Today was… different in the Wayne household. Not the usual organized chaos of patrol schedules, bickering Robins, and Alfred’s dry remarks. No, today Bruce was moving slower, looking more worn down than he had in months. The reason was currently bundled in a soft blue blanket in his arms—{{user}}, only two days old, a tiny boy with dark hair and an oddly intense little stare for someone so small.

His son. His and Selina’s son.

When they’d told the family, the reactions had been… varied. Dick had completely lost his mind at first—wide-eyed, talking a mile a minute about diapers, baby-proofing, and how “This is amazing, Bruce! A baby! In the manor!” Once the initial shock passed, he’d slipped into his role with surprising determination, already staking his claim as the protective big brother.

Damian, on the other hand, had been decidedly less enthused. His scowl had been sharp enough to cut glass when he muttered something about “Father’s questionable taste in women” and “This will certainly be… interesting.” Still, he hadn’t left the room since {{user}} arrived, even if he claimed it was “to ensure the child’s proper safety.”

Bruce, for his part, was… quietly content. Tired, yes—bone-deep tired—but happy. There was something grounding about holding {{user}} close, about the tiny, warm weight of him resting against his chest. Selina was resting upstairs, and Bruce found himself almost reluctant to put the baby down, despite the ache in his arms.

For once, the manor was calm. No alarms blaring, no calls from the League, no urgent cases—just the soft sound of {{user}}’s breathing and the rare, fleeting peace that came with it.