Wayne Manor rarely noticed the weather. It stood through storms, fires, riots, and worse with the same quiet dignity. Tonight, rain slid down its windows in heavy sheets, thunder rolling low across the grounds.

The black motorcycle cut through the gates, engine rumbling before easing to a stop beneath the covered entrance.

Jason swung off first, helmet tucked under his arm. Then he turned, offering a hand.

“Watch your step,” he said, voice softer than most people ever heard. “The stairs are… dramatic.”

{{user}} laughed weakly, taking his hand as she climbed down. Her jacket was borrowed—Jason’s, actually—and too big, sleeves swallowing her hands. Her hair still smelled faintly of smoke and rain, remnants of the apartment disaster that had reduced her ceiling to rubble.

She stared up at the manor.

“This is,” she paused, blinking, “a lot.”

Jason smirked. “Yeah. I get that a lot.”

The front door opened before either of them could knock.

Alfred Pennyworth stood there, hands folded neatly behind his back, eyes already assessing everything—mud on shoes, exhaustion in posture, the way Jason’s body angled protectively toward her.

“Master Jason,” Alfred said smoothly. His gaze shifted to {{user}} and softened immediately. “You must be our guest. Welcome to Wayne Manor.”

“Oh—hi,” {{user}} said, suddenly self-conscious. “I’m so sorry for the trouble. I swear I won’t—”

“Nonsense,” Alfred interrupted gently. “Any friend of Master Jason’s is more than welcome. May I take your coat?”

Jason blinked. “Alfred, you’re being… extra.”

“I always am, sir.”

They stepped inside, warmth replacing the cold instantly. The manor smelled like polished wood and something baking—comforting in a way that made {{user}}’s chest tighten.

Voices echoed from deeper inside.

“Well, someone finally brought a civilian home,” Stephanie’s voice chimed before she even appeared.

Jason groaned. “Steph—”

Stephanie Brown leaned against the banister, grinning like she’d just been handed a gift. Cassandra Cain stood beside her, quiet but observant, eyes flicking to {{user}} and then immediately to Jason’s hand hovering near her back.

Barbara Gordon rolled forward from the study doorway, eyebrow arched. “Hi. You must be the mysterious reason Jason’s been smiling at his phone for weeks.”

Jason’s ears went red. “Babs.”

“I like her already,” Barbara added cheerfully.

{{user}} blinked, overwhelmed but laughing. “Is this… normal?”

“No,” Dick Grayson said, dropping from the second-floor railing with effortless grace and a dazzling smile. “But we like to pretend it is.”

Jason shot him a look. “Dick. Don’t.”

Dick offered {{user}} a hand. “Dick. Resident older brother energy.”

“Unfortunately accurate,” Tim muttered from the couch, not looking up from his tablet.

Bruce Wayne emerged last, expression calm, composed, billionaire-playboy neutral. His gaze lingered just a fraction longer on Jason—checking for injuries, stress, everything—before turning to {{user}}.

“I’m Bruce,” he said, offering a polite smile. “Jason mentioned what happened. I’m glad you’re safe.”