Archive of Our Own ^beta

Bruce took a final test, but he didn't need the glowing screen to confirm it. He felt it, a deep, resonating hum that his omega instincts, long suppressed under layers of armor and intellect, had immediately recognized as new life. For a man who had built his entire life on control, this felt like a wild, untamed variable.

As Bruce Wayne, this news would be a headline, a temporary distraction to add another layer to his playboy persona. The public would eat it up, an easy scandal they could understand. He could spin it, lie about the alpha, and turn it into a harmless story. It was an easy lie to sell, a distraction from the truth that the child’s other parent was not just any alpha, but the most powerful one on the planet.

But as Batman, this was a death sentence. The cowl suddenly felt heavier, a symbol of a mission that now seemed impossible. He was a weapon, and weapons can’t be soft. He couldn’t be slow, he couldn’t be vulnerable. Gotham needed him, and he couldn't abandon her. The rogues would go feral without a hand to stop them, and the city would tear itself apart. 

He was trapped between an identity that demanded a life, and a life that demanded he stop being Batman.

The Complicated Relationship with Clark— "What relationship?" he scoffed, the word tasting like a lie. It was a clinical arrangement born of desperation. Clark, a powerhouse of an alpha, had needs even his immense self-control couldn’t suppress. It had started on the Watchtower, a raw, almost feral rut fueled by Clark's need and Bruce's quiet, crushing loneliness.

But the times after that? They had been surprisingly tender, filled with a silent understanding that went deeper than their shared duty. Bruce had always nursed a small, secret crush on the man of steel. He had buried it deep, knowing a real relationship was impossible. 

Now, the proof of their entanglement was growing inside of him. He knew what was coming next: Clark’s protective alpha instincts would kick in, demanding Bruce step away from the field. They wouldn't just fight; they would break. And the fragile, quiet understanding they had built would crumble, leaving them with nothing but the truth and a child to face.

"Master Bruce," a soft voice pulled him from the cold, sterile data on the screen.

Bruce didn't startle. He knew it was Alfred. The older man stood beside him, a beacon of calm in the chaotic hum of the Batcave. Alfred's posture was ramrod straight as always, but his usually sharp eyes had a rare, quiet softness as he looked at his ward. It would be a lie to say Alfred wasn't happy; he had never wanted the Wayne lineage to end, and Bruce had long been so adamantly against any kind of formal partnership.

"What do I do, Alfred?" Bruce's voice was a whisper, a sound he reserved for no one else. The bravado of Batman and the aloofness of Bruce Wayne had both been shed, leaving only a man utterly lost.

Alfred sighed, the sound a gentle caress in the silence. "You do whatever your heart tells you to, Master Bruce. But before you do, I would suggest you speak with Master Clark. He has a right to know."

Bruce flinched, his eyes widening just a fraction as he met Alfred's gaze. The faintest trace of surprise, almost instantly shuttered away. Alfred's eyebrow arched, a silent accusation. "I know you better than you know yourself, Master Bruce. I know you were considering keeping this from him."

Bruce turned away, his jaw tightening. "I wasn't." The lie was as thin as tissue paper.

Alfred simply waited, a comfortable silence settling between them. "Perhaps not intentionally. But you are trying to shoulder this burden on your own, as you always do. And you cannot. Not this time. You are not alone in this, whether you like it or not."

Bruce stayed quiet, his gaze fixed on the glowing screens. The data seemed to mock him, a perfect, logical world he could control, unlike the one he was now trapped in. "I am perfectly capable of handling this." The words were an old, tired reflex.

"Handling it?" Alfred's tone held a gentle, firm edge. "Do you mean telling the press that you don't know who the father of this child is? Or do you mean finding a way to explain why Batman is suddenly out of commission for nine months?"

Bruce didn't respond, but his silence was all the answer Alfred needed.

"This is not a mission to be completed alone. It is a life to be lived. And I daresay, Master Clark will be quite insistent on being a part of it." Alfred paused, a rare, genuine smile gracing his lips. "He is, after all, a far better at handling this kind of thing than you are, which makes him the ideal candidate for a father. Now, if you'll excuse me, I believe I have some research to conduct on Omega dietary needs and the best baby monitors on the market. Do try not to set off any more alarms while I'm gone."

With a final, reassuring pat on Bruce's shoulder, Alfred turned and left him alone in the quiet hum of the Batcave, the weight of his new reality heavier than any armor he had ever worn.

In the gloom of a Gotham night, a figure lingered unseen above the city, a dark silhouette against the bruised purple sky. From his vantage point, he saw everything—the sprawl of concrete and shadow, the flicker of a distant siren. But his focus was on one person, one thing: the Dark Knight of Gotham.

Batman sat alone on a rooftop gargoyle, a still, dark sculpture against the chaos below. He was too quiet, even for him. The usual coiled tension of his frame had been replaced by a subtle, almost vulnerable stillness, fragile. 

The figure was the only one who would dare think of the "fragile" word in the same breath as Batman.

He had been trailing after the omega for days, a silent observer in the sky. He had felt the shift in his scent, a delicate change that spoke of a coming vulnerability, and it had been pulling at his alpha instincts relentlessly. The quiet fragility on the rooftop was a lure he could no longer resist.

It was time. The figure descended from the sky, a silent predator, his purpose clear. He landed on the rooftop, his very presence a weight on the air. The faint, sweet scent of his omega grew stronger, and the primal urge to claim what was his overwhelmed all reason.

A sudden gust of wind, cold and out of place, swept over the rooftop. Before Batman could even register it, a presence was behind him. Not the familiar whisper of a cape's glide, but a silence that felt heavy and wrong.

He spun, his hand already reaching for the batarang on his belt, but he was too slow. A powerful hand, its grip impossibly strong, closed around his wrist, pinning it to his side. Another caught him just below the ribs, its touch both a claim and a warning. The attacker was fast, faster than anyone he'd ever faced, even Clark. But it was the scent that hit him first, a sharp, overpowering scent of Alpha, laced with something wild and predatory that made his omega instincts scream.

Batman’s mind, still clouded by the pregnancy thoughts, couldn’t lock on. The usual cold, precise logic that governed his every movement was failing him. He tried to fight, to twist out of the iron grip, but he was disoriented. The attack wasn't a fight; it was an act of possession. He was being handled, not fought.

A low growl, more animal than human, rumbled close to his ear. "Mine."

He felt the world spin. His feet left the ground. The last thing he saw before the rooftop disappeared from view was the foggy Gotham skyline, a city he had been too lost to protect.

When Batman's eyes fluttered open, blinking rapidly to clear the haze, a wave of disorienting nausea washed over him. His hands were tied behind a chair that, jarringly, felt too soft and well-cushioned to be a part of any prison. The familiar weight of his cowl remained, but the solace it usually provided was gone, replaced by a suffocating sense of helplessness. His breathing was erratic, a panicked rhythm that his training should have long ago suppressed. 

He was terrified. 

The word, a foreign and pathetic admission in his own mind, felt all the more real as he sat there, clad in the very suit meant to inspire fear.

But this was not about his pride. This was about the tiny, fragile life growing inside him. Clark's baby. A life he hadn't even had the chance to tell its father about. Another failure to add to his already overflowing bank of regrets.

As the cowl's night vision adjusted to the low light, he scanned his surroundings. It was some kind of warehouse, but unlike any he'd ever seen. It was clean, almost pristine, with no hint of the grime or decay he was used to. The air was warm, and a faint, sweet scent hung in the air—the nesting scent of an alpha who was preparing a home. A cold dread, far worse than his initial fear, settled over him. This wasn't a kidnapping for ransom. This was something far more personal, far more primal. And he was completely, utterly at this Alpha's mercy.

"Slept well?"

The voice, calm and deep, made Bruce's spine go rigid. It was impossible. He knew that voice, that sound. He must have still been in shock.

But then, the scent hit him. A wave of overpowering alpha pheromones, not the familiar scent of sunshine and home that belonged to his Clark, but something sharper, colder, and far more potent. It was real. And it was him.

Superman.

He stood before Bruce, a towering figure clad in the familiar suit, but something was wrong. The vibrant red and blue were muted, almost bruised. The bright colors that represented hope and youth were gone, replaced by a darker, more somber shade of steel.

This was not his Clark.

Bruce's jaw clenched so hard he felt a painful thrum in his molars. He glared, the white slits of his cowl fixed on the figure. 

"Who the fuck are you?" he spat, the words a low growl.

The dark-suited Superman tilted his head, the iconic "S" curl on his forehead momentarily shifting. "I'm Superman," he replied, a strange half-smile on his lips.

Bruce’s own scent turned sour, a furious storm of his omega pheromones, now more intense than ever due to his pregnancy. "The fuck you are! You're a fake! My Superman's pheromones are warm, like a sun. Yours are all over the place, pathetic and rusty!"

A scoff. "Your Superman?" The dark-suited figure's voice was tinged with bitter amusement. "I don't see any mark on your neck."

A pang of ice-cold dread hit Bruce. The raw, primal hurt from those words was a physical blow to his chest. He should have told Clark. He should have been brave.

"That doesn't concern you," Bruce spat back, his voice thick with a new kind of venom.

"It does now," the other replied, his tone dropping to a dangerously low growl. He stepped closer. "Your Superman is a coward. I'm not. I want you. I need you. And I will make you mine." His eyes, a shade darker than Clark's, burned with a raw, desperate longing that made Bruce’s skin crawl.

"Where did you come from?" Bruce chose to ignore the possessive words. He had to think, to analyze. This wasn't a Lex Luthor clone; the scent, the raw, unhinged power felt wrong. Could it be a different universe?

The dark-suited Superman’s expression shifted, a flicker of pain crossing his face. "Yes. To what you're thinking. I'm from a different universe. My mate," he said, the words catching in his throat, "my Bruce... he's gone. A war, an attack from Darkseid and some other-worldly wizards... I ended up here somehow."

Bruce’s heart ached for him, a wave of empathy washing over his fury. To have lost a mate... it was a pain so profound Bruce couldn't even comprehend it.

"And I want to take you back. My kids need you. They need their other parent, their Bat-Mama," he said softly, the desperation returning. Then his tone turned dark, his eyes blazing with a cold determination. "I don't care about your world. I don't care about your Superman. You're not mated to him. You can be mine. I'll take care of you. We'll be a family again."

The raw, unhinged desire in his eyes told Bruce everything. This man was not evil. He was broken. And broken men do the most desperate things. This wasn't a power play; it was a broken alpha's infamous broken bond syndrome, a horrifying, possessive instinct to replace what he had lost. And Bruce, and his unborn child, were the targets.

The silence that followed was thick with desperation and a strange, mournful grief. Bruce felt a pang of pity for the man in front of him, but it was quickly overshadowed by a protective fury. This Alpha was insane, driven by a loss so profound it had erased all his moral lines.

"Your broken bond is not my problem," Bruce said, his voice cold and hard, a stark contrast to the terror thrumming under his skin. "You can't just cross universes and kidnap people. You're a hero. Think about what you're doing."

The other Superman laughed, a sound that was hollow and without joy. "A hero? A hero in a universe where my Bruce is dead? I had one job, one person to protect, and I failed. The heroes here don't need me. But you do. Our children do."

He knelt, his powerful form surprisingly graceful, to be at eye level with Bruce. "I can take you back. We can rebuild. We can have a life. And your Superman will never know you were gone. It’ll be as if you simply vanished. No one gets hurt."

Bruce's breath hitched. Vanished. The thought was tempting for a fleeting, horrifying moment. He could go, and Clark would never know. He would be free of this dilemma, free of the fear of Clark's reaction, of the responsibility of telling him. Free from the possibility of getting rejected. Free from his regrets. 

The other Superman must have seen the flicker of hesitation in his eyes, because he reached out a hand. "Come home, Bruce. Let me take you home."

The touch was a shock. It wasn't gentle or demanding; it was a pure, unadulterated need. It was a need that spoke to his own buried longing for a nest, for a family, for a simple life. But as his body reacted, his omega instincts screaming at the touch of a dominant Alpha, his mind fought back. This was not his home. This was not his Alpha. And this man was not his Clark.

"Get your hands off me," Bruce growled, pulling against the restraints, the chair creaking under the force. He would not be broken. He would not be claimed. And he would not abandon his world for a broken man's fantasy. Wouldn't abandon gotham and his family, his Clark. 

He'd never been a man who prayed, but in this moment, trapped and with his world unraveling, he found a different kind of faith. He took a deep, shaky breath, letting the possessive scent of his captor wash over him, then he closed his eyes and whispered, "Clark."

The sound was barely audible, a fragile plea that vanished into the quiet hum of the warehouse. He didn't know if it would work. He was miles from Metropolis. But hope, a foreign and desperate sensation, bloomed in his chest.

The other Superman paused, his eyes narrowing. "What?" he demanded, the soft longing in his voice replaced with a sudden, vicious jealousy. He leaned in, his own alpha scent flaring in anger. "You said his name. Why did you say his name? He abandoned you, Bruce. He didn't protect you."

Batman stayed silent, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs. The other man, the broken Superman, didn't understand. He didn't know that Bruce's Clark would never abandon him.

"You're wrong," Bruce finally managed, his voice a low, fierce growl. "He's not a coward. He's my partner. He's my family. And you're not him."

A flicker of something dark and dangerous passed over the other man’s face. "Your family?" he sneered, his voice dropping to a low, menacing whisper. "Your family didn't prevent me from taking you. Your family isn't here now." He reached out and gently, but firmly, cupped Bruce's face in his hands. "He can't protect you from me. He can't even sense you."

Batman shivered, not from fear but from a cold, horrifying realization. The other Superman was right. Him and Clark weren't bonded. The silence was deafening. There was no one coming for him. There was only him and this broken, possessive man who was determined to make him his. He was alone.

But then, as a single tear of despair slid down his cheek in fear for the life growing inside of him, he heard a sound. A quiet sound, but one that resonated through the fabric of the warehouse, a familiar whoosh of air followed by a gentle thump. It wasn't the sound of an enemy, but of a man who had just landed.

Hope, once fragile, surged through him, and Bruce's heart pounded with a new rhythm. He wasn't alone. His Superman had heard him.

The air thickened, a palpable silence that crackled with power. Across the ruined warehouse, the two figures stood facing each other. Bruce's heart, a frantic drum against his ribs, watched his Clark take a single step forward, his eyes fixed not on the broken man, but on Bruce himself. The raw terror in his gaze was for Bruce alone.

The other Superman didn't speak. He simply snarled, a low, animalistic sound, his body coiling with a desperate, possessive fury. This wasn't a hero's challenge; it was an Alpha's jealous rage. He launched forward, a blur of dark red and muted blue, a thunderclap of displaced air.

Clark met the attack head-on, his body a vibrant flash of primary colors against the other's bruised palette. They collided with a force that shattered the concrete floor beneath them. A shockwave rippled out, throwing Bruce and the chair backward.

This wasn't a clean fight. It was a vicious, primal brawl. The dark Superman fought with the desperate, unhinged power of a broken man. Every punch was meant to end the conflict, a feral swing driven by grief and resentment. He tore through steel beams and support columns, trying to bury Clark under the debris. He slammed him through walls, the sounds of buckling metal and splintering wood echoing through the warehouse.

But Clark was different. His moves were precise, measured. He wasn't just fighting; he was protecting. His blows were deflections, his dodges were calculated. He absorbed the hits, his body a bulwark, his focus never leaving Bruce. He was fighting to save, not to destroy. He was a force of pure, unwavering defense, his punches and parries fueled not by anger, but by a burning need to keep Bruce safe.

The warehouse became a blur of motion and sound. A high-pitched, inhuman roar as one Superman threw the other into a pile of scrap metal. The deep thump-thump of two bodies colliding at supersonic speeds. The other Superman's eyes burned with a cold, terrifying fire, but Clark's gaze held the clear, determined light of a man who had finally found what he had lost.

Bruce watched, a mix of horror and relief in his gut. The other man was faster, perhaps stronger, unburdened by mercy. But Clark had something he didn't. He had purpose. He had a connection. And as the fight reached a crescendo, with the two figures a tangled blur of dark and vibrant colors, Bruce finally saw it. Clark's face, bruised and bleeding, was still focused on him. 

On his omega.

The broken Superman, in his desperation, was predictable. He launched himself for one final, reckless strike. Clark, anticipating the move, caught him, his hands closing around the other's wrists. 

He didn't punch. He simply held on, a firm, immovable anchor. He looked into the other's eyes, and in a quiet, firm voice that was more powerful than any punch, he said, "He's not your Bruce."

The other Superman's face crumpled. The rage, the possessive fury, was replaced by a raw, guttural sob that ripped from his chest. He went limp, the energy draining from him, his body slumping forward.

Clark, bruised and battered, gently lowered him to the ground. He stood for a moment, chest heaving, his eyes never leaving the defeated figure. But then, as if a thread had been cut, he was instantly by Bruce's side.

He knelt, his hands gently undoing the restraints. The world seemed to slow down. Clark's scent, warm and familiar, a mix of rain and sunshine and home, washed over him, a balm to the terror. He didn't speak. He just looked, his gaze filled with so much relief and fear and love that Bruce finally, completely, felt safe.

"Clark," he whispered, the name a prayer.

Back in Wayne manor, Alfred had long since left the room, leaving Bruce and Clark in a silence heavier than lead. Clark still hovered over Bruce, his eyes wide and full of a quiet concern that seemed to dim the vibrant blue.

Bruce felt beads of sweat roll down his forehead. He saw the shift in Clark’s gaze, the flicker of focused energy as he began to scan Bruce, his vision piercing the layers of clothing and skin. Bruce knew what he would see. He felt a wave of defeat and slumped back against the pillows.

Clark froze. His eyes, the color of a summer sky, widened to the size of saucers. His lips parted in a silent gasp, the iconic curl of his hair falling softly over his forehead, making the look even more endearingly ridiculous.

"You're pregnant," Clark stated, the words a soft, stunned breath. It wasn’t a question.

Bruce simply nodded. The weight that had been crushing his chest for weeks began to lift. It was so simple, so mundane in its delivery, yet he had made it a catastrophe in his mind.

Clark looked at him, then at Bruce's stomach, then back at his face. "Wow," he mumbled, a new emotion, an overwhelming awe, washing over his features.

"Wow?" Bruce's voice cracked with a bitter laugh. "That's all you have to say? Not 'how could you be so careless?' Not 'what am I supposed to do now?' Just... 'wow'?"

Clark knelt, his face now level with Bruce's. He reached out, his hand hovering over Bruce’s stomach, a gesture of profound hesitation and respect. "I... I can feel it. There's a heartbeat, Bruce. A tiny, perfect little heartbeat." His voice was thick with emotion, his eyes shimmering with unshed tears. "I'm sorry. I just... I can't believe it."

The anger in Bruce’s heart melted away, replaced by a strange mix of hope and terror. "It's real," he whispered, the words trembling.

Clark's hand finally, gently, came to rest on his abdomen. "It's perfect," he said, his voice a promise. "And I'm so glad. I'm so incredibly glad."

Clark stayed kneeling by the bed, his hand still resting on Bruce's abdomen, a silent anchor. The shock in his eyes had been replaced by a fierce, protective love that radiated from him.

"We'll be okay, B," Clark said, his voice a low, steady rumble. "I'll be there. However you need me. If you want me to just be... the other parent, I'll do that. If you want me in the next room, I'll be in the next room. If you want me to stay on the other side of the planet, I'll come back just for this. Just... for us."

His thumb, calloused from years of farm work and superheroing, began to trace slow, calming circles on Bruce's stomach. 

"I know this is a lot. And I know you didn't... you didn't sign up for this. I never thought... I never thought I'd have a chance to be with you, let alone have a family with you." He paused, taking a shaky breath. "I've been in love with you for years, B. I've always thought you were too good for me. That a simple farm boy from Kansas could never measure up to the Dark Knight of Gotham."

Bruce's eyes, still wide with a mixture of fear and awe, filled with tears. He reached out and gently laid his hand on Clark's cheek, his calloused thumb tracing the line of his jaw. "Don't you dare," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "Don't you dare say that."

The tears finally fell, a hot, salty trail down his face. "I was terrified, Clark. Not of the baby... but of losing you. Of you hating me for this. Of you leaving. I'm... I'm in love with you too."

Clark's eyes, already shining with tears, filled with an impossible amount of warmth. He leaned in, his lips just inches from Bruce's. "I'm not going anywhere. Not ever."

He closed the distance, his lips meeting Bruce's in a soft, tender kiss that promised a future of sunlight and warmth, of family and home. In that kiss, Bruce felt the last of his fears melt away, and a new feeling, a new sense of peace, began to take root in his heart.

Months had passed, each one marked by a change in Bruce. The sharp lines of his body had softened, replaced by the gentle, undeniable curve of a growing belly. He was no longer a shadow on the streets of Gotham, but a man confined to the warmth of Wayne Manor. Not that he had taken to it gracefully. Alfred's gentle scolding and Clark's constant, worried presence were a daily battle. "A man's work is never done," he'd grumble, trying to sneak out for a late-night patrol, only to find the Batmobile's tires mysteriously deflated.

He sat now in the study, a book left unread on his lap. His thoughts, as they often did, drifted back to that night. To the other Superman. The fight. The shattered warehouse. He remembered the stunned, heartbroken look in the man's eyes when 

Clark had said, "He's not your Bruce."

And then, the quick, efficient motion of Zatanna, her hands a blur as she wove a complex spell. Clark had brought the broken man back to the Watchtower, and with the Justice League's help, they'd figured out a way to send him back to his universe.

Bruce had thought about him so often. He had his own child to think about, a burgeoning life that made his heart ache with a new kind of love. But he couldn't stop thinking about the other man. A father, just like him, trying to raise children without their other parent. How were they doing? Were they coping? Did they still believe their Bat-Mama would come back one day? The raw grief he had seen in the other Superman’s eyes was a mirror of a future Bruce couldn’t bear to imagine for Clark, or for himself.

A soft click of the door brought him back to the present. Clark entered, a mug of warm milk in his hand. He looked tired, but his eyes, a gentle, worried blue, were still fixed on Bruce. He sat down opposite Bruce, a comfortable silence settling between them.

"You've been quiet," Clark said softly, his voice a low rumble. "Thinking about him again?"

Bruce didn't need to ask who "him" was. He just nodded, a weight he hadn't known he was carrying lifting slightly at Clark's understanding.

"I can't stop thinking about his kids," Bruce admitted, his voice barely a whisper. "The way he talked about them… They lost their Bruce. How are they going to cope?"

Clark reached across the small table, his hand finding Bruce's and holding it tightly. "I don't know, Bruce. But he's with them now. He's back where he belongs. And he's going to be a hero for them in a way he couldn't before. He's going to get to be their dad again."

"But they don't have their other parent," Bruce said, the ache in his voice returning. "They don't have their Bat-Mama."

"They have him," Clark said firmly. "And he's going to be enough. Just like I'm enough for our child. And you're enough. You're more than enough."

Bruce’s gaze lifted, meeting Clark’s. A small, genuine smile touched his lips. "You know, you're the last person I ever thought I'd get to have this with."

Clark's grin was wide and genuine, radiating the light of a thousand suns. "Me too. But I'm so glad I do." He squeezed Bruce’s hand, his thumb stroking the back of his fingers. "Now drink your milk. Alfred will have my head if you don't."

A quiet, genuine laugh escaped Bruce's lips as he took the mug from Clark. "You're a menace, you know that?"

"It's my job," Clark said with a mischievous grin. "Someone has to keep the world's greatest detective from working himself to death, especially now that he's carrying the world's greatest baby."

Bruce rolled his eyes, but the corners of his mouth turned up in a smile he hadn't thought possible months ago. He took a slow sip of the warm milk, the familiar taste a comfort in the quiet of the room. The book in his lap was forgotten, his mind no longer on the shadows of the past or the fears of the future, but on the simple warmth of the present.

"You know," Bruce began, looking at Clark with a vulnerability that still felt new. "I spent so long believing I wasn't meant for this. Not for... a family. I told myself it was for Gotham's sake, but the truth is, I was terrified of being happy. Of having something to lose."

Clark’s expression softened, a deep, loving understanding in his eyes. He leaned forward and gently ran his fingers through Bruce’s hair, a gesture of pure affection. "I know," he said softly. "But you're a parent now, Bruce. And you're going to be the best one there ever was. You already are."

Bruce looked down at his stomach, a hand coming to rest over Clark's. He could feel the tiny flutter, a promise of a future filled with a love he never thought he'd experience. He wasn't alone anymore. He had a family. And he was home.

"I can't wait to meet him," Clark whispered, his voice thick with emotion, his gaze fixed on Bruce's belly. "Or her. Either way, they're going to be perfect."

"I think so too," Bruce said, his voice a soft, loving whisper. He looked at Clark, at the simple, honest love shining in his eyes, and a profound sense of peace settled in his heart. The dark night no longer felt so lonely. The future was no longer terrifying. It was a promise, a warm milk-scented reality he couldn’t wait to live.