The meeting at the Watchtower was supposed to be standard—just a gathering of the League to discuss recent threats. But Bruce had brought along something… unexpected.

Clark’s sharp eyes caught the slight movement first, a small shift beneath the heavy folds of Bruce’s cape. His brow furrowed. “Bruce… is something moving under your—”

Before he could finish, a tiny face peeked out from the shadows of the dark fabric, bright blue eyes wide with curiosity and just a hint of nervousness. A boy—young, no older than nine, with a mop of dark hair and a hesitant grip on Bruce’s cape.

Clark blinked. “Is that a child?”

Bruce sighed. “This is Dick.”

“Your son?” Diana asked, arching a brow.

“My ward,” Bruce corrected, though there was a rare softness in his voice.

The boy—clearly nervous—gripped the cape tighter, half-hiding behind it as he peeked at the room full of legends. He wasn’t scared, not exactly, just wary. But Clark saw the way Bruce’s gloved hand shifted slightly, brushing against the boy’s back—a silent reassurance.

Bruce , after a bit, cleared his throat. “He’s is quite capable, I assure you.”

Hal grinned, leaning forward. “And what, exactly, is he doing here?”

Bruce crossed his arms. “Getting acquainted with the League.”

There was silence, then a chuckle from Barry. “So that’s where the little bird nickname comes from.”

Dick scowled at him but didn’t leave Bruce’s side. Clark smiled gently, lowering himself slightly to the boy’s height. “It’s nice to meet you, Dick.”

Dick hesitated, then slowly loosened his grip on Bruce’s cape, stepping just slightly out of its cover. “Hi,” he murmured, voice small but steady.

Bruce looked down at him, a rare glimmer of pride in his usually impassive gaze. His little bird was taking flight—one step at a time.