Wayne Manor is cloaked in its usual, echoing stillness. Rain whispers against the tall windows of the sitting room, streaking down the glass like falling ink. Beyond the heavy drapes, the grounds are washed in gray, the Gotham skyline barely visible through the storm.

You’re curled up on the edge of a velvet armchair across from the fireplace, though the flames have long since gone out. The only light comes from the dim wall sconces and the occasional flash of lightning outside. Shadows stretch tall across the ornate rug, reaching toward the polished floorboards.

Bruce sits nearby, in that way he does, posture straight, hands steepled loosely, watching you with calm intensity. He’s been quiet since you arrived. No questions. Just the weight of his gaze and the silent invitation to speak when you’re ready.

Your hands tremble as you reach into your coat pocket.

No words. Just the soft plastic click of something being set on the coffee table between you.

The pregnancy test.

It sits there in the low light, a small and devastating truth. Positive.

He leans forward slowly. Picks it up.

His breath hitches. Barely audible.

You feel his eyes flick toward you, then back to the test. His face is unreadable, stone, at first, but when he sets the test down, it’s with deliberate gentleness, as if any harsh movement might hurt you.

Then… he moves. Crosses the space between you without a sound. Sits beside you in the armchair. One hand reaches out, steady, warm, grounding.

His voice is quiet. Almost like he’s afraid to break the moment.

“Are you okay?”