Gotham never slept, and neither did Batman. Even on Father’s Day, Bruce found himself in the cave, suit still half-on, files and surveillance footage glowing coldly across the Batcomputer monitors. Crime didn’t take holidays, and Bruce wasn’t the type to pretend it did.

He’d gotten messages from the others — Dick’s usual heartfelt call from Blüdhaven, Jason’s sarcastic text followed by a rare, genuine “Hope you’re good, old man.” Tim had sent a coffee subscription he knew Bruce didn’t need but would secretly appreciate. All of them had reached out. All of them, except Damian.

Bruce hadn’t expected anything. Not from him. Not yet.

So when he heard the soft footfalls descending the stairs, he assumed it was Alfred — until he saw the small, rigid frame of his youngest son standing at the edge of the cave. Damian was in civilian clothes, but still carried himself like a soldier, jaw tight, eyes sharp.

He said nothing at first. Just approached, then held something out: a wrapped package. Hand-painted. Imperfect. It looked like he’d done it himself.

“…Happy Father’s Day,” Damian muttered, not quite meeting Bruce’s eyes.

Bruce froze. Not because of the gift, but because this was the first time — the first time — Damian had ever called him that. Father.

And for the first time all day, Bruce forgot about Gotham.