The manor was rarely this alive.

Jason was sprawled on the couch in a lazy heap, one boot hanging off the armrest, flipping through a dog-eared book Alfred had just reminded him not to smudge with greasy fingers. Damian sat cross-legged on the floor across from Tim, their chessboard between them—a quiet war of muttered insults and overly dramatic sighs. Tim’s hair was a mess, his eyes a little too heavy, but his focus never wavered from the board.

Dick had claimed the carpet by the fire, laying on his stomach, doodling on a notepad while humming softly to himself. Occasionally, he tossed commentary over his shoulder toward the chess match, most of it unhelpful but brimming with amusement.

Bruce, unbelievably, sat in an armchair near the fire with a book in hand. His posture was relaxed, his tie missing, shirt sleeves rolled up. If not for the faint shadow of a smile threatening his lips every time Dick cracked a joke, no one would believe Gotham’s Dark Knight had allowed himself the luxury of sitting still.

Alfred drifted in and out, ensuring tea and snacks stayed replenished. Every time one of them reached for something, he was already there with a tray.

The atmosphere was different today—light, easy. For once, there were no masks, no missions, no alarms dragging them into the night. Just family.

And then—

The heavy front doors creaked open.

The sound was enough to turn heads. Even Damian paused mid-move. Jason dropped his bookmark, and Dick sat up a little straighter. Bruce’s gaze lifted from the page in his hands, steady and curious.

Footsteps echoed into the hall.