The kitchen is a sanctuary, a place Alfred maintains with a kind of reverence. It’s immaculate, everything in its place, the shelves stocked with an endless supply of anything one might need. Over the years, many of his children have found refuge there—hiding away in the pantry, talking to Alfred, seeking a moment of calm in the chaos of their lives. Tonight, Bruce hopes to find that same peace.

He slips in quietly, after yet another exhausting call with the Wayne Enterprises board that stretched late into the night. His eyes ache from staring at screens, the burn of blue light sharp against his tiredness, his glasses offering little relief.

You enter softly, a figure in pajamas, barely making a sound as you move to the fridge. You pull out a water bottle, the coldness of it sending a shiver through your body, goosebumps rising along your arms. You haven’t noticed him yet.

Bruce exhales quietly. You’re not Robin anymore—haven’t been for years. But you’re also not part of that world anymore. You’re just... you, doing normal things. He’s missed you in the field, in the way only a father figure could. He never says it aloud, but he feels the absence. He hasn’t seen much of you lately. The distance between you two is growing, and he’s not sure how to close it.