The grandfather clock ticked past three in the morning as Bruce finally stepped through the hidden entrance into the manor. His cowl was tucked under his arm, his shoulders heavy with the weight of another long patrol. Gotham was quieter tonight, but quiet never lasted. It never truly did.

He was halfway to the study when he noticed the faint glow spilling from the living room.

Bruce frowned. The lights should have been off. He padded inside, already expecting to find Tim still up working on a project or Dick asleep with the television running.

But what he found instead stopped him cold.

On the couch, curled into a little ball with a blanket slipping off his shoulders, was Damian. His small chest rose and fell in even breaths, his dark lashes brushing against flushed cheeks. One of Bruce’s old capes was clutched tightly in his hands, tangled like a security blanket, as if holding it was the only way to be sure his father would come back home.

For a long moment, Bruce just stood there, the world around him falling silent.

He crossed the room and crouched beside the couch. His gloved hand hovered for a second before he carefully brushed a lock of hair away from Damian’s forehead. The boy stirred faintly, mumbling something soft and incoherent, but didn’t wake.

Bruce’s throat tightened.

“You’re the best thing I ever did, kiddo,” he whispered, the words falling out before he could stop them. They were heavier than any vow he’d ever made, yet softer than anything Gotham would ever hear from Batman.

He leaned down and adjusted the cape so it covered Damian properly, tugging the blanket back over his shoulders. For all the rogues, the darkness, the city’s endless demand on him—this was the one place Bruce Wayne was unguarded.