Your Neighborhood Gremlin

“Two hours, twelve minutes if we’re lucky,” you’d said confidently that morning, balancing your travel mug of coffee in one hand and double-checking the last of Dick’s overnight bag with the other. Bruce had given you a look over the top of his own mug—black, no sugar, no soul.

“This is Gotham,” he replied. “We’re never lucky.”

And he was right. The drive stretched past three hours thanks to construction on the interstate, a four-car pileup near the city limits, and the classic Gotham exodus that happened every Friday when people remembered the rest of the state was quieter, cleaner, and didn’t smell like concrete and stress.

But you didn’t mind. Not really.

Bruce drove. One hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely on the gearshift. Aviators on. Hair slightly ruffled from the wind when he’d checked the tires that morning. Dick sat in the backseat, legs crossed under him, surrounded by snacks and his favorite blue hoodie zipped halfway up. You rode shotgun, one knee tucked under you, elbow out the open window, and your hand in the wind.

The car smelled like leather and your favorite lavender-scented travel wipes. Summer was in full swing now, which meant sunlight poured across Bruce’s arm, and the sky outside was that clear, humming sort of blue that Smallville did better than anywhere else.

It had been just over a month since Dick moved in. A few months more since the press release about the engagement hit the Gotham Gazette like a slap to the face. The article had used the words “bewildering” and “suspiciously convenient” in the same sentence. And that was one of the nicer ones.

You were born and raised in Smallville. Gossip there was practically currency. You learned early that it wasn’t about stopping the talk—it was about not letting it decide how you walked through town. In Gotham, it was louder. Glossier. Paparazzi, editorials, entire segments of talk shows dedicated to who wore what ring and whether or not you were pregnant. But it didn’t get under your skin.

Bruce had handled it exactly the way you expected: with the emotional range of a damp napkin and the subtlety of a live grenade.

“They’re saying it’s fake,” he’d told you one night, pacing your shared walk-in closet while you were still in a towel post-shower. “They think you bribed me. That you are a gold digger.”

He had said it as if it was the biggest offense of his life. You’d blinked at him, toweling your hair.

“They also think we got secretly married last month and that I’m already pregnant with twins. And that I’m secretly a soy sent to take all the billionaires down.”

That one got an actual sound from him. Somewhere between a scoff and a strangled laugh.

You’d shrugged. “People talk, Bruce. Small town, big city, it doesn’t matter. Back in Smallville they thought Clark was a government clone for three years because he grew six inches over a summer and got good at baseball. People just... need something to say.”

“I hate it,” he’d murmured, dropping onto the edge of the bed beside you.

You’d reached out and threaded your fingers through his. “I don’t. Because I know it’s not true.”

But the talking wore at him in ways it didn’t wear at you. And that was how you found yourself here—on the open road with the windows down, a smiling eight-year-old in the back seat, and your fiancé muttering about tractors under his breath while trying not to let the GPS recalculate a fifth time.

“You okay back there, bug?” you asked, craning your head toward the back seat.

Dick grinned up at you from where he was cradling his tablet. “Yeah! This is fun!”

“Still think so after three hours in traffic?” Bruce asked, glancing at him in the rearview mirror.

“I’ve been on longer trips,” Dick replied with a shrug. “Circus trains. Sometimes for days.”

That sobered Bruce a bit. Your fingers found his on the console between you and gave them a quiet squeeze.

Things had settled since Dick came come. The good kind of settled. Mornings were softer now, fuller. You’d wake up beside Bruce—something that still made your heart flutter in a completely unfair way—kiss his shoulder, brush your teeth while he stood behind you half-asleep, his hand on your waist like a paperweight keeping you tethered to the moment. Alfred made breakfast with quiet efficiency. You packed Dick’s lunch and walked him to the car like a suburban sitcom. He complained about math homework, asked if he could start karate (“we’ll talk about it”), and still hadn’t lost the habit of sleeping with one foot sticking out of the comforter.

“Well, this train stops soon,” you said, voice light again. “You’re going to love the farm. It’s huge.”

“Yeah?” Dick leaned forward a bit. “Like, how huge?”

You smiled. “Like, ‘can’t-see-the-end-of-it-even-on-your-bike’ huge. My parents run everything. Dairy cows, chickens, goats, sheep. A few horses. And acres and acres of crops.”

His eyes widened. “Real cows?”

You turned in your seat fully now, facing him. “Oh, yeah. Big ones. Brown ones, black-and-white ones. One with a weird splotch shaped like Florida on her side. And they moo at the sunrise like clockwork.”

“Can I pet them?”

“If you want.”

“Do they bite?”

“Only if you get between them and food.”

“That’s... fair.”

“They’re friendly,” you said with a shrug. “They’re like large dogs that smell like hay and don’t know how to be quiet.”

Dick laughed. “I’ve only seen cows in books. And elephants in real life.”

You smiled gently at that. “Yeah? Ever fed a goat?”

“Not unless you count the time a clown goat stole my hat.”

You blinked. “. . . A clown goat?”

“Circus stuff,” Dick said vaguely. “You wouldn’t get it.”

You turned to Bruce. “Did you get that?”

“Nope.”

“Me neither.”

You caught Dick smiling in the rearview mirror again.

“Are there really pigs?” he asked, leaning forward between the front seats, seatbelt cutting diagonally across his little chest.

“There are pigs,” you confirmed with a grin. “Loud ones. One of them’s named Sugarfoot. She’ll be your best friend if you bring her scraps.”

“Scraps?”

“Like leftover food. She’ll eat anything but especially likes peach peels and toast crusts.”

He gawked. “What about... circus peanuts?”

Bruce’s brow furrowed from behind the wheel. “What are circus peanuts?”

“They’re gross,” you said flatly. “Don’t feed anything those.”

Dick giggled and leaned back again, kicking his feet lightly. “What about the horses?”

“Three,” you nodded. “Two workhorses and one very old, very cranky pony. Her name’s Miss Patty. She’s missing a tooth and absolutely will bite you if you try to pet her before she’s ready.”

“That’s awesome,” Dick whispered reverently, like a kid being told he was about to meet a dragon.

You smiled, curling one leg beneath you in the passenger seat. “We got the nicest sheep as well. His name is Buttons.”

Bruce’s voice was amused. “You’re making these names up.”

“Swear I’m not,” you said, holding up a hand. “Buttons has been around since I was in middle school. He likes music. Especially banjo. My dad says he’s the reincarnation of an old musician.”

“That explains so much about your family,” Bruce muttered.

“You love my family.”

He glanced over at you, lips quirking. “I do.”

You pecked a kiss on his lips, giggling softly at the yuck sound that came out of Dick’s mouth.

“But for real,” you said, resting your chin on the back of the seat now, “the farm is something else. My mom makes fresh cinnamon rolls every morning. Dad insists on teaching people how to ride horses, even if they say no. And Clark will probably show up before dinner even though I told him not to.”

“You think he’ll bring Lois?” Bruce asked.

“God, I hope so. He’s less weird when she’s around.”

“Clark’s weird?” Dick asked, surprised.

You shrugged. “Farm weird. You’ll see.”

Bruce turned off the main highway and onto a long, winding road that started to look more and more like Kansas the deeper you went. The trees shifted. The air changed. That thick Gotham tension peeled off your shoulders slowly, like a winter coat you didn’t need anymore.

“Was it boring?”

“Sometimes. But mostly it was simple. Peaceful.”

“What did you do?”

“Well... I helped with the animals, especially in the mornings. Fed the chickens, gathered eggs, milked the cows when I was old enough.”

Dick looked scandalized. “You milked cows?! With your hands?!”

Bruce raised an eyebrow. “You drink milk every day.”

“That’s different! That’s bottle milk. This is cow milk!”

“Same milk, baby,” you mumbled, grinning. “But it’s not so bad. You’ll see.”

“Do you have a tractor?”

“Of course.”

“Can I drive it?”

“No.”

Dick pouted.

Eventually, the city gave way to rolling green. The horizon stopped being broken by towers and started bending into soft hills and pastures. You felt your heart shift in your chest, like it always did. It wasn’t homesickness. Not exactly. It was more like the ache of something familiar, calling softly from the bones.

You turned your head slightly, watching the familiar mailbox come into view. KENT, it read in bold white letters. Weathered but proud. And just beyond it, the long dirt road that led to the farmhouse—a two-story white structure with a wraparound porch and a rocking chair that hadn’t stopped creaking in twenty years. A barn just beyond. Sheds and silos and tractors and fencing. And wide, wide skies above it all.

“There it is,” you said.

Bruce slowed the car as he turned up the long path, tires crunching against the gravel. Dick pressed his face to the window.

“Whoa,” he breathed.

You smiled.

“Welcome to the middle of nowhere, baby bird. See those fields?” you pointed. “My old man plants corn there. Over there’s wheat. And the far side? Pumpkins, watermelons, whatever’s in season.”

“There’s so much space.“

“I told you.”

Your ma was already outside. She waved wildly, apron fluttering behind her, and your dad stood beside her, one hand raised in that steady, solid Kent way.

Bruce parked the car. Before he could even put it in park, Dick was unbuckled and scrambling out of the back seat, eyes wide.

“This is like five circuses!” he shouted.

You opened the door and stepped out, your feet crunching into gravel. “Don’t cry, don’t cry,” you muttered to yourself. “You can cry later.”

Dick made a noise that sounded like joy and disbelief all in one. He pointed at a chicken. “It’s real!“

“Yes,” you said. “And she doesn’t like being chased, so be gentle.”

Bruce chuckled.

Your mom reached you first and wrapped you in a tight hug, murmuring something about your hair being longer than last time. Then she pulled back and cupped your face, eyes glassy.

“You look happy,” she whispered.

“I am,” you said.

And then Dick stepped forward, backpack slung over one shoulder, eyes wide and uncertain.

You turned and gestured. “Mama, Dad—this is Dick.”

Your mother’s face softened immediately. She crouched a little and smiled.

“Well, aren’t you just handsome as all get out,” she said warmly. “We’ve heard so much about you, sweetheart.”

Dick blinked. “You have?”

“Of course,” crouched down in front of him, sticking out a hand. “You’re all she talks about.”

You blushed lightly. “Lies.”

“True lies.”

Dick looked at the hand. Then at you. Then shook it, awkward but firm. “Thanks for letting me come.”

“Come?” your mom laughed gently. “This is your home too, honey.”

Dick blinked. He didn’t say anything.

But he didn’t stop smiling for the rest of the day.

The next few hours passed in a blur of warm air, fresh lemonade, and laughter. Dick met every animal. He held a baby goat like it was made of glass. He shrieked when a pig sniffed his leg. He got pecked by a chicken once and then demanded a rematch.

Now the golden sky outside was dimming into dusk, the air carrying that peaceful hum only Smallville evenings could offer—the buzzing of insects, the slow rustle of wheat fields, a distant owl, and the occasional stubborn squeal from Sugarfoot the pig. She hadn’t stopped begging since Dick gave her a crust from his sandwich.

You were at the sink helping with dishes when the familiar whoosh of displaced air passed through the open window over the stove.

You didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. But you did turn around to open the door.

“About time!” you called, grinning.

“We had to stop for pie!” Lois shouted back, sliding off Clark’s back like a practiced gymnast. “Clark heard about a new bakery halfway between here and Metropolis and wouldn’t shut up about it!”

“I brought two kinds,” Clark offered, sheepish but proud.

You hugged him first—tight, firm, grounding. His arms came around you like always, anchoring you to the world.

“Took you long enough. Ma’s been asking about you since breakfast.”

“I brought her Lois. That should buy me a couple forgiveness points,” he replied, kissing the top of your head.

Lois got you next, rolling her eyes. She always smelled like expensive lipstick and newsroom ink. Her hugs were fierce. Comforting. “What he means is, I had to remind him it was tonight and that showing up in his suit would probably give the local mailman another heart attack.”

You laughed, hugging her back as tight as you could. “God, I missed you.”

“Missed you more.”

Dick was on the floor at the edge of the kitchen, playing with the old box of mismatched toy soldiers and tiny animal figurines your dad had kept since your childhood. He froze when he looked up.

He lit up like the sun, then turned and ran straight at Clark with his arms open.

“Uncle Clark!” he shouted.

Clark looked stunned for all of a second before catching him, arms easily wrapping around the boy, spinning him once like a leaf.

“Hey, buddy,” he said, laughing. “You’ve grown at least two inches since I saw you!”

“I’ve been drinking milk,” Dick explained seriously. “And I do jumping jacks.”

Then, he kissed Lois’s cheek and smiled proudly when she ruffled his hair and told him he would be as tall as Clark in any moment. He watched them go, and finally landed his eyes on you.

You watched the moment land. The way his eyes narrowed. How his brows furrowed. He leaned in close and whispered, “I have to tell you something, but you need to promise that you won’t say anything.”

You pushed your fingers to your mouth, closing an imaginary zipper.

“Uncle Clark is Superman.”

You coughed gently, biting back a smile. “Is he now?”

“I can tell,” he whispered quickly. “He landed like whoosh, and he’s huge, and his hair does the same thing, and—he’s totally Superman. I have been keeping the secret because I think he doesn’t want any of us to know.”

“Well,” you said softly, kneeling beside him, “that sounds like a pretty big secret to keep, huh?”

Dick nodded gravely, like a knight being sworn into sacred service.

You gave his shoulder a squeeze. “Then I guess it’s lucky it was you who found out.”

Dinner was loud. Warm.

Your mom cried once—not dramatically, just a soft wipe of the corner of her eye when Clark passed her the potatoes and said it was good to be home. Your dad kept pouring lemonade, Bruce buttered every roll within arm’s reach, Lois recounted a dramatic story about a senator’s toupee, and Dick sat between Clark and you, asking questions between every bite of sweet corn and meatloaf your ma had been slipping into his plate.

Clark answered every single one with patience, wit, and affection. He always had been the best at that. The best at listening like a child’s voice was the most important sound in the world.

Bruce stayed quieter. Not silent—just watchful. He always did that when he felt like the odd man out. You bumped his knee under the table when he got too still. He nudged you back, then took your hand and played with your ring under the table while Dick explained to Clark the entire backstory of a tv show he had been watching lately.

Later, after dishes were stacked and your parents had excused themselves to bed—your mom insisting you didn’t have to clean up, and your dad offering Clark a jar of pickles “for the trip back”—the house settled into that soft nighttime rhythm you hadn’t felt in years.

The windows were open. The breeze cool. Fireflies blinked lazily across the yard.

Bruce had gone out back to check the barn doors, quietly making sure everything was locked and squared away for the night. Lois sat with Dick at the dining table, a worn deck of cards between them as she taught him how to play gin rummy, her voice low and conspiratorial.

You stood at the sink, rinsing out the last pie plate, when Clark appeared beside you, rolling up his sleeves.

“I was wondering when you were going to come help,” you teased.

“I had to wait until the real work was done,” he replied, nudging your hip with his.

You bumped him back.

Together, the two of you worked in comfortable silence for a few minutes. Clark scrubbed. You rinsed. A few crickets chirped. A dog barked in the distance.

“You’re really happy,” Clark said eventually, his voice soft.

You glanced at him. He wasn’t looking at you—just scrubbing gently at a stubborn pie crust.

“I am,” you replied. “It feels... real. It’s good. Hard sometimes. But it’s good.”

He nodded. “I can see that.”

You dried your hands slowly, glancing toward the table where Dick was now dramatically laying down his cards and grinning at Lois like he’d conquered Rome.

“He’s amazing,” you whispered. “He’s so smart. So sweet. And God, Clark, he’s been through so much. And he still smiles like that.”

“You’re good for him.”

“So is Bruce.”

Clark chuckled. “I never thought I’d say that. But yeah. He is.”

You leaned your head against your brother’s shoulder for a moment, letting the comfort of shared history settle around you.

“And that kid loves you.”

You looked to the side, where Dick was showing Lois a card and laughing too loud.

“Yeah,” you said. “I love him too.”

He kissed the top of your head. “You’re doing amazing.”

You leaned into him. “Thanks, Clark.”

Outside, the porch creaked quietly—Bruce returning. You met him at the door, his sleeves rolled to his elbows, moonlight painting silver along his jaw.

“All clear?” you asked.

“Miss Patty stared at me like I owed her something,” he muttered. “Otherwise, yeah.”

You stepped closer and wrapped your arms around his waist. “She thinks you’re competition.”

Bruce kissed the top of your head. “Not anymore. I know better than to cross her.”

You leaned back enough to look up at him. The soft porch light caught the shadows under his eyes.

“You okay?” you asked.

He hesitated. “I thought coming here would help me get . . my mind off the headlines but . . .”

“I know.”

You didn’t need to ask what kind. It was always the same. Headlines with too many adjectives. Panel shows questioning your motives. Online threads tracking the price of your dress from the engagement party you didn’t even know someone photographed.

“I’m used to it,” you whispered.

“You shouldn’t have to be.”

You tilted your face to look up at him, your fingers sliding beneath his sweater, brushing against his shirt.

“I grew up in Smallville,” you said softly. “The mailman knew when I had a crush in fourth grade because I started checking the mailbox three times a day. There isn’t a rumor I haven’t heard. This is just... louder.”

His jaw tightened. “You deserve peace.”

“I have it,” you said. “Right here.”

He looked down at you then, eyes dark in the evening light, and kissed you—soft, slow, like it was the first time. Like he wanted to memorize your mouth. You sank into it, arms curling around his neck, your body finding his like it always did.

When you pulled back, you whispered, “You’re not alone, Bruce.”

“I know,” he said, kissing your forehead. “I still don’t know how I got this lucky.”

You kissed him then. Gentle. Lingering. His hand settled on your waist, anchoring himself to you like he always did when the world tilted too far.

Lois’s voice called from the dining room, “He beat me again! What kind of child prodigy are you raising?!”

Dick laughed. Loud. Carefree. Happy.

And later, when the house finally fell quiet, the dishes done, the windows closed, the fireflies fading, and Bruce locked the last door—Dick found his way into your old room, clutching his pillow and blinking sleepily.

“Can I sleep with you?” he asked.

You were already brushing your teeth in the little bathroom. Bruce nodded without hesitation.

That night, like he did sometimes in Gotham, Dick curled up between you both—tiny limbs sprawled out, the safest place in the world sealed between two steady heartbeats, mouth half-open in sleep. Your hand brushed gently through his dark hair.

Bruce reached over Dick’s shoulder and caught your fingers.

“Goodnight,” you whispered.

“Goodnight,” he murmured, lips brushing your knuckles.

Dick sighed in his sleep and reached for your arm, pulling it around his chest. You fell asleep with your son tucked in your arms, the man you loved at your side, and the world outside silent for once.

And somewhere beyond the quiet, the wind whispered through the wheat fields, soft and low and sweet.

You were home.

The soft click-clack of your keyboard was the only sound in the office, apart from the muted hum of the coffee machine down the hall. It was late morning, and the light streaming through your windows painted gold streaks across your desk. Your day had started like any other—Bruce in early meetings, Alfred sending an affectionate reminder about your vitamins via text, and Dick at school with his lunchbox packed neatly by your hands.

You were mid-email when your personal phone rang.

Which was strange. No one ever called your personal line during business hours—everyone knew you were Bruce Wayne’s secretary, and your work phone was practically glued to your hip. The personal number was only for family. For emergencies. For home.

Your hand paused over the keyboard as you glanced down, heart already climbing. You didn’t recognize the number, but something inside your chest twisted—tight and immediate.

You answered quickly. “Hello?”

A pause. Then:

“Miss Kent?”

The voice was smooth, professional, and unfamiliar.

“Yes,” you said, already straightening. “Speaking. Who is this?”

“This is Principal Langley from Gotham’s Private Elementary. I’m calling about Richard.”

Your stomach dropped.

You stood up, eyes locking on your office door like you could somehow see through it, as if your sudden anxiety might pull him into the room. “Is he okay?”

“He’s physically fine,” she said gently, and the pause that followed was the kind you’d learned to dread as a Kent—too long, too careful. “But he’s... He won’t stop crying, and we haven’t been able to get him to calm down. We thought it best to call you directly. It might be best if he went home for the day.”

You didn’t ask any more questions.

You just grabbed your coat, pressed the intercom button to inform that you were stepping out, and left. You didn’t bother calling Bruce. He was in the middle of a presentation with WayneTech’s board. He’d find out later. Right now, this was yours to handle.

Wayne Enterprises was exactly twenty-one minutes from Dick’s school if you took the express lane, which you did, and which only shaved it down to fifteen. Still, every second burned. You barely registered the passing streets or the honks or the occasional curious driver doing a double-take at the sight of Bruce Wayne’s secretary barreling through Gotham traffic like her heart was in her throat.

Because it was.

The front office staff was polite—too polite, too composed for what your bones already knew. You could hear it the moment you stepped in. Not the sound itself—Dick was quiet now—but the absence of noise, like every child in the front building had learned silence by association.

When they led you to the principal’s office, you saw him.

Hunched in a chair too big for him, feet not touching the floor, his backpack clutched in his lap like a lifeline. His face was blotchy. Red. Tear tracks down both cheeks. His eyes were glassy and exhausted. He looked up the second you stepped in, and the way he stood nearly knocked the air from your lungs.

“Sweetheart,” you breathed.

He didn’t say anything. Just ran to you.

You crouched to catch him, arms wrapping tight, your whole body curling around his.

“Oh, baby,” you breathed, holding the back of his head. “I’m here. I’m here.”

He didn’t talk. Just sobbed into your shoulder, shaking like he’d been holding it in too long. You rocked him gently, hand stroking down his back, murmuring soft comforts against his hair.

“I’ve got you,” you whispered. “You’re okay now. I’m here.”

It took time. You didn’t rush it.

Eventually, the sobs became sniffles, then long, shaky breaths.

You thanked the principal quietly, took his hand, and led him out. He held your palm like he never wanted to let go.

Outside, on the front steps, you knelt beside him, brushing the damp hair back from his forehead. “Do you want to talk about it?”

He shook his head.

“That’s okay,” you said gently. “You can talk when you’re ready. Or not at all. I’m just glad you called me.”

He nodded, still sniffling. “I didn’t mean to cry so much.”

“You can cry as much as you want, bug. That’s allowed. You don’t have to be brave all the time.”

“I wanted to be good,” he whispered. “I didn’t want you and Bruce to send me back.”

Your heart shattered so quickly it left splinters.

“Oh, Dick,” you breathed, pulling him back into your arms. “We would never. Never, never. You’re ours. You hear me?”

He nodded, pressing his face into your collar.

You took him to work.

There was no way you were leaving him alone, and Bruce—currently locked in a board meeting on the twentieth floor—had made it explicitly clear that your judgment was the final one when it came to Dick.

So, that afternoon, Wayne Enterprises had its first unofficial “Take Your Child to Work” day.

You tucked him into your office, laid a soft throw blanket on the carpet, and gave him your emergency sketchpad—the one you kept in your desk for stress-doodling during long calls.

He flopped down stomach-first, crayons splayed around him, drawing with fierce focus. His face was still swollen. His eyes tired. But he looked calm now. Grounded.

Safe.

You worked quietly, pausing every few minutes to peek at him—still there, still okay. He showed you a picture he drew of Buttons. You promised to hang it on your office wall.

Everything was steady. Everything was soft.

Until the shouting started.

It wasn’t loud, exactly—but the tone pierced through your focus like a knife. You frowned, looked up, and heard it again—a sharp, irritated woman’s voice cutting through the hallway like she owned the floor.

“...I don’t care what Eloise said—he’ll see me!”

You stood, pushed open your office door, and stopped.

Security was gathered in front of the elevators. Eloise, the sweet lower-floor receptionist who adored you, stood awkwardly between two suited guards, trying to reason with someone neither of them could seem to wrangle.

A woman. Tall, stunning, tan, and furious.

You knew her. Of course you did.

Carla Vrenzi.

One of Bruce’s old companions. A supermodel with a temper, a flair for melodrama, and an ego that could crack titanium. You’d taken her call many months ago—her voice shrill and furious through the speaker, hurling curses because Bruce hadn’t called her back. You remembered the way she spat his name. The way she hung up on you.

And now she was here.

Your heart dipped.

She spotted you almost instantly.

“Oh,” she sneered. “You.”

Eloise turned, clearly panicked. “Miss Kent, we were trying to escort her down—”

“Don’t bother,” the woman snapped. “Miss ‘Personal Assistant,’ huh? Is this where Bruce keeps you now? Like a little lapdog? Is that why you spread your legs—because you were tired of faxing his schedules?!”

You stiffened, spine going taut.

Eloise looked horrified. “Ma’am, please—”

“You’re nothing!” Carla screamed. “A secretary! A poor little hayseed pretending she’s a Wayne! I’ve worn shoes more expensive than you!”

“Miss Kent,” Eloise repeated urgently. “Please go back into your office.”

Her face twisted. “You think that ring makes you anything? You’re a novelty act. A toy. Do you know how many of us there’ve been? How many women he’s tossed aside like—”

“Stop it,” you said quietly.

She didn’t. She took a step closer. “You t6think you matter? A farmer’s daughter with a clipboard and good hair? You’ll be gone in a year. Maybe less. You’ll wake up one morning in that big house, and he’ll be gone. And you’ll still be nothing.”

The floor felt like it had dropped from beneath you.

You didn’t cry. You didn’t flinch. But you felt your stomach twist, a cold coil of shame and doubt rising.

And then—

“HEY!”

Dick’s voice cracked like lightning.

He stood in your doorway, small but unshaking, fists clenched at his sides, nose wrinkled in absolute fury.

“Don’t talk to my mom like that!”

The hallway fell dead silent.

Carla turned, startled.

“I don’t care who you are!” he shouted, stepping in front of you with a look on his face that was half fury, half fire. “You don’t talk to her like that!”

The woman blinked. “Excuse me—”

“She’s amazing!” he yelled. “She’s kind and smart and funny and she makes the best waffles ever and Bruce loves her a lot! And I love her!”

“Kid—”

“And you’re mean!” he yelled, cheeks flushing, eyes brimming but not crying. “You’re mean and stupid and nobody wants you here!”

The whole hallway went silent.

You didn’t say a word. Didn’t need to. Because your eight-year-old son had already said everything.

Carla opened her mouth again—but the security guard beside her had had enough. “Ma’am, you need to leave the premises. Now.”

She huffed, sputtered, still fuming. But she turned.

Dick didn’t move until the elevator doors closed behind her.

Silence lingered.

And then Dick turned back to you, his chest rising and falling fast. His mouth opened like he wanted to apologize, perhaps for screaming, but you pulled him into your arms before he could say anything.

Tight. Fierce. Real.

He clung to you like he had at the school—only this time, he wasn’t broken. He was angry. Protective.

Yours.

You buried your face in his hair, tears welling in your eyes. “You called me your mom.”

His arms tightened. “I meant it.”

You swallowed hard. “You’ve never said that before.”

“I didn’t know if I could.”

You pulled back, just enough to look him in the face.

His cheeks were blotchy again. But this time, it wasn’t from sadness. It was from fire. From love.

“You can,” you whispered. “You can call me anything, bug. Anything you want. But that was the nicest you could have called me. Made me the proudest woman on Gotham. On Earth!.”

He smiled through the tears. “I think I liked calling you mom as well.”

You laughed and cried. You kissed his forehead as the hall slowly resumed normalcy, your coworkers sneaking glances, eyes wide and glassy.

But it didn’t matter.

Because in that moment—in that warm, golden, real moment—you were exactly who you wanted to be. Not Bruce’s fiancée. Not the secretary. Not the girl from the farm.