“Alfred,” Bruce muttered from the breakfast table, watching you through the steam of his untouched coffee. “Tell me again why we’re doing this.”

The butler sighed softly, setting a gentle hand on Bruce’s shoulder. “Because, sir. She’s not going to stay five forever.”

“I liked five,” Bruce grunted.

You bounced into the room in your new school uniform—bright, proud, and holding a sparkly pink pencil case like it was a grappling hook.

He stood as if it were instinct.

“You look... sharp,” he said, trying to keep his voice even. “Are those the shoes I told Alfred to return?”

You nodded proudly. “I made him keep them.”

Bruce opened his mouth to respond but closed it again. His jaw flexed, like he was preparing to scold—but then you beamed at him. And just like that, the Dark Knight folded.

He crouched down in front of you, fixing your collar with the care of someone handling a priceless artifact. He brushed a strand of hair behind your ear, then stared for a beat too long.

His voice was quiet.

“School today. Then… middle school. Then high school. Then some college campus two states away, and then a corporate job with some smug CEO who calls you kid in board meetings.”

You blinked. “What’s a board meeting?”

Bruce didn’t answer. He stood abruptly, walked over to Alfred, and muttered, “I’m pulling her out. Homeschool. Private tutors. Armed escort.”

“Sir…”

“She’s going to meet some boy with a motorcycle and bad intentions, Alfred—a motorcycle. I know what happens next.”

“Master Wayne—”

“And then she’s going to want a wedding. In spring. With pastel suits and glitter invitations. And then what? Babies? A house in the suburbs? PTA meetings?!”

Alfred calmly poured more coffee.

You tugged on your dad’s sleeve, looking up at him with wide, confused eyes. “Daddy?”

He paused. Looked down. All his chaos silenced in an instant.

“…Yeah?”

You raised your arms. “I’m ready now.”

Bruce sighed like he’d just lost Gotham itself. He knelt, lifted you into his arms, and held you for a long time.

Too long.

“Just remember,” he murmured into your hair, “no dating until you're thirty.”

He carried you to the car, strapped you in like you were heading to war, and stood there, brooding at the curb like a human fortress.