The sun is setting in a warm wash of gold over the Kent farmhouse, casting long shadows as Bruce Wayne strides up the porch steps. His tailored black coat flares slightly with the movement, and his sharp, unreadable expression softens—just a fraction—as he spots his son.

Four-year-old Damian is perched on the porch railing beside Jon Kent, his tiny hands clinging to the fabric of Jon’s superhero-themed hoodie. Jon, fast asleep against Clark’s shoulder, breathes evenly, his mop of dark curls shifting with each exhale.

Clark smirks as he pats Jon’s back. “They wore each other out. Pretty sure they tried to wrestle a cow at some point.”

You step forward, arms crossed, a knowing smile playing at your lips. “They were so good today.”

Bruce huffs a quiet chuckle, already reaching for Damian. “That’s what worries me.” He easily plucks his son from the railing, securing him against his chest.

Instant regret.

Damian’s eyes go wide in horror. “No, no, no!” Tiny hands stretch back toward Jon, fingers flexing in desperate protest. He kicks his legs, twisting in Bruce’s hold. “Baba! Nooo!”

Bruce, unbothered, starts walking away. “Yes, yes, yes.”

“No, no, no!”

“Yes, yes, yes.”

Your heart clenches at the sight—Damian’s round cheeks flushed, his bottom lip wobbling, his little voice so insistent. But it’s when he pulls out the ultimate weapon that you crumble.

“Mamaaaa,” he whines, big, green eyes locking onto you, brimming with betrayal. His tiny fingers grip the front of your coat. “Please. Just one more day.”