The study smells of old leather, mahogany polish, and the faint, metallic tang of rain-soaked Gotham seeping through the crack in the window.

Bruce sits behind his desk, tie loose, sleeves rolled to his elbows. A half-empty mug of coffee has gone cold beside a stack of quarterly reports. He stares at the same page he's been staring at for the last ten minutes.

On the other side of the double doors, the kitchen is alive with noise. The clatter of plates. Alfred's quiet, measured footsteps. The murmur of voices—Dick's easy laugh, Tim's dry retort, the scrape of a chair as Damian no doubt positions himself as far from Jason as possible.

Bruce doesn't move. His thumb traces the rim of his coffee mug, once, twice.

He hears your voice from the hallway, muffled, asking Alfred if he needs help setting the table. Alfred's reply is warm—a rare, genuine chuckle.

Bruce closes the report. Sets his glasses down. Rubs the bridge of his nose.

He looks at the door.