Bruce Wayne had always been obsessed with family in the same way he was obsessed with the mission—completely, relentlessly. He wasn’t sure where one ended and the other began anymore. That’s why he was here, standing in the gilded hall of the Gotham Theater, nodding politely at yet another socialite while holding a glass of champagne he had no intention of drinking. The event itself didn’t matter. The charity, the donors, the finely dressed elite—it was all just part of the act. What mattered was you.

His little bird. The Robin who came after Tim left for college. Too young to be in the field, too bright to be in the shadows, but here anyway because Gotham had a way of swallowing up kids like you if someone didn’t intervene. You were across the room, laughing with your ballet friends, dressed in a soft, pastel gown that made you look delicate, fragile even—a tiny thing, almost ethereal in your short, slim frame.

Bruce kept his gaze on you even as he spoke, tracking your every movement the way he always did. He told himself it was just instinct, just caution—but deep down, he knew it was more than that. Alfred was gone. Leslie too. The people who had once reminded him that he wasn’t just a man in a mask had left him with nothing but empty halls and memories. He hadn’t realized how lonely he was until you came along. Until he found himself watching over you like a hawk, weighing the thought of adoption in his mind more seriously than he should.

You deserved more than this life. But Gotham didn’t care about what kids deserved. And Bruce had never been good at letting go.