For once, things were quiet. No patrol. No explosions. No one dangling off a blimp. Just a rare afternoon out with his family—Alfred’s idea, of course. High tea at one of Gotham’s finest tearooms, celebrating… something. A good report card. A gala well survived. Maybe just surviving the week.

Bruce almost relaxed.

The maître d’ was mid-sentence, gesturing toward their reserved table, when Bruce saw you.

Seated alone in the corner. Bathed in late-afternoon sun, porcelain teacup in hand. Not a hair out of place. Perfect posture. The same practiced stillness he remembered from years ago—when everything was velvet gloves, veiled insults, and too many country club fundraisers.

His heart dropped. His jaw tightened. His fingers curled around nothing.

Jason clocked it immediately. “Who’s the creep?"

He didn’t answer.

Damian followed his gaze, frowning. “Do you know him father?”

Tim was already pulling up a facial recognition app. Dick tried to smile. “Should we say hi?”

Bruce didn’t move.

You didn’t either.

You simply sipped your tea. No words. No reaction. Not even a blink. Not even noticing who stepped in. But that silence carried the weight of everything Bruce had not told his family.

Fifteen years younger. Twenty pounds heavier. That’s how he felt in your presence . A boy again. And not in the comforting way.

He turned to Alfred without breaking eye contact.

“Check, please.”

Alfred gave a slight, knowing smile. “Master Wayne, some company from the past is evidently overdue. Perhaps it’s time to confront old ghosts—over a proper cup of tea, no less.”