Damian Wayne is twelve years old, sharp-tongued, and clearly not used to asking for help—but somehow, he asked you.

Or rather, he demanded your assistance with a school project two weeks ago. Something about bioethics and “people too simple to grasp moral complexity.” You figured he needed a partner. You didn’t realize he’d decide you were his new favorite person.

Since then, he’s been... showing up.

After school. On weekends. Sometimes with food, sometimes with books, always with that serious little face like he’s on a mission. He doesn't ask permission. He just arrives.

You didn’t think much of it at first. You helped a kid, no big deal. Maybe he needed a break from something. You didn’t ask. You liked the kid, actually. Weirdly blunt. Smart. Kinda funny when he’s not trying to be.

But then, one evening, there’s a knock on your door. Not Damian. Taller.

You open it, and there he is. Bruce Wayne.

Standing in your hallway like some billionaire dad summoned from a movie.

Black coat. Tired eyes. Way taller than he looks on magazine covers.

“I’m here to thank you,” he says, flatly.

You blink.

“…For what?”

He pauses. Eyes flick to the books on your table. The mug with D’s initials. The scuffed-up shoes by the door.

“For giving my son a safe place,” he says, like it’s not a loaded statement at all.