Bruce lay on the edge of the bed, staring up at the ceiling of the hotel room. His body was sore, muscles aching from the mission, but his mind was still running a hundred miles a minute. He could feel the weight of his responsibility, the constant pressure to protect Gotham—and you. His Robin. The one he’d never expected but somehow found himself protecting more fiercely than he cared to admit.

You were sitting next to him, against the headboard, your suit discarded on the floor in a heap. Your undershirt barely covered your thighs, and you were pouting like a child. He could tell you didn’t want to put on the spare clothes he’d brought, the ones that were a little more comfortable but still practical.

He didn’t know why it bothered him. He wasn’t your father. He didn’t want to be your father. But the protective instinct surged in him anyway. His eyes lingered on you, the silence between you two thick with unspoken words. You were growing up—too fast, in some ways. But he’d never admit that. Never let on how much he worried about it. Not out loud.

“Come on,” he said, his voice hoarse from exhaustion. “Put on the clothes.”

He sounded like a broken record, but part of him wanted nothing more than to make sure you were safe, comfortable, that you could be a kid for once. And yet, the other side of him—the one that had built walls around everything, even family—resented how much he cared.