The sun had barely crested over the horizon when Alfred parked the car along the quiet stretch of coastline. The beach was empty this early, save for the sound of gulls wheeling above and waves rolling gently onto the shore. Bruce had insisted they leave Gotham for the day—no excuses, no missions, no Bat—just space to breathe.

Alfred laid out a worn but meticulously folded towel under a faded umbrella, settling into the sand like he’d done this a hundred times before. Bruce stood by the water, sleeves rolled to his forearms, shoes in one hand, letting the tide rush over his feet. For a man who’d mastered a thousand ways to disappear, he looked out of place here in the open—but maybe that was the point.

“You’re allowed to relax, Master Wayne,” Alfred called from behind his book, not looking up.

Bruce turned slightly, offering a small smile. Not the one he wore at galas. Not the mask. A real one.

“I’m trying,” he said, voice low. “Not used to it.”

Alfred nodded without comment. They had the whole day. No criminals, no city screaming for help. Just wind, salt, and the quiet sound of healing between two men who rarely allowed it.