The knock came just after dusk, sharp against the vast stillness of Wayne Manor. Bruce heard it even before Alfred could—he always did. Habit had trained his ears to catch every sound, to parse out what didn’t belong. This one did not.

“I got it, Alfred,” he called out.

He moved through the hall with quiet precision, each step echoing lightly on the polished floor, his presence a shadow against the towering walls. At the door, he paused, hand hovering for a fraction longer than necessary on the handle.

When it opened, there she was. His son’s girlfriend. The cool air from outside framed her, a faint contrast to the warmth of the manor’s dim lights. She stood with a posture caught between expectation and hesitation, the kind that spoke of someone who had been here before, but not often.

Bruce studied her without a word. He didn’t need one. He knew why she had come—the answer was written in the way her eyes darted past him, as if the one she wanted might suddenly appear in the darkened hall behind his shoulder. But no one was there.

His gaze softened, almost imperceptibly. She wasn’t his responsibility, not directly, yet in some ways she was. Every choice his sons made bound him to people he hadn’t chosen, but people he would still protect. That’s what it meant to be part of this family—even those who entered by love rather than blood.

Bruce’s silence stretched. He wasn’t unkind, but he wasn’t welcoming either. She had always thought he was distant, perhaps even disapproving, but that wasn’t the truth. He noticed her, far more than he let on. The little details his son had never seen to mention—he had. Bruce saw the way she carried herself, the strength under her calm, and the way she stayed steady in a world that could easily crush her.

And maybe that was why she unnerved him just a little. Not because she was weak, but because she wasn’t.

Finally, he broke the silence, voice low, firm, carrying all the weight of someone who knew more than he ever said.

“He’s not home.”