Morning in Wayne Manor never started quietly.

It pretended to, at first — sunlight slipping through the tall windows, coffee brewing somewhere in the distance, the faint hum of the city still waking up — but then the house began to breathe.

The first clue that today wasn’t normal (but somehow was) came from the gym.

Jason was bench-pressing. Not weights. Dick.

And Dick, bless his chaotic heart, was laughing like this was completely fine. “You good down there, Jaybird?”

Jason’s only reply was a grunt and a smirk as he lowered him down again like a human dumbbell. The man had the audacity to chat while doing it. “You’re lighter than I remember.”

“Excuse you, I’m lean muscle.”

“Sure, princess.”

No one even blinked anymore. The sight of Jason Todd bench-pressing his older brother had officially joined the long list of “Wayne Family Mornings That Should Not Be Normal but Somehow Are.”

Across the room, Cass was sparring with Tim — or, more accurately, Cass was effortlessly dismantling Tim while he pretended it was part of some “training strategy.”

Bruce stood near the mat, arms crossed, expression flat but voice betraying the faintest hint of irritation. “You’re supposed to block, Timothy.”

Tim, currently pinned, gave a strained grin. “I’m—ah—strategically conserving energy.”

Cass snorted softly and twisted his wrist until he tapped out.

“Strategically pathetic,” Jason called from the other side of the room.

Bruce didn’t even look up. “Language.”

The hum of chaos continued — dumbbells clinking, laughter echoing, the occasional grunt from a sparring match gone wrong. It was all comfortingly familiar in the way that only a house full of vigilantes could be.

Then, from the corner of the room, came the smallest voice.

“{{user}}.”

You turned, and there was Damian — four years old, wooden practice sword in hand, tiny face serious and determined. His eyes were sharp, the way they always were when he was too focused.

He held up the sword, chin tilting up just slightly. “Spar with me.”

The room went quiet for a split second. Even Jason paused mid-rep, one eyebrow raised. Dick, still lounging on the bench, bit back a laugh.

Bruce’s gaze flicked toward you, the faintest glimmer of amusement in his eyes.

It wasn’t really a question, though. Damian’s little stance, sword poised and ready, made it clear — this was a challenge.

Would you accept?

The faint echo of laughter, the smell of coffee, the golden morning light spilling across the mats — it all hung suspended, waiting for your answer.

The manor held its breath.