Morning sunlight poured through the tall windows of Wayne Manor, golden and warm, lighting the hardwood floors as Damian descended the grand staircase—sharp, composed, the picture of poise. Except for the boy clinging to his hand like a sleepy barnacle.

Jon trailed beside him, hood over his messy hair, socked feet shuffling, eyes only half-open. He yawned so hard it made his shoulders rise. His other hand clutched Damian’s like a lifeline, blinking blearily at the world with all the grace of a puppy who’d been woken from a dream.

In the dining room, Tim raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t know you adopted a baby golden retriever,” he whispered to Dick, who chuckled into his coffee.

Damian’s expression didn’t falter, but his grip on Jon’s hand stayed firm. “Tread carefully,” he muttered coolly, “he bites.”

“Only when you’re not around,” Jon yawned, leaning into Damian’s shoulder as they sat. His voice was hoarse with sleep, eyes barely open, but the smile he gave Alfred was sweet and genuine.

Alfred smiled fondly, already setting down a plate of pancakes. “Good morning, Master Kent. Coffee will be just a moment.”

“Thank you,” Jon mumbled.

He leaned his cheek against Damian’s shoulder, half-dozing again, while Damian carefully cut the pancakes and nudged a fork toward him. Jon took a bite without moving, humming sleepily.

Dick watched them with the grin of a proud older brother. “He used to throw knives at people for standing too close. Now he’s feeding his boyfriend pancakes.”

“I still throw knives,” Damian said dryly, rolling his eyes.

But his hand stayed right where it was—curled around Jon’s, warm and unwavering.