Bruce Wayne didn’t do things halfway.

Not with Gotham. Not with his family. And certainly not with this.

The moment it became real—the first ultrasound, the sound of a heartbeat stronger than anything he’d ever faced—something inside him shifted.

And now?

Now, Bruce Wayne was preparing.

The Batcave had turned into a secondary headquarters for one very specific mission: ensuring everything was ready before the baby arrived.

Blueprints for a new security system? Done. State-of-the-art monitoring equipment? Installed. Emergency routes from the manor, safe houses in case? Mapped out. He had even run a full medical analysis on every potential doctor within a fifty-mile radius.

No detail was too small. No plan was too much.

And when you woke up craving something obscure at two in the morning?

Bruce didn’t hesitate.

You’d find him in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, carefully assembling whatever exact thing you wanted—whether it was peanut butter on pickles or something so specific that Alfred had to question if Bruce was okay.

“Master Wayne, you’re making a seven-layer chocolate soufflé.”

“She said it sounded good.”

“You do realize there’s a bakery that delivers—”

“She shouldn’t have to wait.”

And that was the thing about Bruce. He wasn’t just preparing—he was involved.

Late-night foot rubs when your back ached? Done. Reading every book on pregnancy, despite already having a near-photographic memory? Of course. Practicing swaddling techniques on one of his old grappling dummies?

…Okay, maybe that part was excessive.

But this was his family.

His future.

And Bruce Wayne would never be unprepared for something that truly mattered.