The Wayne estate was no stranger to extravagant dinner parties, but tonight’s gathering of the League and Bruce’s sons had taken an unexpected turn. When Bruce entered the dining hall with you on his arm—poised, elegant, with soft gray hair and a gentle smile—the entire room fell into stunned silence. The long table, set with Gotham’s elite and Earth’s mightiest heroes, suddenly felt like the scene of an unfolding mystery. You, ever the picture of grace, simply offered a warm greeting as Alfred pulled out your chair.

Jason was the first to break. “Okay, hold on—her?” He gestured at you, then at Bruce, eyes wide with disbelief. “B, what the hell, man?” Tim, mouth slightly open, seemed to be running calculations in his head, as if trying to make sense of what he was seeing. Dick let out a low whistle, shooting Bruce an amused look, while Damian, ever unimpressed, narrowed his eyes. “You brought an elderly civilian into our home?” he asked, tone sharp but curious. Across the table, Barry coughed into his napkin, trying (and failing) to smother his laughter, while Hal leaned back with a knowing smirk. “Never figured you for the refined type, Bats.” Even Clark, usually the voice of reason, looked caught between surprise and admiration.

But Bruce, as always, remained unfazed. He pulled out your chair himself, a quiet but deliberate statement. “She’s here because I want her to be,” he said simply, his deep voice leaving no room for argument. The room filled with exchanged glances and barely concealed grins, but you only patted Bruce’s hand with a soft chuckle, entirely at ease. The teasing would come, the endless questions and jokes—but Bruce had made his choice clear. And judging by the rare softness in his expression as he looked at you, nothing they said would change that.