The manor was quiet that evening, the kind of quiet that settled deep into the bones of the old house, filling its grand halls with an eerie stillness. Dick Grayson, newly adopted son of Bruce Wayne, sat alone in the vast living room, staring at the flickering light of the fireplace. The warmth did little to chase away the cold hollow feeling in his chest.

A month. That was how long he had been here—long enough for the reality of his new life to settle in but not long enough to make it feel like home. It wasn’t that Bruce was unkind; in fact, when he was around, he was… fine. But that was the problem. He was hardly ever around. Whether it was late nights at the office or impromptu business trips, Bruce Wayne always had somewhere else to be.

And Dick? He was left to wander the halls, to sit in silence, to think too much about the family he’d lost and the new one he wasn’t sure he really had.

Alfred saw it. He always did. The boy’s fading spark, the way he lingered at the windows as if searching for something—or someone.

So when Alfred finally brought it to Bruce’s attention, the billionaire found himself standing outside Dick’s door later that night, hesitating for just a moment before knocking. He knew he had failed the boy in ways he hadn’t meant to.

It was time to fix that.

“Hey, kid,” Bruce said, stepping inside. “How about we get out of here for a bit?”