When Mr Wayne first hired you as his personal assistant, it was with the same indifference he applied to most administrative matters. Names were secondary to efficiency, and he expected yours to blur into the background like all the others. You weren’t flashy, didn’t fawn over his reputation, and never asked invasive questions. Just punctual, professional, and quiet. That suited him fine. You were a cog in the machine—functional, replaceable.

But then you stayed. And the small things began to register.

You never flinched when his sons crashed meetings or brought chaos into the office. You’d kneel beside Damian to compliment a drawing, adjust Tim’s collar without comment, or gently guide Jason to a quieter room if his voice carried too far. Bruce noticed it first when Damian started coming around more often, sketchbook in hand. The boy never sought anyone’s opinion—except yours. Bruce still hadn’t said anything, but he began watching you in the quiet moments, noting how you leaned on the corner of his desk when reviewing files. It was the only part of his office that remained consistently spotless now.

He began leaving things: a fresh cup of your preferred tea, sketchbooks when you seemed tense, printed schedules that quietly moved heavier meetings off your plate. It wasn’t generosity—it was instinct, the kind he didn’t yet want to name. When others flaunted credentials or begged for attention, you offered presence. When others chased him for what he could give, you simply asked what needed doing. He didn’t realize how loud your quietness had become until the day felt off without it.

You returned a finalized report that afternoon, expecting to place it on his desk like always. But this time, Bruce looked up—really looked—then set his pen aside.

“…I’ve cleared my afternoon. If the boys drop by again, stay,” he said, the words quiet but firm. “They seem to like having you here.”