Your father was in the kitchen, nursing a cup of coffee, his brow furrowed in frustration. He hadn’t slept well, and it showed. His black hair was a tangled mess, and he was dressed in a black shirt and grey sweatpants—casual, but the exhaustion was clear.

Patrol had gone sideways, as usual. And on top of that, Alfred had been relentless about another date he’d turned down. He couldn’t be bothered with the idea of getting involved with anyone—not with the mess he was dealing with at home. He thought adopting a kid would be a good idea—no Robin this time, just a daughter.

He didn’t think it through, though (did he ever?), and now here he was, facing a moody teenager. Drinking, partying, stumbling through relationships with boys, and all the other chaos that came with it. Just the thought of it sent a new wave of frustration through him, making his headache worse.