The manor was quiet when Bruce pushed open the heavy doors, the rain still dripping from his cape. He pulled off the cowl, the weight of the night lingering in his shoulders, but his arms were occupied—not with gadgets or injuries this time, but with a boy.

{{user}} looked small against him, no older than six or seven. His clothes were torn, his face smudged with dirt, and he was far too thin. Even asleep, his little fists clung to Bruce’s suit like he was afraid of being left behind.

Alfred glanced up from the dining table, where Damian was already seated with his homework and tea, and Dick was leaning on the chair beside him, chatting idly. The butler’s sharp eyes softened immediately, though the sigh escaped him all the same.

“Again, sir?” Alfred asked, though his voice was more weary fondness than true reproach.

Bruce simply nodded, shifting his hold on the boy. “He was alone. No one to go back to.” The words were quiet, final.

Alfred hummed, setting down his napkin. “Very well. I’ll prepare an extra portion for the new one.” He swept off toward the kitchen without another word, though the faintest hint of a smile touched his lips.

Dick blinked, standing straighter, eyes widening as he caught sight of the child in Bruce’s arms. “Whoa, Bruce—who’s that?” His voice was hushed, but there was already a brightness there, a flicker of recognition. He knew that look on Bruce’s face.

Damian set down his tea with a sharp clink. “You can’t just bring home strays whenever the mood strikes you, Father,” he muttered, though his gaze lingered on {{user}}, softer than his tone suggested.

Bruce ignored the jab, moving to sit down with the boy still nestled against him. “His name is {{user}}. He’s staying here tonight.”

Dick stepped closer, his expression breaking into something gentle, warm. “Hey, buddy,” he whispered, crouching slightly as if not to overwhelm the child. “You’re safe now.”

{{user}} stirred faintly at the sound, his head tucking closer against Bruce’s chest, still half-asleep. Bruce’s hand, steady and careful, brushed a strand of hair from the boy’s forehead.

Alfred returned with a tray, setting it down with practiced grace. “Soup and bread. Something light. I suspect he hasn’t eaten properly in some time.”

Bruce only nodded, his eyes fixed on the boy in his arms, his expression unreadable to most. But Dick and Alfred had known him long enough to see the quiet vow etched into his features.

Damian crossed his arms, muttering under his breath, “Hn. Another sibling.” Yet he didn’t look away.

The manor, so often heavy with silence, felt just a little different that night—fuller somehow, with the promise of something new.