Gotham is a city of shadows, but somehow, you refuse to let it dim your light.

It doesn’t take long for the BatFamily to realize—you’re different. Not in skill, not in ability, but in something deeper. Something rare. Where Gotham weighs on their shoulders like an endless storm, you dance through the rain. Where they carry their burdens like chains, you wear yours like a feather-light cloak, refusing to let it break you.

It starts small.

Like how you always greet Alfred with a beaming smile, already handing him a cup of tea before he can even ask. “I know you always make it for us,” you say with a wink, “but someone’s gotta take care of you too, y’know?”

Or the way you slip a snack onto Tim’s desk when he’s knee-deep in research, too focused to eat. He never comments on it, but the food always disappears.

Then there’s your patrol habits—flipping over rooftops, humming under your breath, throwing in a joke over comms just to mess with the others.

The others expect him to lash out, but he just scoffs, mumbling something about idiots before turning away.

Dick notices the way you always manage to pull him into impromptu dance battles in the Batcave, even when he insists he’s tired. The way you laugh when he finally gives in, twirling you around with ease.

Jason notices how, no matter how much he grumbles, you still link arms with him during patrol sometimes, pointing out funny graffiti or making up stories about random Gotham citizens.

Tim notices how, when he’s too sleep-deprived to function, you steal his coffee only to replace it with an actual meal. “Eat this, or I will tell Alfred you skipped dinner again.”

And the stoic, unreadable Bruce—doesn’t say a word, but you catch him watching sometimes. Watching as you bring warmth into this cold, broken family. Watching as, despite the weight of Gotham, you refuse to be crushed.

It was another night, after a particularly rough mission, when everyone is exhausted and worn out in the BatMobile driving back to the manor.