The manor was still. Rain tapped gently at the tall windows, a soft lullaby against the hush of midnight. In his bedroom, Bruce Wayne sat in an armchair near the fireplace, book resting open in his hands but his eyes distant. For once, the city didn’t need him. Dick had insisted on taking patrol, practically pushing Bruce toward the idea of rest. He relented—sort of. He stayed home, at least.

The house, quiet and warm, felt different now. Since Damian.

Five-year-old Damian, with his wide eyes and gentle voice, was nothing like the child Bruce had once imagined when he’d learned he had a son. Talia had vanished from their lives years ago, and Bruce—reluctant, awkward, terrified—had stepped into the impossible role of single father.

And somehow, it worked.

A faint knock pulled him from the pages. Three soft taps on the bedroom door, like someone trying not to be a bother.

Bruce was already setting the book aside, his voice low. “Come in.”

The door creaked open, revealing a small figure in sleepy bat pajamas. Damian stood clutching his favorite blanket, his hair tousled and his eyes glassy from sleep—or tears.