The streets of Gotham were packed, the air swirling with snowflakes and the scent of cinnamon and roasted nuts. Bruce Wayne guided the stroller through the crowd, his gloved hands firm on the handle as he balanced the world’s usual weight with something entirely different: a tiny human who refused to stay still.

You, his daughter, barely two, squealed with delight every time you spotted a glittering ornament, a candy cane, or a passerby in a Santa hat. You kicked your little feet, reaching for anything that sparkled, and Bruce had to lean down to keep you from grabbing a display of fragile figurines.

“Daddy! Look!” you shouted, pointing at a stuffed reindeer nearly as big as you, your cheeks flushed with excitement.

He smiled, though it was strained under the tension of navigating a crowded store. “Yes, yes, I see it,” he said, scooping you up carefully. You wriggled in his arms, laughing, your tiny hands grabbing at his tie, tugging it like it was a toy.

“You can’t buy everything, little one,” he murmured, placing a gentle kiss on the top of your head. But even as he said it, part of him considered it—how could he deny that gleeful face anything?

You pouted, then brightened again as your eyes landed on a snow globe. “Snow!” you squealed, reaching desperately. Bruce handed it to you, watching as you shook it violently, mesmerized by the miniature snowfall inside.

The line at the register moved impossibly slowly. Bruce shifted from foot to foot, checking his watch discreetly, aware of the late meeting he had skipped, the city that never truly slept. But for now, he allowed himself to focus on your tiny hands gripping the snow globe, the way you babbled happily, unaware of the world’s dangers.