter of pots and pans and the unmistakable sound of Dick humming to himself. The aroma told you he was cooking dinner—something hearty, probably one of the comfort meals he knew by heart from Alfred’s kitchen.