Bruce had been warned—“She’s nervous, so don’t do the Bat-Glare,” Dick had said on the phone, half-laughing, half-pleading.

So Bruce waited in the Manor’s sitting room, posture relaxed, expression softened just enough to look human instead of interrogational. Alfred stood beside him, prepared with tea, sympathy, and silent judgment if Bruce ruined this.

Then the door opened.

Dick walked in first, beaming. And behind him stepped you—his fiancée.

Bruce rose to his feet.

For a moment, he simply studied you the way only Bruce Wayne could: silently, thoroughly, with a depth of attention that felt like an x-ray. Not to intimidate—but because you were about to marry his first son, the boy who had brought light into a life built entirely from shadows.

And Bruce Wayne needed to know who held that light now.

He extended his hand.

“Welcome to Wayne Manor,” he said, voice low, controlled, but warmer than most ever heard from him. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”