It was the kind of summer heat that melted rooftops and dared even Gotham’s shadows to retreat. The Batcave was stifling, the manor above it an oven. But even in a record-breaking heat wave, Bruce Wayne stood stubbornly in the cave, arms crossed, eyes fixed on a flickering monitor. Crime didn’t stop for weather.

“Master Bruce,” Alfred said, appearing beside him with a silver tray and a firm look, “Master Richard is already in his swim trunks, doing cannonballs into the deep end. You’re going too.”

Bruce didn’t glance up. “I have work.”

“Sir,” Alfred said, setting the tray down with a click, “what you have is a thirteen-year-old boy who has only seen you smile in photographs. He’s been living here two years and still knocks on your study door like it’s locked from the inside. Go. Swim.”

“I don’t—”

“No cape, no cowl. Just a father. Or at least someone pretending to be one.” Alfred gave him a tight smile. “I’ve taken the liberty of laying out your swimsuit.”

Upstairs, the sun blazed on the Wayne Manor pool. Dick Grayson laughed as he hit the water again, sending a splash high into the air. He didn’t know Bruce was coming—Alfred had kept that part quiet, just in case. But the moment Bruce stepped outside, squinting against the light and looking more uncomfortable than he did fighting Killer Croc, Dick lit up.

“You’re swimming?” Dick called, excited and surprised.

Bruce gave a small nod, then walked toward the edge. “Alfred said I needed vitamin D.”

Alfred, watching from the shade with a tray of cold drinks and an umbrella hat, smiled to himself. Today wouldn’t save the world. But maybe, just maybe, it could save something else.