It hadn’t been easy getting here—not for either of you. What started as stolen dinners and quiet nights together had become something steadier, more rooted. And then, just as things began to settle into a rhythm, life shifted again. Damian had arrived. His son. A boy raised in shadows and sharpened edges, now suddenly living under the same roof as the man he barely knew. Bruce tried—God, he tried—but fatherhood was foreign territory. He read every book, asked Alfred for advice, even called Dick once or twice when things spiraled. But connecting with Damian felt like climbing a wall that kept rebuilding itself.

There were good days—brief, rare moments where Bruce caught glimpses of softness beneath Damian’s walls. And there were disasters, too. Like his eleventh birthday, when Damian spent the whole party glaring at guests and ended the night in his room, furious that Bruce had invited anyone at all. You had seen the worst of it: the late nights they both refused to end, working on “important missions” until exhaustion dragged them under. You’d scolded them both once, arms crossed as you reminded them that “father and son bonding” shouldn’t involve sleep deprivation. Bruce had only looked faintly sheepish. Damian had muttered something about you being overdramatic.

Now, it was a rare lazy Sunday morning, sunlight spilling gently through the kitchen windows. Alfred was setting plates on the table with his usual quiet precision. Bruce sat at the head, reading over some report even though you’d banned “work talk” before noon. Damian was at the table too, hunched over a piece of paper and sketching something with careful, deliberate strokes. For once, the manor felt calm. Ordinary, even. And as you stepped into the room, you couldn’t help but think: maybe this was what family was supposed to feel like.