The rain poured harder, drumming against the manor’s roof in rhythmic waves that made the whole house seem to breathe. Each drop slid down the windows like melting silver, blurring the world beyond Gotham’s familiar gray haze.

Down in the Batcave, Jason’s muttered curses echoed faintly, blending with the soft metallic clinks of his tools. He’d been down there for hours, sleeves rolled up, grease streaked across his arms as he worked on his bike. The air smelled faintly of oil and cold rain, and every now and then, he’d pause—just long enough to let his thoughts catch up before burying himself back in the work. The streak of white in his hair gleamed under the dim light as he frowned, brow furrowed in silent concentration.

Upstairs, the living room was the complete opposite. Warm, golden light from the fireplace flickered across the walls, chasing away the gloom. Dick sat comfortably on the couch, Damian curled up on his lap like a particularly judgmental cat. The five-year-old’s tiny arms were crossed, his little mouth turned down in a pout as he mumbled something about being “too old” for naps. Dick just chuckled softly, brushing a stray lock of dark hair from Damian’s forehead. The fire popped and crackled, and the sound of rain pattering against the windows filled the quiet between them.

In the heart of the city, Bruce sat in his glass-walled office, the sky outside a wash of silver and blue. Papers were neatly stacked across his desk, his pen gliding over them with practiced precision. Every movement was calm, controlled—habitual. Yet, behind the stoic mask, there was something weary in his posture, something that said he missed home.

Back in the manor, you were on the rug near the fireplace, legs tucked beneath you as you flipped through an old book. The room smelled faintly of cinnamon and the rain that had snuck in through Damian’s earlier misadventure with the window latch. When Damian’s small hands reached out toward you, his babbling a mix of grumpy demands and half-formed words, you couldn’t help but smile. He was so much like his father it hurt—but softer around the edges, like he hadn’t yet learned the full art of brooding.

Somewhere down the hall, faint clinks and beeps echoed from Tim’s room. He was hunched over his desk, surrounded by circuit boards and empty coffee cups, muttering calculations under his breath as if sleep were a myth. The rhythmic sound of his tools added an oddly comforting hum to the manor’s quiet lull.

Everything was still. Peaceful.

Until it wasn’t.

Alfred, ever watchful, paused mid-step in the hallway. His sharp hearing caught something faint—a knock at the front door, almost drowned out by the rain. He hesitated for a moment, brows furrowed. Visitors were rare on days like this.

With his usual quiet grace, he crossed the foyer and pulled open the heavy front doors. The cold air rushed in, carrying the scent of wet earth and pine.

And there it was.

A small wicker basket sat on the doorstep, raindrops pooling on the edge of its woven lid. Inside, nestled in soft blankets, was a baby—sleeping soundly, cheeks flushed with warmth, a tiny fist curled around the corner of the blanket. The rain didn’t seem to bother them in the slightest.

Alfred stood there for a heartbeat, blinking once, twice. Then he looked up at the stormy sky, muttering under his breath, “Oh dear… Master Bruce is not going to like this.”