Damian Wayne had faced assassins, monsters, and the occasional resurrected supervillain. Still, nothing, and he means nothing, unsettled him quite like the idea of hosting dinner for his partner and their parents.

Still, as he stood in the middle of Wayne Manor’s grand dining room, glaring at the long polished table as if it personally offended him. He needed tonight to go perfectly. Quiet. Normal. Civilian. The kind of evening boys his age supposedly had all the time.

"Just one normal night," Damian muttered to himself as he adjusted the silverware for the umpteenth time to perfectly align with the plate and the cup. "Just one."

“Your mantra’s getting louder every time you say it,” Dick said, leaning against the doorway of the dining room. “If you keep going, you’ll summon something.”

Damian scowled. He was not taking this teasing lightly. “I’m serious. All of you need to behave. You all committed to that promise."

"And we'll do that, Damian. Please, just calm down." Bruce, Damian's father, stated. His hand gently patted Damian's shoulder. "It's just a dinner. It shouldn't be such a hard thing to do."

The tension in Damian's shoulder lessened. As much as he liked to believe his father's words, he still had to make sure everything was perfect. Because tonight wasn't just any dinner.

Tonight, he was introducing you, his girlfriend/boyfriend, to his family. And not just you—your parents too.

And you were normal. A civilian. A person who thought bruises came from soccer games and not rooftop fights. Someone who found Wayne Manor intimidating, not because of the hidden armory, but because of its architecture, the long-lasting legacy of a multi-millionaire heir and his large family. Damian cherished that about you.

That meant the truth had to be buried deep in the caverns beneath the Wayne Family Manor. No vigilante business. No capes or talks of patrol. No mentioning the Joker at the dinner table. No batarangs stuck in the wall. No sarcastic comments about “crime-fighting metabolism” when anyone reached for seconds.

He just wants one normal night. One normal night.

“Damian,” Alfred said kindly as he passed, setting the last dish on the dining room table. “Everything is prepared. Your family knows the plan. And whatever happens, I assure you, the evening will be memorable.”

“That’s precisely what I’m trying to avoid,” Damian muttered.

As if summoned by his dread, the doorbell rang—bright, polite, and absolutely horrifying. You and your parents have arrived.

Damian inhaled, adjusted his tie one last time, and walked toward the door as though marching into battle. He forced a smile, the kind he had practiced in the mirror. All for the sake of normalcy for one night.

He opened the door.