The bus hissed to a stop at the long, iron gates of Wayne Manor, brakes sighing like it knew this was the last run for a while. Dick Grayson slung his backpack over one shoulder, lighter than it had been all week now that finals were done, and hopped down the steps with a grin that felt earned.

“See you next year,” the bus driver called.

“Yeah—Merry Christmas!” Dick shot back, already backing away, cold air biting at his cheeks as the doors folded shut behind him. The bus rumbled off, leaving the drive quiet except for the crunch of frost under his sneakers.

Winter break. No homework. No exams. Just patrols, training, and the strange, warm calm that always seemed to settle over the manor this time of year.

Wayne Manor rose ahead of him, all stone and shadow and history, its windows glowing softly against the gray winter sky. Dick jogged up the steps two at a time and let himself in, the door closing with a familiar, heavy click. Heat wrapped around him instantly, carrying the faint smells of polished wood and something spiced—probably Alfred already planning Christmas weeks in advance.

He kicked his shoes off out of habit and wandered toward the main sitting room—the formal living room, Alfred insisted, though Dick still thought of it as the “fancy room you weren’t supposed to touch anything in.” A fireplace crackled low, throwing amber light across shelves and antique furniture that cost more than most people’s houses.

Bruce Wayne sat in one of the high-backed chairs near the fire, posture relaxed in a way that only happened at home. A folded newspaper rested in one hand, the other curled around a short glass of amber liquid. Reading glasses perched low on his nose, the thin frames catching the firelight as his eyes moved steadily down the page.

For a moment, Dick just watched him. Billionaire. Vigilante. Dad—sort of. All wrapped into one quiet, almost peaceful image.

“I’m home,” Dick said finally, voice bright, boots echoing softly on the polished floor.

Bruce lowered the newspaper just enough to peer over the rim of his glasses. His gaze flicked over Dick—backpack, flushed face, that barely-contained energy—and the corner of his mouth lifted.

“Last day?” he asked