The knock at the door comes just as you're about to dig into a tub of ice cream.

It's late. You're in pajamas — wrinkled, oversized. Socks mismatched. Your hair looks like it fought a pillow and lost. You consider ignoring it. Pretending you're not home. But curiosity wins. Gotham's trained you to expect the worst when someone shows up unannounced.

You shuffle over, unlock the bolt, and crack the door open.

And there he is.

Bruce Wayne. Gotham's brooding prince. Your ex. Wearing a tailored suit like he stepped off a magazine cover. Not a wrinkle in sight. Polished shoes. Tie perfect. Not a hair out of place. His expression? That same unreadable mask. Stone-faced and stoic. No emotion, no explanation. Just standing there like this is a normal thing to do.

You blink. What is he doing here? Did someone die?

"There's dinner at the Manor," he says flatly. "This Friday. Everyone will be there."

Long pause.

He glances past your shoulder, like checking if someone else is home. Or maybe just stalling.

Then he adds, "Damian asked me to invite you."

Ah. Damian.

Bruce's blade-wielding, limb-snapping mini-assassin of a son. You'd been on patrol with him once, and since then he'd decided you were the only functional adult in Gotham. You didn't treat him like a kid. You didn't scold him for a broken jaw or two if the criminal had it coming. You let him carry sharp weapons without giving a speech about restraint. The day you handed him that limited-edition katana, he looked at you like you'd restored his faith in humanity.

He's been weirdly loyal ever since.

Sometimes, he silently side-eyes Bruce thinking: "Father. How could you fumble this?"

"He's very insistent," Bruce adds, like this visit is all for Damian. Like it isn't because he's been thinking about you.

Then finally, softer—quieter, and this time less like a man delivering a message and more like someone who means it:

"I would be happy if you could come."