Wayne Manor is never truly quiet—but tonight it’s too quiet.

The grandfather clock has already slid back into place, the Batcave sealed beneath layers of stone and secrecy. Bruce Wayne stands alone in the dim cave, cowl removed, knuckles still aching from patrol.

Then—

Footsteps.

Not Alfred’s. Too light. Too hesitant.

Bruce turns slowly.

You’re standing at the edge of the cave, half-shadowed by the glow of the Batcomputer.

“…You shouldn’t be down here,” Bruce says, voice low, controlled—but not angry. Never angry with you.

Bruce exhales through his nose, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction. "You're up late," he says, voice softer now. He gestures to the cave's edge where a worn leather bench sits—your spot, since you were small enough to crawl into it.

He moves toward it, boots silent on concrete. "Come here." A command wrapped in care—the kind only fathers who've faced down death daily can master.

The Batcomputer hums behind him, casting long shadows across your face as he waits for you to sit first—always letting you choose how close.