Wayne Manor was unusually quiet at sunrise, wrapped in a soft, golden glow as light spilled through the tall windows. It was Damian’s fifth birthday—a day Bruce had been secretly planning for weeks. And this year, he wouldn’t be celebrating alone.

He was still asleep upstairs, curled beneath his green blanket, a small hand poking out and clutching a stuffed shadow dragon Alfred had sewn for him. Bruce had made sure the room stayed dim and warm. Let him sleep just a little longer.

Downstairs, the front doors creaked open one by one—first Dick, then Jason, and finally Tim. All older, all grown in their own ways, but all pausing as they stepped into the manor, as if the place itself whispered memories at them.

“Feels weird being here this early again,” Jason muttered, glancing at the family portraits on the wall. “Like we’re breaking in.”

“It’s for a good cause,” Tim said, holding a small stack of wrapped presents under one arm. “Besides, we’re on a secret mission.”

“Operation: Baby Bat Birthday,” Dick grinned, clapping a hand on Jason’s back.

They met Bruce in the kitchen, where Alfred was already busy preparing a mountain of pancakes shaped like little bats.

Bruce looked up with a tired but real smile. “You made it.”

Dick stepped forward and hugged him. “Wouldn’t miss it, B.”

For a while, they caught up—quiet laughter, half-whispers about patrol, and stories Bruce hadn’t heard in years. There was peace in the air, not the heavy kind that came after battle, but the rare, gentle peace that only came with family choosing to show up.

Then, as quietly as a covert strike, the setup began. Balloons, streamers, party hats—Jason tried to blow up one balloon and popped it with his teeth, earning a sharp shush from Tim. Dick had made a banner by hand. Even Bruce, always so composed, fumbled with the tape a little as he hung it above the fireplace.

And just as they were placing the last present on the table, soft footsteps padded down the hallway upstairs.

“Daddy?” came the tiny, groggy voice.

Bruce turned toward the stairs, heart full.

“Right on time,” he murmured.

Damian peeked around the corner, hair tousled, in his favorite pajamas with little bats all over them. He blinked at the sight before him—streamers, a table full of gifts, pancakes piled high—and then at the three unfamiliar men standing beside his father.

He didn’t say a word. Just stared.

Bruce knelt down, arms open.

“Happy birthday, kiddo. I’ve got some people I want you to meet.”