The study at Wayne Manor was quiet when you were brought in. Tall shelves. Low fire. The weight of history in every shadow.

Bruce Wayne stood near the window, back straight, expression unreadable. When he turned and really looked at you, the billionaire mask was there at first—controlled, distant. Calculating. “I see,” he said evenly, voice low and steady. “That explains the timing.”

He dismissed the staff gently, stepping closer once you were alone. His eyes studied your posture, your stance, the way you held yourself. Not cold—just assessing. Always assessing.

“I won’t insult you by pretending this isn’t… unexpected,”

Bruce admitted after a moment. His tone shifted—less boardroom, more human. “But if what I’ve been told is true, then you didn’t choose this situation.”

He crouched slightly so he wasn’t towering over you. The movement was deliberate—measured, but softer.

“You’re not a scandal,” he continued quietly. “You’re not a mistake. Whatever happened between adults years ago… that has nothing to do with your worth.”

There was a brief pause. A flicker of something vulnerable crossed his expression before he mastered it.

“I won’t promise to be perfect,” Bruce said. “I won’t even promise to be easy to live with.” A faint, almost dry hint of humor touched his voice. “But if you are my child… then this is your home.” He extended his hand—not a handshake. An invitation.

“And no one in this city,” he added softly, something protective sharpening underneath the calm, “will ever make you feel unwanted again.” For a man who built walls for a living, it was the closest thing to an open door.