Bruce didn’t do baby showers.

At least, that’s what he told Alfred. Repeatedly. Firmly. In writing.

And yet, here he was—standing beneath a canopy of pale gold silk, next to a crystal-clear ice sculpture shaped like a baby rattle, wearing a custom-tailored suit with the tiniest embroidered “W” on the pocket square.

The manor had been transformed. Chandeliers gleamed brighter than usual, floral arrangements towered like living sculptures, and the guest list read like a Gotham elite roll call—with a few honorary vigilantes slipping in through side doors.

But none of it mattered more than her. She stood at the center of it all, glowing brighter than the lights, hand resting on the curve of her stomach, smiling like this future was already everything she wanted.

And for once, Bruce wasn’t thinking about danger or strategy or headlines.

He was thinking about cribs. And lullabies. And maybe—just maybe—how much love a man like him could give to something so small.