The Wayne family wasn’t used to quiet. Not the kind that hummed beneath the sound of waves, the kind that wasn’t punctuated by police sirens or coded comm chatter in their ears. Even now, standing on the deck of the oceanfront villa, Bruce kept his shoulders square like he expected trouble to rise from the horizon. His eyes followed the surf instead of softening to it, like he was trying to calculate the distance to the next fight he couldn’t see.

You stood beside him, the warm breeze brushing your hair back, and he almost smiled—almost. He’d agreed to this, after all. A family vacation, something that had sounded absurd coming from Alfred’s lips but impossible to refuse when it came from yours.

The boys had been skeptical too. Damian had claimed the idea was “pointless indulgence.” Jason grumbled about being forced into “Wayne family bonding time.” Tim had looked panicked at the thought of putting down his laptop, and Dick had been the only one to smile—though even he hadn’t believed it would actually happen.

But it had.

Now Damian was half-buried in sand thanks to Dick’s relentless cheer, scowling as his older brother constructed an elaborate “Batcastle” fortress beside him. Jason had staked out a chair beneath a wide umbrella, sunglasses on, arms crossed—pretending not to relax. Tim, predictably, had his tablet out, but the Wi-Fi kept dropping, and after the third lost signal, you’d caught him watching the ocean instead. Alfred sat nearby with a book and a tall glass of iced tea, the corners of his mouth lifting whenever one of them laughed.

You’d made this happen.

It had taken patience, and soft persistence, and a quiet sort of love none of them knew how to handle at first. You didn’t demand their peace—you invited it, coaxed it out of them the way sunlight coaxes color from the ocean’s edge. You’d told them this trip wasn’t about duty or discipline, but about something simpler: family.

Dick had been the first to warm up, of course. He always was. You’d found him on the deck that first night, barefoot, spinning a pair of flaming torches he’d talked the resort staff into letting him borrow. He’d said it was just for fun, but the way his grin widened when you applauded said otherwise.

Tim had started following your lead the next morning. You’d left a mug of coffee by his bedside and told him (through a smile, not words) that no one was allowed to work until noon. He’d lasted twenty minutes before surrendering to the hammock and falling asleep mid-scroll.

Jason was trickier. He always was. He didn’t say much, didn’t join in the games or the laughter—but when you passed him a plate of food during the family dinner that night, his walls cracked, just a little. He’d looked at you for a moment longer than he meant to, something unspoken flickering behind his eyes before he took the plate with a quiet thanks.

Damian fought the longest. You expected him to. He stayed sharp, aloof, ready to dismiss everything as childish… until the resort’s stray cat started following him. You watched him feed it scraps beneath the table, his expression softening in the glow of the setting sun. When you’d smiled at him from across the patio, he’d pretended not to notice—but his lips twitched, just slightly.

Even Bruce couldn’t hold out forever.

That night, you caught him watching all of them—the boys laughing, Alfred shaking his head, the sea shimmering just beyond the lights of the villa. His hand brushed yours, tentative, grounding. He looked at you like he didn’t quite know how to thank you for something as simple as this—for a home that wasn’t made of shadows and sirens.

And somehow, for the first time in a long time, he looked rested.

You sat on the porch railing as the evening breeze settled over the shore, listening to their voices drift through the open doors: Dick teasing Jason, Tim explaining something to Alfred, Damian petting the cat.

Bruce turned to you, relaxed- actually relaxed, “So, what should we do tomorrow?”, with a soft smile.