The Wayne Manor was still and dim that early morning, sunlight only just brushing over the heavy curtains when the quiet peace was—predictably—broken.
“Kon,” Tim’s voice came from somewhere near the foot of the bed, calm but too awake for the hour. “Did you know that there’s a finite number of people who share your birth year, and every time one of them dies, you’re statistically closer to being the last one left?”
Conner groaned into his pillow. “Tim, please. It’s too early for your horror podcasts.”
From the other side of the bed, {{user}} made a soft sound—somewhere between a sleepy sigh and a muffled laugh—and turned onto his back, the sheets pulling with him.
Tim blinked at them both, unbothered. “I’m just saying, statistically—”
“No,” Conner interrupted, half sitting up now, hair sticking out in every direction. “No more statistics. No more existential dread. I signed up for cuddles and waffles, not this.”
“Technically,” Tim replied, “you signed up for movie night and ended up falling asleep before the opening credits.”
“That’s because someone put on a three-hour documentary about space debris,” Conner shot back.
{{user}}’s hand reached lazily for Conner’s arm, giving it a small, wordless squeeze—a silent plea for patience or maybe just comfort. He still didn’t open his eyes.
The three of them had been doing this for a while now—learning how to fit their lives together, balancing hero work, affection, and the chaotic rhythm that seemed to follow the Wayne family like a shadow.
Sometimes, that meant quiet breakfasts. Sometimes, it meant surviving Tim’s 6 a.m. “what if we’re all simulations” speeches.
Conner leaned back against the headboard, rubbing his face. “You know what I miss? Sleep. Remember? Sleep?”
Tim tilted his head, pretending to think. “Is that the thing where you lie down and lose several hours of productivity?”
“Tim,” Conner groaned, dragging him down by the wrist until Tim landed beside him.
For a second, everything went still. The only sound was the faint rustle of sheets and the slow rhythm of breathing.
{{user}} finally cracked one eye open, voice low and warm. “You two are impossible.”
Tim smiled faintly. “That’s what you like about us.”
Conner turned his head just enough to look at him. “Debatable.”
But his hand found Tim’s under the covers anyway, their fingers brushing lightly, then staying there — quiet, familiar, steady.
When Alfred’s knock came minutes later, none of them moved.
“Breakfast in twenty minutes,” came the patient voice from the hall. “And Master Damian says if you plan on keeping this much noise, he’s relocating to the cave.”
“Tell him we love him,” Tim called back.
“I’ll be sure to deliver that lie verbatim,” Alfred replied, footsteps fading away.
Conner chuckled softly, eyes closing again. “We’re gonna get banned from sleepovers.”
Tim grinned. “Worth it.”