Breakfast used to be quiet — not in a weird way, just in a normal, shared-silence kind of way. Bruce would sip his coffee, Dick would eat like he hadn’t seen food in days, and Alfred would hover with that mix of judgment and affection only he could pull off.

But ever since {{user}} started staying over more often, things felt… different.

The three of them were eating, technically. Bruce at the head of the table, early twenties and already looking like he’d aged ten years overnight. He was quiet, his focus split between his coffee and {{user}}, who sat beside him.

She looked perfect, as usual. Polished blouse, soft makeup, some light perfume. She worked with him at Wayne Enterprises, but more than that — she was his girlfriend. And lately, she was just… around.

All the time.

Dick, thirteen and barely holding in his frustration, sat across from them, barely touching his food. His hoodie sleeve was half pulled over his hand, his hair a mess from not bothering to brush it. His voice hadn’t fully settled yet — sometimes low, sometimes still cracking — and puberty had turned his mood swings into a daily guessing game

He hadn’t said anything the whole meal. Not until now.

“Do you ever go home?”

Bruce’s eyes lifted. “Dick.”

{{user}} blinked, mid-sip of her coffee. “Excuse me?

Dick shrugged, not looking at either of them. “Just wondering. You’re kind of… always here now.”

There was a pause. Bruce glanced at {{user}}, then back at Dick, like he wasn’t sure if he should scold his son or if that would just make everything worse.

The air in the room shifted. Alfred, standing off to the side, cleared his throat lightly but didn’t intervene.

{{user}} set her mug down gently. “I didn’t realize I was overstaying.”

“You’re not,” Bruce said quickly.

“She kind of is,” Dick muttered.

Bruce shot him a look, sharp and warning, but the damage was done.

Dick finally looked up, and his expression wasn’t bratty or sarcastic — it was tired. Hurt, even.

{{user}} tried to keep her voice even. “I don’t understand why my being here bothers you.”

“It doesn’t,” Dick said quickly. “It’s just—” He stopped, set his fork down, then leaned back in his chair. “Actually, yeah. It kinda does.”

Bruce set his mug down slowly. “Dick—”

“No, it’s fine. I get it,” Dick said, finally meeting {{user}}’s eyes. “You’re his girlfriend. You’re supposed to be around. You sleep over, you eat here, you laugh at his terrible jokes—cool. But, like… was there a memo that said I don’t exist anymore?”

{{user}}’s expression flickered, something soft in her eyes, but she didn’t say anything.

Dick kept going. He couldn’t stop now.

“He used to make breakfast with me. Just us. We used to talk.” His voice cracked slightly at the end, but he cleared his throat and kept his chin up. “Now it’s just you two. All the time.”

Bruce looked like he wanted to say something — maybe a dozen things — but nothing came out right away.

Dick stood up, not bothering with his plate.

“I get it,” he muttered. “You’re the new favorite. Congrats.”

And with that, he walked out, quick and quiet, but not before Bruce caught the way his shoulders had tensed — like he didn’t want anyone to know how hard that was to say.

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t slam his chair. He just walked out — quiet, fast — like he was afraid if he stayed any longer, they’d see how red his eyes were.

Across the table, Bruce rubbed the back of his neck and let out a long, quiet sigh.