Tomorrow (on indefinite break)

Harry’s room was a sanctuary of darkness as he gently closed the door behind him. The only illumination came from a sliver of moonlight sneaking through the edges of the curtain, painting faint silver lines across the floor. His exhaustion clung to him like a weight, making his limbs feel heavy and uncooperative. He stumbled toward the bed and collapsed onto it without bothering to remove his dress shirt or slacks. The mattress welcomed him like a soft embrace, and he let out a long, shuddering breath.

There was no need to pull the covers over himself—he didn’t have the energy to. For once, he didn’t care. Within moments, the tension in his body ebbed away, his breathing evened out, and he slipped into the dark abyss of sleep. Thankfully, this time, his mind granted him mercy. No nightmares or haunting memories clawing their way to the surface. It was the kind of dreamless sleep Harry rarely experienced, a void born out of sheer mental and physical exhaustion.

When he awoke, the room was still cloaked in shadows, though the faint hum of the house told him it was well into the night. His body ached in the familiar way it always did after a day spent battling himself, but there was something else—a sticky, uncomfortable feeling clinging to his skin. He ran a hand through his hair, grimacing at the grease and sweat. He needed a shower.

Gathering his things, Harry padded softly to the bathroom. He avoided his reflection at first, keeping his head down as he set his clean clothes on the counter. But the pull of curiosity, or maybe something deeper, dragged his gaze upward.

The fluorescent light buzzed softly, illuminating the face staring back at him. The bags under his eyes, once a deep purple, were starting to lighten, though they still marked him as someone who rarely rested. His green eyes, usually dull and guarded, looked a little brighter. The streak of white in his otherwise dark hair caught his attention, and he ruffled it absently. It was growing out, the ends curling slightly over his ears. He needed a haircut.

Harry pulled his shirt over his head, folding it neatly and setting it aside. His eyes drifted over the scars etched into his torso, lines, and marks that told stories he’d rather not remember. Each scar was a reminder of the battles he’d fought—and the ones he’d lost. He was forever marked, a walking map of pain and survival. His fingers brushed over the puffy, raised skin near his ribs, and he clenched his jaw, swallowing the lump in his throat. There was no point dwelling on it.

The hot water of the shower greeted him like a balm, steaming the room and fogging the mirror. He stood under the spray, letting the water cascade over his tense muscles, washing away the grime and the remnants of the day. Scrubbing his scalp vigorously, he closed his eyes, trying to ignore the sensation of his hands running over scars as he washed his body. The indents and rough patches under his fingertips made his stomach churn, but he forced himself to continue. It was just another part of him now, something he couldn’t change.

Once clean, Harry stepped out, wrapping himself in a towel and drying off quickly. He slipped into a simple short-sleeve shirt and a pair of loose pants, grimacing at the sight of his bare forearms. His long-sleeved shirts were all dirty, and he knew he’d have to do laundry. He sighed softly, resigning himself to the task.

The house was silent as he descended the stairs, his footsteps barely making a sound on the polished wood. He moved like a shadow, wary of disturbing anyone at this late hour. When he reached the laundry room, he quietly loaded the washer, setting it to run as softly as possible.

With the hum of the machine as his only company, Harry moved to the kitchen. The familiar ritual of making tea was comforting, grounding him as he brewed a simple cup. The fragrant steam curled around his face, and he closed his eyes, inhaling deeply.

The sound of footsteps startled him, and he turned to see Alfred entering the kitchen. The older man offered a soft, knowing smile as he approached.

“Couldn’t sleep, Mr. Black?” Alfred asked, his voice gentle.

Harry shrugged, returning the smile weakly. “Not really. Thought I’d get some laundry done and have tea.”

Alfred’s eyes lingered on Harry for a moment before he sat down at the table. “I know that restlessness well,” he said quietly. “You see, I was in the military myself. And while I would never presume to understand your experiences, I can recognize a fellow soldier when I see one.”

Harry’s stomach twisted at Alfred’s words, but he said nothing, focusing instead on his tea.

“I suspected as much when you first arrived,” Alfred continued. “The way you carry yourself, the look in your eyes… It’s not something you can fake. I recruited you, in part, because I thought you might benefit from a sense of stability. I needed that once, too.”

The words hung in the air, heavy with meaning. Harry looked up, his expression conflicted. “I… I’m not sure what to say to that.”

Alfred gave him a small, understanding smile. “You don’t need to say anything, Mr. Black. Just know that you don’t have to carry it all alone. You’re among friends here.”

Harry hesitated before nodding. “Thank you,” he said softly. Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, “And… call me Harry. Please.”

Alfred’s smile widened a flicker of relief in his eyes. “Very well, Harry. Now, drink your tea. I suspect you’ll be needing it in the days to come.”

Harry took a careful sip of his tea, letting the warmth settle in his chest. The stillness of the kitchen, coupled with Alfred’s calm presence, made it harder to keep the walls around hhimfully intact. Something about the older man felt trustworthy like he wouldn’t push too far. And maybe, just maybe, Harry was tired of holding everything in.

“I was a soldier,” he said quietly, breaking the silence. His voice wavered, but he forced himself to continue. “It was… different. Not like the military, though. It was underground.” He looked down at the table, tracing a grain in the wood with his finger. “I’m not allowed to talk about much. It was all… classified, I guess. Just… not something most people know exists.”

Alfred nodded, his expression steady but not judgmental. He didn’t push or prod, instead waiting for Harry to speak at his own pace.

“It wasn’t organized like proper armies,” Harry went on, his tone bitter. “No rank or medals. No training half the time. You just… survived. Fought because you had to, because there wasn’t any other option. And when it was over…” He trailed off, shaking his head as though the words were too heavy to carry. “Well, it doesn’t end, does it? It stays with you.”

Alfred’s eyes softened, his gaze never leaving Harry’s. “No, it doesn’t,” he said quietly. “But it can get easier, with time and support. The kind of burden you’ve carried isn’t something you should face alone.”

Harry didn’t respond immediately. His hands tightened slightly around the mug, his knuckles going white. “I’m used to being alone,” he admitted. “It’s just… easier. No one else gets hurt that way.”

“Perhaps,” Alfred replied gently, “but I’d wager the isolation weighs on you more than you’d like to admit. And from what I’ve seen, you’re far more capable of connecting with people than you give yourself credit for. The others here, for instance—they already see you as one of us. Whether or not you see it yet, that connection is there.”

Harry’s lips twitched in a small, fleeting smile. “You’re good at this,” he murmured, not quite ready to fully accept Alfred’s words but unwilling to dismiss them either.

“I’ve had my fair share of practice,” Alfred said with a hint of humor, though the weight of his own experiences lingered behind his tone. He leaned back slightly, his posture relaxed. “For what it’s worth, Harry, you’ve handled yourself remarkably well given the circumstances. Whatever you’ve faced, it hasn’t broken you.”

Harry glanced at Alfred, unsure how to respond to the unexpected compliment. A part of him wanted to deflect, to argue that he was broken in countless ways. But another part—the quieter, more hopeful part—wanted to believe Alfred might be right.

“Thanks,” he said after a long moment. “For… everything. I don’t think I’ve said that yet.”

Alfred inclined his head. “You’re quite welcome, Harry. And you don’t have to thank me. I’m simply glad to have you here.”

The kitchen fell into a comfortable silence, the hum of the washer in the background the only sound. For the first time in a long while, Harry didn’t feel like he needed to be on guard. Even if it was just for tonight, he allowed himself to feel a small measure of peace.

Before the silence could fully settle, the soft sound of small but deliberate footsteps came from the hallway. Harry glanced toward the door just as Damian entered the kitchen, his face drawn in a way that was unusual for the typically sharp and composed boy.

“Alfred,” Damian said briskly, though his voice wavered slightly, “I require tea. Something calming. I had a… nightmare, and it’s disrupted my sleep schedule.”

Harry hid a small smile behind his mug. Damian’s tone was demanding as usual, but the way his hands were clenched at his sides betrayed his vulnerability.

Alfred rose without hesitation, his movements smooth and unhurried. “Of course, Master Damian,” he said warmly, moving to prepare the tea.

Damian’s sharp green eyes flicked to Harry, narrowing slightly. “What are you doing up at this hour?”

“Laundry,” Harry replied simply, gesturing toward the hum of the washer. “And tea.”

Damian eyed him suspiciously but didn’t press further. He climbed onto one of the kitchen stools and sat stiffly, as though reluctant to admit any sort of weakness. After a moment, he glanced at Alfred, then quickly turned his gaze to Harry.

“Do you have nightmares?” Damian asked abruptly, his tone unusually direct.

The question caught Harry off guard. He hesitated, his grip tightening briefly on his mug. “Yeah,” he admitted, his voice low. “Pretty often.”

Damian tilted his head slightly, studying him. “How do you stop them?”

Harry’s lips quirked in a faint, humorless smile. “If I figure that out, I’ll let you know.”

Damian frowned at the response, clearly dissatisfied. “That’s not helpful.”

“No,” Harry agreed, “it’s not. But… talking about it sometimes helps. Or distracting yourself.” He gestured to the mug in Damian’s hands as Alfred set a freshly brewed cup of tea in front of him. “And tea, I guess.”

Damian regarded him for a long moment before picking up the mug and taking a small sip. His frown softened ever so slightly. “Hmph. I suppose you’re not entirely useless.”

Harry chuckled. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Alfred returned to his seat, watching the interaction with a subtle look of fondness. “Master Damian, you’re welcome to stay here until you feel ready to return to bed. I’m sure Harry doesn’t mind the company.”

Damian didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he stared into his tea, his small hands wrapped around the mug. “Do you remember your nightmares?” he asked softly, the sharpness in his voice giving way to something more vulnerable.

Harry glanced at Alfred, who gave him a small nod of encouragement. Turning back to Damian, he said, “Some of them. They’re usually about… things that have already happened. Things I wish I could forget.”

Damian looked up at him, his expression unreadable. “I had one about Mother,” he admitted quietly, his voice barely audible. “She was angry. She always gets angry.”

Harry’s chest tightened at the boy’s words. He didn’t know much about Damian’s mother, but the tension in Damian’s tone spoke volumes.

“I get that,” Harry said gently. “Sometimes the people who are supposed to protect us… don’t.”

Damian stared at him for a moment, his guarded expression wavering. Then he took another sip of his tea, his small frame relaxing just slightly.

The three of them sat together in companionable silence, the weight of the night’s conversations lingering but no longer oppressive. As Damian’s eyelids began to droop and Alfred offered to walk him back to bed, Harry realized something he hadn’t before.

In this house, surrounded by people as damaged and complicated as himself, he wasn’t entirely alone.

He and Damian went up to their rooms at the same time and Harry bid the boy goodnight as the boy gave him a small smile and a nod as he headed into his room. Harry thought he was getting somewhere with the boy.

Harry woke up the next morning to a faint sliver of sunlight peeking through the edges of his curtains. It was later than he’d usually sleep, the heaviness of the previous night dragging him into a deeper rest than he’d had in weeks. He stretched, wincing as his muscles protested the movement, and sat up, scrubbing his hands through his unruly hair.

He glanced at the pile of clean clothes on the dresser but hesitated. The thought lingered in his mind: Maybe it’s time to stop hiding so much. Damian had trusted him enough to open up last night, and though the boy was prickly, he clearly understood more than Harry had given him credit for. Perhaps the rest of the family wasn’t so different.

With that thought, Harry grabbed a simple tT-shirtand some jeans before heading downstairs, the echo of his footsteps soft on the staircase. He didn’t bother with his usual long sleeves, deciding to leave his scars bare. It was partly a test—a way to gauge their reactions. He wasn’t sure what he expected. Pity? Disgust? He felt strangely calm about it. Whatever happened, he’d handle it. He always did.

When he reached the laundry room, he quickly moved his clothes from the washer to the dryer, the rhythmic hum filling the small space. As he leaned against the machine, he stared down at his arms. The scars were jagged and uneven, twisting over his skin like relics of battles long past.

Forever marked by war, he thought, brushing his fingers over the lines. But he wasn’t hiding them now. Not here, not today.

With the dryer set, Harry turned and made his way to the kitchen, the comforting aroma of breakfast already filling the air. The voices of the family drifted toward him, lighthearted and easy, a stark contrast to the tense dinners he’d often endured with the Dursleys.

He hesitated just outside the doorway, adjusting the hem of his shirt as he steeled himself. Then, with a quiet breath, he stepped into the room.

The conversation paused for a moment as the family turned to look at him. Bruce was sipping his coffee, Tim was typing on a tablet, and Dick was engaged in a cheerful back-and-forth with Damian, who looked less irritable than usual.

“Morning,” Harry greeted, his voice calm but uncertain.

“Morning, Harry!” Dick called out with his usual enthusiasm, waving him over.

“Sit down, there’s plenty left,” Bruce added, gesturing toward the spread of food on the table.

Harry walked to the counter to grab a cup of tea before joining them. He could feel their gazes lingering on his arms, but no one said anything outright. It was Tim who finally broke the silence, his tone casual but curious.

“Laundry first thing in the morning?” Tim asked, his sharp eyes flicking from Harry’s face to his exposed scars.

“Yeah,” Harry replied, shrugging. “Figured I’d get it done early.”

“Efficient,” Bruce commented, his tone neutral but observant.

Harry met his gaze briefly before focusing on his tea. The tension that had been simmering in his chest eased slightly. They weren’t staring in disgust or pity, just quiet curiosity.

“So,” Dick began, leaning forward with a smile. “What’s the plan for today? Alfred’s got his usual Monday errands, but I was thinking we could do something fun as a group.”

“Something productive, you mean,” Damian interjected with a huff.

“You’re no fun,” Dick retorted playfully, earning a glare from his younger brother.

Harry found himself smiling faintly at their banter, the warmth of the scene settling over him. Maybe this was what family was supposed to feel like—lighthearted, supportive, and just a little chaotic.

As the conversation flowed, Harry caught Bruce glancing at him again, his expression unreadable but thoughtful. Harry returned his gaze evenly, his scars visible and his posture open.

They didn’t act disgusted, Harry thought, a small sense of relief blooming in his chest. It wasn’t much, but it was a start.

Harry sat down at the table with his tea, feeling the warmth spread through him. The conversation continued, and he allowed himself to listen, quietly absorbing the easy chatter around him. They were asking Damian about his latest training session with Alfred, teasing him about how serious he was, and Damian shot back with sharp retorts that made everyone laugh. Even Bruce allowed himself a smile as he listened to the back-and-forth.

For the first time since he had arrived, Harry allowed himself to relax a little, the tension in his shoulders loosening. The sounds of laughter, the steady clink of utensils, and the casual, almost mundane exchanges felt so far removed from the life he had known before. His past, the war, the horrors—it all felt like a distant, fading shadow.

But the shadow never fully left.

As Harry sipped his tea, his mind wandered back to his scars, to the things he had seen and done that had led him here. For a moment, he almost wished he could just forget it all, and live a life untouched by the violence and pain. But he knew better. He knew that would never happen.

Tim’s voice cut through his thoughts. “So, Harry,” he began, his tone casual but probing, “what do you like to do for fun?”

The question caught Harry off guard. He had never really thought about it. Fun had been something he’d forgotten about during the years of fighting, of surviving. But now, with the weight of his past pressing down on him, he found it hard to answer.

“I… don’t know,” he admitted, running a hand through his hair. “I guess, when I was younger, I liked to read and listen to music. Sometimes I’d sneak in a movie if I could. The Dursleys didn’t like me watching much TV, so…” He trailed off, feeling the weight of those years press down on him.

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was heavy with unspoken understanding. Harry couldn’t bring himself to go into more detail. It felt too raw, too exposed.

Dick, ever the optimist, leaned forward, his eyes lighting up. “What about now? You’ve been here for a few days, do you think we could get you into something fun? Movies, games, maybe even something physical?”

Harry’s eyes flickered briefly to Damian, who was watching him carefully. He didn’t know how to explain that what he considered “fun” was far different from what these people enjoyed. His idea of fun was survival, strategy, and the occasional, fleeting moments of peace he could grab for himself. But that life was far from over.

“I don’t know,” Harry said slowly. “I guess I’m still figuring it out.”

The conversation shifted again, Tim asking Damian about his latest sparring session, and Harry felt himself gradually slipping back into the background. He couldn’t help but feel like an outsider, still. He had yet to fully earn his place in this world, no matter how comfortable they made him feel.

But the more he observed, the more he realized how different this family was from what he had known. They weren’t perfect—they were far from it—but there was a camaraderie between them, an unspoken bond of trust and care that he hadn’t expected. Maybe, just maybe, he could find a way to fit in.

As breakfast wrapped up, Bruce cleared his throat, his voice steady but firm. “Harry,” he said, drawing the younger man’s attention, “you don’t have to go through this alone. You’ve already proven yourself by working here, and by doing the things you do for this family. But if you want to talk… we’re here.”

The words hit Harry like a ton of bricks, and for a second, he didn’t know what to say.

“I appreciate that,” he replied finally, his voice low. “But there’s not much to talk about. I’ve… seen things. Done things.” He hesitated, knowing there was more he couldn’t say. “It’s not easy to talk about.”

Bruce gave him a look of quiet understanding, but it was Damian who broke the moment by standing up and pushing his chair in. “Well,” he said with a sharp grin, “if you’re done with the sappy stuff, how about we go outside? I’m sure you’ve got some strength to burn off.”

The tension in Harry’s chest eased just a little as the moment passed. Maybe it would take time, but for the first time since he’d arrived, he felt like there was hope. Hope that, in time, he could learn to trust again, to let go of the weight of his past.

“Yeah, sure,” Harry replied, standing up. “Let’s do it.”

Damian shot him a sideways glance, his lips quirking up at the corners. “I’ll make sure you regret it.”

Harry smirked back at him, a chuckle escaping his lips. It wasn’t much, but it was a start. A small, hesitant step towards something he hadn’t known he wanted: a sense of belonging.

As they made their way to the door, Harry felt the last of the tension slip away. Maybe, just maybe, this could be the beginning of something better.

Harry had been wrong—so, so wrong. The workout with the family had knocked him flat. He gasped for breath, his lungs feeling as if they were being slowly crushed with each wheeze. His chest ached, the rapid rhythm of his heartbeat pulsing loudly in his ears. He could feel sweat dripping down his face, stinging his eyes and blurring his vision. This was nothing like the training he’d done before, nothing like the war. Back then, there was always adrenaline to keep him moving, to force him forward. But here? The exhaustion was real. It was visceral. It sank into his bones and reminded him that he was out of his element.

The others seemed to fare better—Bruce, Dick, Tim, and even Damian had taken the workout in stride. Their movements were precise, their stamina holding out far longer than his. But Harry, on the other hand, felt like he was drowning, each breath a struggle, each movement a herculean task. He tried to keep up, but it was hopeless. He pushed himself as best as he could, each muscle in his body screaming at him to stop.

When they finally finished, Harry dropped to the ground, completely wiped out. He leaned forward with his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath, trying to still the racing thoughts in his mind. His face felt hot, the sweat drenching his clothes. He could feel the burn in his muscles, a reminder that maybe—just maybe—he wasn’t as invincible as he liked to believe.

“Jesus Christ,” Harry muttered under his breath, still panting as he sat back on the floor, legs splayed out. “What do you lot eat?” he asked, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. His voice was shaky, still gasping for air.

The others, while equally out of breath, had the faintest flush of exhaustion on their cheeks, a look that Harry could at least relate to. His chest still heaved with each strained breath, but he felt a strange sense of accomplishment. Maybe he wasn’t entirely hopeless at this.

“Food,” Jason replied with a dry chuckle, lifting his shirt to wipe his face. His smirk was teasing, but Harry couldn’t help but feel a little defensive at the comment. “You seem to eat like a bird.”

Harry flushed, the words catching him off guard. He glanced down, unsure of how to respond. The teasing tone was more playful than anything, but it stung all the same. He’d never been one to eat much, not when food had been scarce, not when he had to fight for every bite. The Dursleys had never seen fit to give him more than the bare minimum. Even when he was in the pits of warfighting to survive—he learned to eat only enough to keep him going, no more, no less. That kind of habit didn’t just disappear. It stayed with you, lingering in the back of your mind, forcing you to hold back when all you wanted was to fuel yourself.

“I’ve gotten better,” Harry muttered quietly, rubbing his neck as he avoided eye contact. His cheeks were still flushed, but not from the workout this time. “It was hard to get food growing up, so it stayed with me, I guess…” He let the sentence trail off, his voice soft, unsure.

The room seemed to grow quieter for a moment, the playful banter momentarily replaced by something more thoughtful. Harry could feel their eyes on him, but he kept his gaze fixed on the floor, unsure of how to navigate this sudden vulnerability.

Jason’s expression softened, his usual snarky tone replaced by something more understanding. “I get it,” he said quietly, almost as if reading the situation. “Surviving the way you have, you learn to make do with what you can. Food, water, shelter… it’s not always in supply when you need it.”

Harry blinked, looking up at him. He didn’t expect that kind of response. It was strange, this moment of shared understanding. He didn’t know how to handle it. He had always been on his own, just doing whatever was necessary to keep going. But here? In this place? The people were different. They wanted to be there for him, whether he liked it or not.

He looked around at the others, feeling the weight of their gazes. He couldn’t quite shake the discomfort, but it wasn’t the kind of discomfort he was used to. This was... different. Maybe they didn’t completely understand, but they were trying. And that meant something. Maybe it meant everything.

The room remained quiet for a beat longer, the hum of exhaustion in the air mingling with an unfamiliar sense of camaraderie. Harry shifted uncomfortably on the floor, wiping the sweat from his brow and trying to settle the erratic pulse in his chest. He wasn’t used to being cared for in this way—he wasn’t used to people giving him room to breathe, to speak, to be vulnerable. In the pits, in the war, he’d learned to keep his head down, to keep his secrets tightly locked away. But the Wayne family... they didn’t want secrets. They didn’t expect him to hide everything.

For the first time in what felt like forever, Harry felt something approaching hope—or at least the barest glimmer of it.

Tim, who had been silent until now, spoke up, his voice gentle but inquisitive. "You’re holding up better than you think, you know." He looked over at Harry, his expression soft but filled with that same curiosity that had been there when they’d first met. “It’s impressive, honestly. You’re not used to this, but you pushed through.”

Harry didn’t know how to respond to that. It felt strange, to hear someone praise him. Praise was something that had been so rare in his life. He was so used to being just another tool, another fighter, that he hadn’t considered the possibility of being seen as something more. More than just someone who could survive, who could fight. More than the label that had been thrust upon him all his life.

“I don’t—” Harry started, his voice rough, but he paused, unsure how to finish. It wasn’t a matter of not believing in himself—it was more a matter of never being given the chance to. But here, he was given the chance. And maybe that was what scared him most.

Bruce was the next to speak, his voice warm yet filled with a quiet authority. "You’ve done well today, Harry. It’s not easy adjusting to our routine." He looked at Harry, eyes narrowing slightly, as though weighing something in his mind. "You can push yourself hard, but don’t forget that you’re allowed to rest. We all have our limits."

Harry met Bruce’s gaze for a moment, then quickly looked away, not wanting to show the flicker of emotion that stirred in him. Rest? He hadn’t been allowed to rest in years. Even now, the thought of it made his chest feel tight. The constant movement, the constant fighting—everything had always been a means of survival. Resting felt like weakness. But Bruce was right. They were right.

Damian, who had been observing quietly from the side, crossed his arms, his face impassive as ever, though Harry noticed a hint of something softer in his gaze. “Don’t look so surprised,” Damian said, a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “The rest of us weren’t born with a silver spoon in our mouths. We all have our battles.” He paused, eyeing Harry for a moment before adding, “It’s just a matter of learning to fight on different terms.”

The words hung in the air, and Harry could feel the weight of them. It wasn’t just about physical battles, was it? It was about the battles inside, the ones that didn’t always show on the surface.

Tim’s eyes flicked between the group before settling on Harry. “It’s okay to not be perfect, you know. We all have our moments when we falter.” His voice was soft but insistent. “You don’t have to keep everything to yourself. We’re family, even if you don’t feel like it yet.”

The word family echoed in Harry’s mind, and he couldn’t help the small, bitter laugh that escaped his lips. “Family, huh?” He looked around at the faces before him—at the care they were offering, even when he didn’t know how to accept it. “Never really had a family before.”

Jason, who had been quiet for a while, gave Harry a small, knowing look. “Not everyone’s family comes in the usual way,” he said. “Sometimes you find it in unexpected places.”

Harry swallowed hard, the lump in his throat threatening to overwhelm him. He had to fight the urge to close off, to retreat into the walls he’d built for himself. But this was different. They weren’t asking for him to be someone he wasn’t—they were letting him be. And for the first time in his life, it felt... kind of like peace.

“I’m not used to this,” Harry admitted quietly, his voice rough but sincere. “To this—to people giving a damn about what happens to me. I’m still figuring it out.”

Bruce’s gaze softened, and he gave Harry a small, approving nod. “Take your time,” he said simply. “We’re not going anywhere. You’re not alone here.”

Harry nodded slowly, the weight of those words settling in his chest like a brick, but strangely not in a way that made him want to run. Instead, it was the kind of weight that grounded him, made him feel like maybe—just maybe—he could stay for once.

The workout had been brutal, but it was nothing compared to the internal battle Harry was facing. Maybe there was room in this new life of his for something other than survival.

Harry cleared his throat, breaking the lingering silence that had settled over the group. The weight of the conversation and the emotions it had stirred was too much, and he needed an escape. He forced a small, awkward smile and rubbed the back of his neck.

“I’m, uh… going to get washed up,” he said, his voice tight as he avoided meeting anyone’s gaze. “Thanks for the workout… I guess.”

Without waiting for a response, he turned on his heel and headed for the hallway, his footsteps echoing faintly as he left the room. The family watched him go, each of them lost in their thoughts.

Tim leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms as he stared at the space Harry had just occupied. “He’s holding a lot back,” he said quietly, his tone more contemplative than accusatory.

Damian scoffed, though it lacked his usual bite. “Obviously. He’s practically screaming it without saying a word.”

Jason, still sitting on the floor with his arms resting on his knees, gave a faint grunt of agreement. “Kid’s got walls up. Big ones. Can’t blame him, though, considering the way he talks about his past.”

Bruce remained silent, his expression thoughtful as he considered the weight of Harry’s words earlier. He’d heard enough to confirm some suspicions, but not enough to piece together the full picture. Whatever Harry had been through, it was clear it had left deep scars—not just the ones on his body but on his very sense of self.

Alfred was the first to speak after the brief silence. “He’s resilient,” he said, his voice calm but firm. “But resilience doesn’t mean unbreakable. It’s a delicate balance we must tread. Gentle encouragement, not force.”

Jason glanced up at Alfred and smirked faintly. “Who knew you were a therapist in disguise?”

“I am many things, Master Jason,” Alfred replied smoothly, though the humor in his eyes didn’t go unnoticed.

Bruce finally broke his silence, his voice low but resolute. “We’ll give him the time he needs. He’s been through something hard to comprehend, but he’s here now. That’s a step forward.”

Tim nodded, though his gaze remained thoughtful. “He’s a survivor, that much is obvious. But survivors don’t always know how to live after everything’s said and done. We’ll have to help him figure that out.”

Damian crossed his arms tightly, frowning slightly as he stared at the doorway where Harry had disappeared. “He doesn’t trust easily,” he muttered. “But he stayed. He hasn’t run yet. That’s something.”

Jason snorted softly. “For once, you’re not wrong, kid.”

The tension in the room began to ease, though the air remained heavy with unspoken questions. They all knew Harry wasn’t going to open up overnight, but the glimpses he’d given them today were enough to spark hope. It was a long road ahead, but as a family, they were ready to walk it with him—even if he didn’t quite realize it yet.

For now, they let the conversation taper off, each lost in their thoughts as they prepared to face whatever came next.