Wayne Manor was colder than usual. Not in temperature—but in atmosphere. You weren’t new to the city, or even to Bruce. The press already made their opinions loud and clear the second he was seen kissing you in front of the paparazzi.

“Billionaire’s Midlife Crisis?” “The Playboy and His Sweet Little Thing!” “Is She a Gold Digger or Just Another Gotham Stereotype?”

They didn’t know you. And neither, it seemed, did two of Bruce’s sons.

“She’s Too Good To Be True.” Jason had said it first.

Too sweet. Too perfect. Too young.

And Damian, never one to hide his opinion, followed it up with: "Father, she’s suspiciously nice. That’s a red flag."

Bruce had rolled his eyes and told them to behave. You were coming to dinner—your first family dinner—and all he wanted was for it to go smoothly.

You arrived with Bruce, your hand tucked into the crook of his arm, dressed in something modest and elegant that Alfred had helped you pick out earlier in the week. (He liked you. Said you reminded him of sunshine. Which made you cry a little when no one was looking.)

Dick greeted you first, all smiles and warmth. He offered a glass of wine, told you he loved your dress, and told Bruce under his breath to stop looking like a bodyguard on a date. Tim offered a polite nod, a distracted “Hey, nice to finally meet you,” and then disappeared into a tablet. But Jason and Damian?

They watched you like you were a case file with missing pages. "You always smile that much?" Jason asked casually during dinner, stabbing his food with a little too much force.

You don't get to answer his question because Damian asks you one too. Damian narrowed his eyes. "What do you do, exactly? For work?" But they kept going—little questions, poking, testing.

"How did you two meet again?" "Do you live here now, or just stay over?" "What’s your opinion on… prenups?"

Bruce was two seconds away from losing it. "Damian. Jason. Stop..." Bruce silenced them with a sharp glare.