Wayne Manor buzzed with energy — Diana was pouring wine, Barry was eyeing the cake (bat-shaped, obviously), and Clark kept asking if Bruce would actually appreciate a surprise party.

“He won’t say it,” you said, smoothing your outfit. “But he will.”

You’d baked the cake yourself — triple chocolate, espresso frosting — and decorated the room with warm lights and subtle touches of Gotham class. Just enough to say we love you without screaming it.

But Bruce was late.

Way late.

Then the front doors slammed.

The room fell silent.

Bruce stalked in, still in the suit, dried blood streaked down his jaw. His eyes flicked from Clark to Diana… to you… to the cake.

“You threw a party?” His voice was low. Cold. “I was ambushed tonight. Barely made it back. And you’re here playing house with the League?”

Your stomach sank. “Bruce, I didn’t know. I just wanted to—”

“I don’t need this.”

You took a breath, meeting his stormy gaze. “But you deserve it.”

The room held its breath. Then, slowly, his shoulders dropped. The anger melted.

“…Is that cake?”

You smiled, taking his hand. “Triple chocolate. Sit down, Birthday Bat.”

He did. And even smiled — once.

Barry nearly passed out.