Damian—unsatisfied with the current state of the painting—stood up. Guided by the faint glow of the moonbeams, he avoided the many art supplies lining the studio’s floor.

To Damian, art was both the most calming and most frustrating thing he could do—depending on the day.

Today it was the latter.

He stared at the messy graphite thumbnail he had drafted before laying eyes on his painting once more. Your clothes were meant to be far richer than what he had painted, the flowers on the side were meant to be a rare blue—not white!

What in the name of Ra was he doing?

“Tt.”

Already over his amateur mistake, Damian took a seat on the floor searching for the correct hues to use in fixing his coloring mishaps. It didn’t help that the studio was pitch black save for the moonbeams seeping through the open windows and a singular desk lamp that he had to move quite often.

However, he just couldn’t bring himself to turn on the lights; it would risk waking you up.

In the very corner of the room, the only place untouched by the scattered art supplies and splatters of paint, was you— his slumbering girlfriend.

Looking at you now, he wondered how you could sleep through his silent frustration that seemed to suffocate the room, yet there you were; completely undisturbed.

Suddenly, the search for the perfect blue felt entirely trivial.

Snatching a stray pencil, he headed to sit by the mattress you lay on.

Damian had insisted on buying this mattress—an absurdly expensive high end one— for the sole purpose of letting you—his beloved—rest whenever you were keeping him company in the studio.

You had the habit of being uneasy if he was not in your line of sight, to the point where you would stay up waiting for him to return from patrol, college, or a long mission.

You could get behind Damian not being beside you in bed, as long as you could look over and see him.

He simply could not bear the thought of you resting on the floor, or a random uncomfortable plastic chair.

As he quietly sunk onto the floor, he flipped the book onto a blank page and started sketching. Capturing his sleeping muse in quick strokes of his pencil.

Titus shifted in his place by your feet. The big dog had developed the habit of guarding you, even more so than Damian himself. He was proud, and slightly taken aback at the same time.

He adjusted the lamp, stopping the graphite on the page from reflecting a harsh glare.

With the drawing now finished, Damian wished to return to his half done painting resting in the middle of the studio.

However, he made no move to actually do so.

His eyes didn’t stray far from your back, rising and falling with soft breaths.

Perhaps, this could wait till my return from college tomorrow. He thought, already climbing onto the makeshift bed.

Sliding between the blankets, he was so careful not to jostle the warm weight of you, or Titus. The Great Dane merely let out a sleepy puff of air, acknowledging Damian’s presence before going back to sleep.

“Hayati…?” Came your soft, heavy with sleep voice. You turned slightly to look up at him.

Damian pulled your form closer, using a hand to guide your head to rest against his chest, right over his heart.

“Shhh, go back to sleep, Habibti.”

It didn’t take much convincing to have you close your eyes, already surrendering to the feeling of his fingers running through your hair, lulling you to sleep.

“You should really sleep more, Damian.” You scolded, referring to his habit of staying up late even on days with no patrol.

“Yes beloved, I should.” He agreed, feeling your body go slack on top of his.

Minutes later, after being reassured that you were completely out, Damian lowered his head, brushing his lips against your forehead in a soft barely there kiss.

“Good night, Titus.” He whispers to his beloved dog, before closing his own eyes.

“Good night, Habibti.”

That painting of you could definitely wait, especially since he had the real you in his arms.

a/n: hi moonbeams, first thank you for reading this one shot. I decided to practice writing something shorter, after all not everything can be a 20 something chapter story. Second, thank all of you who read and showed love to the first chapter of Ancient spells and fallen birds, chapter 2 is in its final phase and should be posted soon. If you wish to be tagged pls tell me in the comments. Once again thank you<3

The day had been normal enough, or at least as normal as it can be for a young witch returning to the middle of nowhere after running her errands.

You have been busy in the markets of faraway place by the edge of the sea, stocking up on certain items you could only find there, nodding along to small talk, bargaining with vendors over the price of their goods, and of course ignoring the hushed rumors that plagued the town regarding yourself—the witch.

While nobody knew what you look like—thanks to your tendency to avoid mingling and living faraway from civilization, they sure seem to love using you for gossip.

Much to the dismay of the people, you were no immortal being who dedicated all time to the world’s magical sources, or a crazy powerful individual with connection to the gods.

You merely learnt magic from your mentor and the ancient books just like all the women in your lineage had done before you and will continue to do after you.

It was that simple really.

What wasn’t simple was what happened a mere few hours after you had returned from the marketplace.

The journey to the town had your muscles screaming, you had to walk thanks to the limitations of the teleportation spell, so you decided to cook a fairly simple late lunch, then retire to bed. The atmosphere was calm and quiet, the only sounds to be heard were the rustling of wind outside, and the soft purring of your beloved cat companions cuddling in a spot of pooling sun.

Then it all came crashing down—or more precisely, he came crashing down.

Through your roof.

You sensed it, something passing through the protective ward you had casted over the area, traveling at a terrifyingly high speed.

In an instant, you lunged across the room, landing by the very confused cats and shouted a string of words in a language long dead. A glowing, spherical shield manifested form thin air just as the ceiling exploded.

The sound was deafening— splinters of old wood flying everywhere, clay pots shattering, and a massive downpour of what used to be your rooftop around your bubble of protection. Your cats dug their claws into your sling through the fabric of your top, seeking your protection, and you could do nothing but hold them tighter, and focus on maintaining the shield.

When the rain of debris finally settled you let the shield dissipate.

With a flick of your wrist, the thick curtain of dust began to part, funneling out of your home and into the cold air outside. Your cats were still clinging onto you—trembling, but you couldn’t help but focus on the pile of wood formerly known as your rooftop and floorboards.

“By the heavens, why do things like this always happen to me…”  you placed both cats on the floor, rubbing at your temples.

Usually, when you felt a disturbance in the barrier surrounding the area, it’s often a wayward spirit or a stray forest creature, never something that crash lands through your roof.

As the last remnants of dust finally let up, you realized that between the piles of wood and debris is a a lump of black fabric, seemingly attached to a human.

A boy. A masked boy.

You would have assumed his death certain, if it wasn’t for him shifting slightly to get a hold of the hilt of a sharp katana and pointing it at you.

“s-stay back…” he threatened, his voice feeble and not at all matching his hard expression.

Your felines jumped out of your embrace, leaving you free to take a step forward to get a better view of the masked stranger.

Before you could reassure him that he will be okay, or persuade him to drop his weapon—his breathing grew shallow, and his vision started to blur at the edges, then he went limp against the pile of wood.

You stared in utter disbelief, a masked boy just shot through a powerful protective ward, demolished both your first and second floor, ruined a perfectly seasoned lunch, and was somehow still alive to threaten you using a sword.

You sighed once, then you sighed again because just one didn’t seem to cover it.

°。 ⋆༺ 𓋹༻⋆。 °

Falling through the roof of an estranged witch was NOT on Damian’s bingo card for the day.

Certainly, he had been in stranger situations. He just hadn’t anticipated this outcome when Bruce said he would be sending him on ‘simple mission’.

Waking up, his brain immediately registered the cool press of silk against skin, and the unmistakable snug wrap of bandages around his aching muscles.

Last he remembered was wrestling an ancient artifact out of thief’s grasp, resulting in him being sucked into a haze of bright golden light, a dizzying portal that felt like it was breaking his body down on a molecular level before piecing it back together, only to spit him back out in an unknown location.

If he was correct, he maybe looking at a couple bruised ribs, a few gashes, cuts, bruises and—of course, a concussion.

It wasn’t looking too good for him.

The air smelled of crushed wood, a mix of herbs, and something sickeningly sweet, yet it still felt fresh in some way. Above him, was an off centered, open view of the darkening sky framed by the jagged, splintered edges of a hole in a roof.

He managed to pull himself into a seating position, widening his view of the room; an ebony vanity of a style he recognized, a small desk drowning in books, trinkets and what he assumed were various writings utensils, by him on the nightstand was half melted candle.

He spotted his katana resting on a nearby stool. Instinctively, he reached for it only for his muscles to protest in sharp echoes of pain.

“I wouldn’t try moving if I were you.” A dry, unimpressed voice sounded from the door to his right.

He made the mistake of snapping his neck to where the sound came from, immediate sharp echoes of throbbing pain sounding through his skull.

A few feet away, you stood.

Resting in your hands was a tray of what would appear to be tea and something edible on the side. You were dressed in dark fabrics—mainly blues and blacks. your eyes, kholed, were currently narrowed in annoyance at his stupid attempt at moving. By your feet were two cats one black with judgmental eyes and the other a tabby too busy grooming its fur.

“Unless, of course, you wish to tear your own flesh apart, in that case, struggle away.”  You continued, walking a few steps to place the tray on the bedside table, your waist chain chiming with every move.

Ignoring you, he tried his comm-link, fingers pressing against his ear, only to find it missing.

“Looking for this?” A hand dove into your pocket, fishing out a sleek, black earbud. “I doubt it works, your fall was rather harsh.”

He tried it regardless, but all it gave was static, so did the secondary channel, and the emergency line.

No surprise, the hardware didn’t survive the fall.

“Where am I?” He questioned, voice raspy but managing to hold onto its bite.

He wrapped his fingers around his the hilt, ignoring how the room tilted, and how he felt like throwing up. “Who are you? Are you affiliated with the league?”

You blinked at him, once then twice before letting out a long breath.

“Listen Mr…whoever you are, I don’t know what the ‘league’ is,” you sat down on the edge of your bed, far away enough from where he was resting “ you are currently in my bedroom, the least damaged place in my house—no thanks to you.”

You poured him a cup of warm herbal tea, which he took with narrowed eyes.

“You fell through my roof and second floor, ruined my day, and terrified my cats. So, the real question is who are you? And how are you going to fix my roof?”

He opened his mouth to bite back at your demand, but his body betrayed him, the room taking a sudden tilt, forcing him to lean on the pillow behind him.

“I don’t do carpentry.” He managed, trying to stay intimidating through the waves of nausea and pain.

For all his bravado, he was still a heavily injured man trapped underneath your handmade quilt, wrapped in a dozen bandages, and looking like a stray kitten.

Safe to say, you weren’t intimidated.

“Well, Mr. ‘I don’t do carpentry,’ you look like you can’t even stand without throwing up all over my precious rugs.”  You shrugged. “So all things considered, your options are limited.”

You stood up swirling your finger over the soft brownish liquid in his cup, small stars falling in, melting in its warmth.

“Drink this, it should alleviate the pain, somewhat.”

He looked up at you, the gears in his head turning to decipher what you just did.

“Also, do not move your torso around carelessly, you have a nasty gash and I would hate to be forced into stitching it again.”

Without waiting for a reply, you picked up one of your fluffy friends and left the room. The chime of your waist chain fading slowly with each step.

°。 ⋆༺ 𓋹༻⋆。 °

The last few days were horribly exhausting.

The first day consisted mostly of Damian attempting to escape, only to find out the hard way that his bruised ribs couldn’t handle a simple drop, and that his stitched torso was less fragile than a porcelain doll.

You found him minutes later sprawled across the garden’s ground with Sultana— the tabby cat— staring at him in amusement as if he was a court jester.

The following days weren’t much better, while he was finally convinced to curl up in bed and stop trying to assassinate himself via escape attempts, he was still trying to fix the comm link—which apparently it was your fault he couldn’t do it, because you didn’t have a micro soldering iron with a fine tip laying around your cabin.

At least, you finally exchanged names. An improvement over him calling you witch every time he wanted to address you.

By the morning of the first Sunday of the new month, your healing spells and homemade tonics began taking effect. The bruises have faded, the swelling in his shoulder had gone down, the concussion had cleared to a manageable, dull throb, and he was well enough to walk and move without you having to assist him.

Which brought you to now.

You walked into the destroyed living room, a basket of fresh laundry resting against your hip, only to find him standing beneath the gaping hole in your ceiling, still in one of your oversized sleeping shirt and his own pants. The afternoon sun shining down on the spot where the rubble once sat.

His jaw was clenched so tight it looked like it might snap.

“No use, still static.” He muttered to himself, taking off the earpiece with more force than necessary. “Don’t you posses any means of communication? There are no digital signals.”

“That’s because you physically crushed my router when you fell, you also managed to cut my cables,” you stepped over a crack in the floor, placing the laundry basket down on a table by the door. “My satellite is currently flattened to the point where it serves me more as a mat.”

He snapped his gaze towards you, his expression souring further. You had spent hours explaining to him how your cabin is hidden deep into the mountain valleys, that you had a spell on it that stops anyone from stumbling on its location—intentionally or not.

His tech was useless, making him officially stranded.

He let out a sharp breath, pocketing the useless earpiece as he mauled over his surroundings. You had managed to clear away the rubble and debris on your own, no doubt using magic, but that barely made a difference with your ruined ceiling.

You followed his gaze, from the impact point on your floor to the hole above you, a small dry smile painted itself on your face.

“Well, Damian,” you took a few steps, coming to stop right beside him, crossing your arms over your chest. ”it seems like you have plenty of time to learn how to do carpentry after all.”

"Wayne!" You call out as his sleeve slips out of your fingers, stopping in your tracks right in front of him—blocking the exit. "Damian, please."

His head tilts to cast you a disapproving expression. "My word of advice, is to gain enough respect for yourself to not be bothered by what others think."

Your lips pull together into a frown, but you refuse to be dissuaded, not when you've already laid all your cards on the table. You didn't expect it to be easy, and you had already prepared yourself for his vicious tongue.

"My self-respect has already been trampled on when they decided to send me the invitation." You state honestly. "It's scheduled for its revival in five weeks, after the party. I'll be a changed person by then, scout's honour."

His brow pulls higher, as if silently questioning if you had even part of the Gotham Scouts, but you're not done.

"But before then, I plan on being the pettiest, deranged person in all of Gotham University." You declare. "And that includes you in my plans, because you, Damian Wayne, are the only person who checks all my requirements of a fake boyfriend."

"I'm honoured." He mocks, gaze flickering past towards the hallway.

"You are Walter's role-model, he would kiss the test tubes you lay your fingers on. Paige has a Pinterest folder labelled with your name, and it has all your news sightings saved by colour coordination."

"Sounds like your issues derive more from the company you keep." He mutters, expression pulled together in disgust.

"Point besides, I want it to be you, Damian Wayne." You confess.

It sounds ridiculous, but this was fully concerning your pride and something you've forgotten in your years of working yourself away for your dreams, which was the taste for controlled chaos. He blinks once, staring at you incredulously as if deciding where to place you in his ranking of newly discovered lunatics.

"You're the only person who will drive them as insane as they've made me." Your voice chokes, filled with determination or buried rage, the difference didn’t seem to matter. "You could walk in there for just an hour to save my life, and I know that you won't have the slightest chance of complicating things, or falling in love with me—and that's what makes this perfect. This may sound crazy to you, but you're the only person that's made sense to me ever since my life was turned upside-down."

Your chest heaves, and your arms are still outstretched to stop him from leaving the lab. You're nothing like this—impulsive, frantic, verging on insanity—but you're also done being complacent. Of letting things go just because it's the right thing to do.

After what feels like eternity, Damian's expression flickers. Implicit and almost undetectable, but his gaze is on you as if he's finally registering your existence and trying to catalogue you into a different box than the one he's placed you in.

"Send the spreadsheet to my email." He answers apprehensively, as if he can't believe the words coming out of his mouth. "I will review through the calendar on its... feasibility. Expect a response by eight p.m.."

You let out a held breath, a smile finally breaking through. "Thank you, really—"

"On the condition that I expect you to finish your section by tonight."

Your expression freezes. "Tonight?"

"To prove your desperation's worth considering." He tosses you a mocking smile, all sharp edge and nothing considerable of warmth. "You have ten more hours before my interest wanes."

Your smile weakens, blinking rapidly as you calculate your remaining time to draft something of substance. "Okay, sure— that's not going to be a problem."

It's worth it. Dealing with Damian Wayne is going to be worth it.

From: [email protected] Subject: 'Fake-Dating Operation' Spreadsheet Review

I have reviewed through your spreadsheet in detail. Do answer my enquiries on my comments below. - I believe watching romance comedy as 'theory practice' is highly inefficient and prone to fantastical expectations. Do amend this. - As for my 'meeting' availabilities, I am free on Thursdays and Fridays at noon to two, on the condition that at least an hour be reserved for actual assignment discussions. You are required to provide evidence of actual progress for the assignment, or this arrangement will be considered void. - Provide me a list summary on details for answers regarding possible interrogation questions during the party. It will be more efficient as compared to you providing me the details in person. As for the assignment, your section draft is acceptable, and I expect our lab findings to be updated into your table by the following lab session next week.

Regards, Damian.

You can barely contain your grin, kicking into the sheets despite the exhaustion that plagues your bones from grueling non-stop over the section and multiple tabs later. He had looked through your multi-coloured spreadsheet calendar, and actually considered it with his own enquiries. Typing out your own response, you give serious thought into his enquiries.

To: [email protected] Subject: Reply: 'Fake-Dating Operation' Spreadsheet Review

Thank you for your detailed consideration of my spreadsheet. Your efforts are acknowledged and appreciated. - I believe we are required to watch at least one rom-com that involves fake-dating. Neither of us have had previous experience in this department (unless you'd like to share valuable information), and it will boost our success rate. - Perfect! I'm available on Fridays, and scout's honour, I promise to have my progress brought for each meeting session. - As for the list, I will provide you possible answers, but some may require in-person explanations. I'll explain more this Friday! Can't even express my thanks on how grateful I am, you're the best Wayne in history!

Signing off your name, you close your laptop with the giddiest smile you've had since—at the reminder, your grin falters. Your chest thuds faintly, as if reminding you that the fun you've just experienced can still be dampened by reality. No, you refuse to let it ruin your enjoyment.

This is the most alive you've felt in weeks, and you're going to make the most of it. If your life feels like it's finally picking up through colourful spreadsheet rows and columns, and waiting on an email reply from the most terrifying student in Gotham University—so be it.

Damian slides your extremely lengthy list across the lunch table, and you can barely hide your shock that he actually printed it out—before you catch sight of many red circles marked neatly around your points.

"Your least favourite vigilante is Robin?" He interrogates.

You blink in surprise, not expecting him to start there. "Well, he's not exactly original—I mean, c’mon, they’re multiple versions of him."

His lips part, aghast in a half-caught scoff. "He's one of the most prominent vigilante figures in Gotham."

You shrug. "Spoiler's cooler."

He clicks at his tongue. "You have horrible taste."

"You are not telling me that you, Damian Wayne, have a favourite and that is Robin?"

He doesn't blink. "There are several other questionable details in your list."

"Yes, I can see that." Peering back at your list, your brows furrow. "What's wrong with liking Gotham's Pizza?"

"Only that you're clearly fond of days-old grease and artificial cheese."

"Hey, that's where it gets its flavour."

He shakes his head, disgusted. "I refuse to be associated with someone who has non-functioning taste buds."

"Fine—we'll say we often have dates at Romeo's instead." You shrug. "Not like I'll be caught there after our agreement's expired."

He raises a brow. "Expired?"

Pointing at your open tab, you reference a newly added row. "Our break-up, scheduled for Monday after the party."

He stares at the date, before his gaze roams over you with a questioning look. "Despite my lack of experience, should you not consider the likely suspicions if you were to end a relationship three days after the party?"

Your lips part into an 'oh'. "I thought you would want to get it over and done with as quickly as possible."

His expression closes in, gaze narrowing. "I will not put my reputation at stake by agreeing to this facade, if it means having our efforts go down the drain because of an obvious flaw.”

Your grin slips out uncontrollably. “You just said ‘our’ efforts. Look at us, the perfect team.”

His expression remains impassive, before he raises a slow brow. “Switch to the assignment tab.”

“Yes, sir.”

Resting below a willow tree, your third Friday with Damian is spent resting below the shade on your picnic cloth—one you used to share with Paige. The sight of its red plaid, stuffed behind your piles of clothes in your wardrobe, was getting sad—even for you.

Damian’s back is resting against the tree bark, shoulders nearly taking up the width—brows impossibly furrowed as his gaze narrows on your laptop displaying ‘To All The Boys I Loved Before’.”

“This movie is non-sensical.”

“I think it’s romantic.” You shrug.

He tosses you a judgmental glance. “Having your own blood betray you by revealing your own personal letters, is your idea of romance?”

“I mean Lara Jean and Peter, Damian.” You snort. “That’s our main source of inspiration.”

“He’s hardly appealing.” He scoffs, arms crossing over the other. “Is this the standards you expect from our arrangement?”

“If this is mediocre—” You respond, aghast. “You have no idea how dire love can be nowadays.”

His frown deepens. “You are not expecting me to perform in this manner?”

“What—falling in love with me?” You grin. “No, I do not expect you to be Peter Lavinsky.”

He stares at you with barely concealed frustration. Before you can tease him further, something purple is tossed into your face.

A yelp escapes your mouth, the light weight of an object falling into your lap.

“That’s—the discontinued, limited edition Spoiler cap!” You gasp, eyes widening in realisation. “How did you get this?”

He shrugs begrudgingly. “My sister used to be a collector. She doesn’t mind giving it away.”

“Giving it away?” You mutter incredulously. “This is actual gold. Your sister is my favourite person on Earth.”

His brow twitches. “I bargained for that cap.”

You snort. “What did you exchange it for, your dignity?”

“You have no clue on my sacrifice." He grimaces.

“Your sacrifice is acknowledged." You tease, before letting out another huff of amazement. “This is the best day of my life.”

When your gaze falls back to the cap, tracing your fingers over the logo—you miss the twitch of his lips into a semblance of a smile.

To: [email protected] Subject: Reminder on Friday Meetings

You missed today’s meeting without prior notice. Not that your absence has affected my ability to resume our assignment, but after your frequent reminders to not miss on our mandatory meetings—it leaves me with doubt that you intentionally missed our sessions on your end. Do update me as soon as possible on your status.

Regards, Damian. (Sent yesterday, 1.20 p.m.)

Subject: Reply: Reminder on Friday Meetings

I feel I must reinstate that my previous email regarding your absence, as well as this reply, should not be twisted in its meaning as more than a mere enquiry. Given previous evidence of the average speed of your responses, a full 24 hours with a lack of response prompts me to send another email. Do respond when you are able.

Regards, Damian. (Sent today, 1.32 p.m.) Three respectable knocks resound against your dormitory’s door. A groan escapes your lips, your head pounding from the cold you’ve caught from a late night running through pouring rain. You had missed the bus and had to make it back before curfew, and now your body is reminding you of its frail mortality, chills shaking throughout your limbs and rendering you heavily immobile.

The knocks echo again when you shift your head deeper into the pillows. You muffle curses into the cotton, gripping at your sheets to steady yourself as you force your body upright. The world sways on its axis as you make your way—shifting pathetically with every step, towards the door.

Missing your lock a few times, you finally grab a hold of the chain and slide it off, clicking the door open. You’re immediately faced with a broad chest, donning a familiar black sweater. Shifting your gaze up, you’re met with Damian Wayne’s narrowed gaze, sweat trailing down his temple.

“Damian?” Your voice croaks, and even the attempt of speaking hurts. “What are you doing here?”

He takes one glance, and immediately, his expression contorts in… concern? You barely have time to explain about the cold, or an apology for missing the meeting, when you feel the warmth of his palm press against your forehead.

You blink, stunned as he measures your temperature. He shakes his head slightly in a disapproving manner. “Your temperature is too high.” His tongue clicks with his observation.

You suppose he was right. You did feel one wrong step from keening over and lying on your welcome mat.

“I got caught in the rain.” You explain, trying your best to pull together a more reassuring expression, one less filled with nausea-induced tension. “I’ll be fine—just need rest.”

His frown creases deeper. “Have you taken medicine?”

You try shaking your head, but that loses whatever balance you had left. The world actually tilts, or maybe you are the one who's obeying gravity—but strong arms catch you before you collapse.

“Look at your state.” Damian grits, pulling you back upright but closer. There's barely any space left between the two of you. “This fever, has it worsened considerably?”

“Yeah—but I didn’t have anyone to call.” You mutter in truth, cheek still smushed against his chest as support. “I ran out of medicine a while ago, and by the time I woke up—I couldn’t get out of bed.”

You feel his arms tense around you. Above the crown of your head, you feel a soft sigh. “You have me.” He mutters, almost reprimanding.

Your brows furrow in confusion. “You would get me medicine?”

“That would be a start.” He states, his grip shifting with his words.

The world shifts again when his hands wrap around the under of your thighs, lifting you into his arms gently to not worsen your state. If your mind wasn’t completely swarmed by the symptoms of your cold, you’d stop to think of how strangely sweet it was that Damian had come all the way to your dormitory, and that he was carrying you bridal-style towards your bed.

”It’s not usually this messy.” You feel the need to point out, words muffled against his sweater. “You just have impeccable timing.”

His lip twitches involuntarily as he sets you down against the thrashed sheets. “Organised according to your system?”

You smile weakly at the thought of your colour-coded spreadsheet. “Exactly.”

He places his palm against your forehead again, and you subconsciously find yourself leaning into his touch. “You’re like—really warm.” You murmur. “Do you always run hot?”

He swallows, touch lingering on your skin. “Your temperature is dysregulated. I’ll return soon with medicine. Rest. I won’t be gone long.”

“Okay.” Your lids fall shut, the pounding lessening with your head burrowed into the pillows, and his touch a gentle anchor. “You know—you’d be a great boyfriend for someone one day.”

You don’t hear a response, and your honest thoughts continue to tumble out from your skull like a cracked jar. “You’re really nice, Dami.” The shortening of his name feels like cotton candy stuffed in your mouth, and you barely register the stiffening of his fingers. “Fierce, but I like that about you. I like you a lot, actually. Not in a swooning way, but in a—I’m really glad I met you kind of way.”

He doesn’t pull away when your lips finally clamp shut, but the silence is almost deafening. You peek open with one eye, catching his expression. He’s staring at you… as if no one’s ever said that to his face—ever.

“Don’t make it weird.” You tease softly, voice tethered with exhaustion. “I’m just giving you your deserved five stars.”

You hear the soft echo of his scoff, withheld from its usual bite, but you don’t hear much else after. Only that the lingering touch of his fingers over your skin stays put till sleep catches up on you, and the world falls silent under the weight of Damian’s gaze. Okay, maybe you were lying a little about the swooning.

Fevers fade, but the warmth that lingers seems to seep past the well-defined borders of a spreadsheet, or the predictable order of a list—like the one currently in your hand.

"Favourite vigilante?" You quiz, red pen bitten between your lips as you laid stretched on the wooden bench.

"Spoiler." He answers, tossing you an expression as if to convey that he couldn't believe you even bothered with such a question.

"Good job." You tease, fiddling with the cap of your pen, attached at the end. "Favourite date spot?"

"Gotham's Pizza." He huffs.

You blink. "Hey, it's supposed to be Romeo's."

"You prefer Gotham's." He mutters.

"But you don't." You remind him.

Averting his gaze to your lips, his fingers loop around the red pen, dragging it gently out from your teeth's grip, and adjusting the answer with a cross. "That's irrelevant. I'm merely pointing out an inconsistency."

Your lips quirk up into a smile. "You don't even need this list anymore. Why bother keeping it?"

Tension pulls briefly at his jaw, but it relaxes before you can trace it to an emotion. "You haven't tested me on all the questions."

You lean in, the crinkled paper resting below your fingers as you gaze into his eyes. "Alright? Something off the books." You hum. "What do I think of Damian Wayne?"

He blinks, surprised. You wait patiently, the warmth of summer carrying the scent of grass blades past the picnic table, the world narrowing into the space between the two of you.

His lips part after a moment. "Fierce." He answers. "Though you're one of the few who doesn't run from it."

"What's there to run from?" You hum. "I think he's nice, you should give him some credit for that."

His brow raises, amusement flickering in his gaze. "That's not a common perception."

"Yeah, but no one else gets to experience him being their partner." You tease. "He even offers to rearrange your dormitory to a better system if you're lucky."

He scoffs lightly. "That's only considering if the existing system barely works."

"Just say you hate colour-coding, Dami." You snort. "I know you're itching to fix our spreadsheet."

His expression flickers for a moment. "Not exactly."

You tilt your head, questioning. His gaze averts to the open spreadsheet, something familiar after the weeks spent together. "It's grown on me."

Grown on him—despite it being everything he initially found horrendous, from the many details pasted in long paragraphs into the comments, and the bright colours for the special shared Fridays between you two. Something warm pools in your chest, and you find your gaze trailing to the red pen held between his fingers instead.

"You're more prepared for this party than I am." You admit softly.

You feel his attention switch onto you, trained on the nervous tick you have where you hyper-focus on something brightly coloured. He twirls the pen once, considering.

"You don't have to go through with this." He says. "Just say the word. I'll honour whatever decision you make."

His reassurance makes you consider it, you really do. With the dreaded anticipation finally reaching its peak, with the party being tonight—you have stopped to think if it was worth it. To show up in a room where the story's long gone sour, and your presence is more likely to be a blight than a welcomed gift.

Then again, you hadn't prepared this all for nothing. You hadn't gotten to know Damian—for nothing.

"No, it'll be fun." You smile, meeting his gaze. "We'll be just like Lara Jean and Peter, but with better standards."

Damian's mouth twitches, almost imperceptible. "Agreed."

Your fingers catch onto the silk-like fabric of your dress. Once bought as a birthday present, you never had the chance to wear something like this. Walter had called it overkill, and you convinced yourself that you’d eventually find a day to wear the gorgeous shade without feeling inadequate for it. Nothing required overkill more than tonight.

Damian's promised to pick you up, even when you had reassured him that meeting at the venue was fine. You stare at yourself in the mirror, and something quivers in your gut.

You don't feel as brave as you'd like, not even in your favourite dress. The thought of the two people you once trusted most being together, exchanging normal niceties with you as if nothing had ever happened—you're seriously beginning to overthink just how horribly awkward this situation was going to be.

What if it wasn't like the movies? What if Damian saw too—just how horribly small you felt—and decided you weren't worth the spreadsheets and lists and medicine kit he over-splurged on when you caught that cold?

The party was going to be over in an hour, you had promised Damian the both of you would be present for no more than that duration—and now, you feel ridiculous in your own skin. You're tempted to text him if he wanted to ditch and just head to Romeo's instead—when you hear the signature three knocks of his against your door.

You swallow your fear-induced nausea back into your gut, and force yourself to open the door with something akin to a smile. Your expression freezes in place at the sight... of Damian tidied up.

You knew he was handsome, you obviously had eyes, but to see him in that white collared shirt that made his green eyes pop, loosened at the buttons, with his hair pulled back and just—wow. Damian Wayne, you were seriously going to the party with this guy? As your fake boyfriend?

You don't notice the way his own expression completely falters at the sight of you. Nor the way his fingers tightened into a fist, digging into his palms.

You only notice how the silence stretched out between the two of you lingers long enough to matter.

"Hey, handsome." You start, trying to regain your composure. "You cleaned up nice."

He blinks, as if stunned. His response comes out delayed, brows pinching together into something honest. "You are beautiful."

Not you look—as if he's only noticed. No, he emphasised the 'are', as if he's always seen it. Your heart doesn't quite know what to do with that information, or how to catalogue the way he's looking at you as if he's—not pretending.

"Thank you." Your voice comes out weaker than you intended, because for all his intensity, Damian being soft is what renders you stunned. "I still don't know if I should do this."

His gaze clears, something steady offered to you when you return it. "You don't need to be sure." He answers, offering his hand. "That's what I'm here for—so you will not be alone."

He's right. Despite your doubts, seeing him in front of you reminds you of the steady presence he's offered from the very beginning. Through your nonsensical email threads, the Friday lunches, the rom-com binging, rushing to the store to buy you cold medicine—your fears always quieted when Damian was near. Your smile brightens, taking his hand in yours. "Let's get this operation over with."

Walter catches sight of you first. His vision is perfectly facing the entrance, your ex's gaze meeting yours as soon as you step through the doorway—and he immediately taps on Paige’s shoulder. An insincere smile arrives on his expression, but it freezes in place the moment Damian enters with you.

He isn't the only one to notice. You knew the effect Damian had on others, standing out without even meaning to, much less in an environment like this. Damian doesn't seem bothered at all, because you feel his attention acutely trained on you instead. His hand rubs a soothing notion over your lower back, as if you're the only person he's aware that exists in the room.

Walter's gaze drifts, from the dress he hated to Damian’s hand wrapping around your waist. He puts the facts together, faster than you had when he and Paige had approached you with the news. The warmth leaves his welcoming expression, and he whispers something into Paige's ear.

Damian registers this entire exchange in under a second, and his hand tightens briefly on your waist, as if reassuring you that he was right beside you.

The distance closes in between you and the two people your life once revolved around, and you train your gaze on Walter, because you can tell immediately that Paige is struck by Damian's appearance, more so by his hand on your waist.

"It's been a while." Walter starts off, though his gaze barely lingers on you before switching to Damian. "Wayne, I don't believe we've been properly introduced."

"There hasn't been a need." Damian shuts him down.

The atmosphere turns icy the moment Walter registers the tone of Damian's voice. He laughs, astonished—and embarrassed. Paige finally recovers in an attempt to salvage the situation, pulling together her best smile.

"Well, it's lovely to have you both here." Paige starts, and her voice is distant—nothing like the girl you used to know, hidden under the blankets of your beaten IKEA sofa when watching Scream for the tenth time. "You look amazing, and—sorry, I'm just curious on how the two of you know each other?"

Her question is directed towards you, but Damian takes the lead. "She's my partner."

"Partner?" Walter chokes on his breath. "As in—"

You finally find your voice to speak. "We are seeing each other." It comes out levelled, matching Damian's.

Their shock registers in different levels. Walter's nears disbelief, while Paige—looks at you, betrayed.

"I didn't know about this." Paige stammers.

"Yes, you didn't." You answer shortly.

She stares at you as if she's seeing a stranger. "Right. I guess it's been a long time since we've caught up."

You're tempted to laugh. A long time is an understatement. You can feel Damian's low scoff against your shoulder, and the absurdity of the situation feels less gut-wrenching with him by your side.

"You know she's a real mess." Walter speaks involuntarily. "Like her apartment's an actual hazard. Isn't that right, Paige?"

Paige freezes, lips parting into a gap, but Damian's faster.

"I am aware—that she has her own unique system." Damian states, gaze narrowing in discontent. "It didn't take long for me to understand it, or to appreciate it."

"Appreciate it?" Walter sneers. "Are you sure you're talking about the right person?"

"Yes." Damian doesn't hesitate, eyes steady, fixing yours. As if he was conveying it to you instead of the audience, he answers. "I'm sure."

You swallow dryly, unable to hide the softened smile you usually reserved for him only when it was the two of you. Both of them catch sight of it, and you can sense the question becoming less of whether it was real, and more of the how.

It's easy to act in love when Damian's this close, muttering words like that, with his familiar warmth grounding you through the stagnant conversation. So instinctive, that you think it's easier than breathing.

You sense Paige shifting closer and you force yourself to focus, and casting her another glance, only to finally catch a glimpse of the girl who used to be your closest person.

“Hey, can we talk?” Her expression is vulnerable, tentative in her offer. "Y'know, catch up in private."

Damian immediately shifts you back slightly with his weight, but you place a hand tentatively on his arm. His gaze locks onto you, reading into your expression. His brow raises as if to ask, 'You're sure?'. You give him a nod.

"Fine by me." You murmur, because despite everything—maybe a part of you still wanted to hear the honest truth. For her decision, on when she decided you should’ve been cut out of the picture then forcefully glued back into what they envisioned to be the perfect way to continue their lives. Maybe you just wanted to see if the Paige you knew still existed.

The moment you enter an unoccupied bathroom, Paige presses the door shut and immediately turns to you. "You have to spill."

Your brows furrow. "On?"

"Damian Wayne." She points out as if it's obvious. "You don't even know him."

You blink once then twice, and something colder settles in the cavity of your chest. "Things change, Paige."

“I’m just worried. It's all just so sudden.” Her hand reaches out to grasp yours, and you resist the instinctive flinch. “You’ve always been sensitive, and a guy like him is just bad news. I mean—Damian Wayne? I get that it feels exciting, but he barely knew of your existence before and now, he's suddenly dating you? I just want us to be on the same page here, that it doesn't really make sense."

A scoff rises up your throat, barely constrained as she continues on, her softened voice a perfect replica of how she had been when you first made your decision to break up with Walter.

“You know I’ll always support you if you need me.” She reassures. “You can tell me anything.”

The anger bubbles so violently, and it hits you. That despite everything, you had came into this party hoping that maybe a fraction of the girl you knew—who cried with you on bathroom floors when you experienced homesickness, who celebrated when you managed to pass your first year of medical school, who was there for your entire life in Gotham—would still exist. That something would give way, and her leaving would make sense, to have a reason. You realise now, that you've only been giving her excuses on the basis of what she used to mean to you.

Your wrath gives way to something cold, absent of grief—only the need to rip your hand out of hers. You do just that, and her shock barely registers before you open your mouth. “No.” Your voice carries a finality, strength you’ve been trying to garner since the day you lost her. “You don’t get to define my relationship with Damian, when you never addressed ours.”

She blinks, affronted. “Is this about Walter? We've already explained—we only felt what we did after the two of you broke up—”

“No, this isn’t about Walter. This is about us.” The coldness in your tone finally strikes something honest in her expression. “You broke my trust, Paige, and then you invite me to this party cause you thought it would help make amends? I thought you brought me in here, to at least explain to me on what happened to us."

"You should've told me." She says, a frown stretched at her lips. "If you weren't comfortable being around me and Walter, we wouldn't have forced you to come."

We—the word runs through your mind like a tire screech.

“Yes, I wasn't comfortable—I nearly died inside when it happened." You raise your head. "I lost my best friend, who drove me to karaoke night whenever I needed to forget about home. I lost the girl who swore to re-watch all rom-coms that ever existed in the 90s before we both turned fifty. I lost the only person I trusted since I moved into this city, over what—a man? Was it worth it, was our friendship worth it?”

She swallows thickly, and you see a fracture of the girl you recognise under the glitter, and the tears collecting at her lower lashes. “I thought you understood—that I love him differently than you did.”

Your gaze doesn’t flinch at the admission. “You were by my side when he broke up with me, when I told you that he called my dresses ugly, when he said my attitude was too much, when he made me smaller because it was more convenient for him when I was quieter, and you still got together with him. Maybe I thought you loved me enough too, to understand why I wasn't comfortable with it.”

Her expression shatters, and tears drip down her cheeks before she harshly wipes at them, smearing her eyeshadow. “You don’t get to say that.” She spits out. “Making it seem like I chose Walter over you, when you brought in Damian Wayne.”

Your brows contort. “What are you talking about?”

“You decided to come to the party to—prove you suddenly became better than us just by being with a Wayne?” She snaps. “You're acting like this because you think he's going to stay—but you don’t seriously believe it’ll actually last when Walter could barely stand you?”

That anger, buried deep, comes alive with a roar. You take a step forward, causing her to inch backward as you close in. “That's all your taking from this?" Your scoff resounds coldly. "Damian was the one who was there for me when you left—so yeah, I have more trust in him to treat me like an actual person."

She flinches, her lips parting in the same way she had done earlier when Walter tried to make you small. Silent, and unable to do anything but lay there in her guilt of absorbing an idea of who you are in Walter's head, and erasing what made you human in her eyes.

"Rest assured. You will never gain my trust again to even know what’s going on in my life and the people in it, and you never will.”

Taking a step back, you look at her one last time. Of the mess of her makeup, the same puffy eyes whenever she cries that you used to immediately follow up with the instinct to comfort her. You feel none of that now. “Goodbye, Paige.”

She doesn’t call out your name when you turn your back on her, and she doesn’t come after you. You needed that, more than you needed her to be the person you thought she was. To be blunt, and truthful to yourself—even if no one but you believed in it.

The euphoric lightness of your body from finally severing the bond doesn’t last long, when a rough hand grabs at your wrist. Being twisted around, you’re faced with Walter’s accusing expression.

“What did you say to her?”

“What I discussed with Paige stays between us.” You answer coldly, tugging at your wrist.

His hand tightens more, almost bruising. “You’re bringing in that attitude of yours, when we were kind enough to think of you? To let you stick around our lives?"

You’re sick of this narrative, of acting like you should’ve been grateful they thought to include you into this sick little group from your past life as if they hadn’t completely burnt it into flames.

“Walter, get your hands off before I shove—“

A fist slams into the side of Walter’s face before you even have a chance to finish your sentence. Screams erupt from the crowd, or cheers—you can barely tell because your eyes are locked onto Damian, who’s grabbing Walter by the collar with chafed knuckles.

Multiple eyes are on them, but your own gaze is fixed on Damian’s expression, who has gone completely cold. Nearly murderous, and filled with uncontained wrath. His glare, almost deadly, is trained on his target in a way you’ve never seen him before. The composed, distant Damian—is nowhere to be found.

"You stay away from her." Damian growls.

"What the hell, man!" Walter spits, blood sprayed over his nose. "Do you seriously think she's worth—"

Damian drags him closer by the collar, and something inhuman flashes past his concentrated gaze. "She's worth more than you ever will dream of trying to be. You are nothing, and even daring to lay a hand on her is something you will pay for."

“Damian!” You shout.

That finally reaches him, past the simultaneous gawking and murmurs. It’s as if he’s reentered his own body, and Damian immediately drops Walter to the ground with a loud thud. Walter lands embarrassingly on his bottom, and his entire face has gone red with shame.

His gaze switches to you, and his wrath fades immediately into concern. His eyes fall onto your bruising skin, and his emotions fall apart into something colder. You have a feeling if you don’t get him out of this room, this fight may escalate into something much worse.

Pushing through the forming crowd, you reach out. “Let’s get out of here.” You plead, holding out your hand.

His gaze drops to your fingers, then back to the forming outline of a hand gripped around your wrist, and you see his calculating assessment. Damian leans lower, muttering something low into Walter’s ear. It is quick, but you see the way Walter completely freezes in place—his struggle evading from his body like a statue. When Damian’s eyes meet your frightened ones once more, he doesn’t hesitate a second longer before grabbing your hand.

Damian doesn't waste time in leading you through the crowd, towards the exit and away from the escalating noise—and into the night breeze. When the cold wind finally hits your skin, his hand remains firmly intertwined with yours as he guides you somewhere far away—the fact still lingers that Damian, perfect track record and Wayne prodigy, just punched someone for you.

“You punched him.” You mutter faintly, seated at a bench you’ve both found, crisp leaves surrounding you with the faint singing of crickets.

“He was hurting you.”

“Damian, the whole school’s going to talk about this.” You stress. “You’re going to get in trouble, possibly a suspension.”

His jaw clenches. “I am your partner.”

Damian’s agitated. Over the situation, despite there no longer being any witnesses to his supposed protection. His shoulders are tense, jaw clenched and his gaze—you recall how he had looked at Walter when he landed that first hit, the pure anger that seized him.

“Not a real one.”

He flinches, as if struck, and you knew immediately that your words landed wrongly. His emotions topple over the other, and you’re unable to name any that arises before it all falls apart like his body’s regained consciousness. Concealed, and distant.

“My mistake.” He mutters. “I’ve forgotten my standing.”

“Damian—”

“I do not wish to inconvenience you.” He states, words leaving in a bitter rush. “I have overstepped, I realise that.”

“Damian.” You call out for the second time, fingers reaching for his—and he finally breathes when your warmth seeps through his skin. You’re relieved he doesn’t pull away. “That came out wrong. I’m not mad you punched the jerk, I would’ve done it myself. I am glad you stood up for me, but I’m just confused on why you did it, because there's nothing at stake for you, only something to lose.”

His expression stiffens at the verbal admission of his visible frustration. This conversation sounds much too real, and the lines that have been carefully drawn are erasing themselves, leaving behind uncharted territory. One you weren’t sure how to navigate.

“You do matter to me, as more than a role.” You plead. “I don’t want you to think you’re someone I chose out of convenience. Please don’t believe that.”

His breath exhales low, controlled. His gaze flickers with the briefest uncertainty, and you realise how selfish you’ve been. This arrangement had been perfect for you, that you simply assumed it was the same for him.

“No, you are not at fault.” He mutters after a moment. “It is not your responsibility to handle the consequence of my actions. We had agreed on no complications, and I have done exactly that.”

His jaw tightens, before he finally spits it out. “I punched him because the boundaries of what was was real or imagined between us has never made a difference to me. He had hurt you, not only physically—“ His gaze shifts to your reddened wrist, and it darkens completely. “—but he is a culprit to your existing pain. I was angry, because I couldn’t comprehend that I was finally faced with the two morons who thought losing you was even a consideration, and to see them hold no remorse for it made me forget my place.”

“I’ve always excelled in being what others expected of me.” He mutters. “When you approached me, it was the first time I had not wanted to be confined to a role. I did not want to partake in a façade, because—I had wanted your request to be for something real. Then, you mentioned that you picked me because I had not the slightest chance of falling for you. It was ironic, and I knew then that I should've rejected your request."

"But I started to earnestly believe—that I could separate emotion and duty. I could be in your presence, and not feel the consequences if the arrangement ended—because nothing would be real.”

“Till I realised—how much it affected me to not have you truly at all.” He confesses. “I should’ve been honest, that this arrangement had become the opposite of what we’ve agreed upon. But I was afraid, of admitting that I wasn’t capable of control, of driving you away."

“Damian." Your frown deepens. "You’re not going to lose me.”

“I don’t know.” He blurts honestly. “I do not know how to handle want. I am built of structure, of worth to prove why I deserve to keep my position, that has always been what I’ve provided. I do not know how to want without providing substance to covet a person.”

“But I want you.” He exhales. “Not once has it been pretend for me, not when it had already existed before our arrangement. Every moment I reached for your hand, every time I checked that horrendous shaded calendar of yours. I rushed over the moment you went missing when you were sick, because I had wanted to look for you. I have never once hesitated in calling myself your partner, even knowing the role was temporary. I want you, in the real, complicated way—that I've failed in being what you needed me to be."

"That's not true." You break. "That's not what I need you to be at all, Damian."

He finally looks at you, a little less restrained—and almost startled at your words.

"If you had been real about this the entire time, Damian, then so have I." You admit. "I chose you because I thought you wouldn't have fallen for me, that is true—but that is because I also thought it was safe because I knew I was going to fall for you."

"I wasn't kidding when I said I like you." You confess. "In all of the complicated, real sense of the word, and you were always going be the one I was going to choose. Even if you had said no, I wouldn't have asked anyone else. I wanted you from the start, Damian, and that hasn't changed. I was going to ask you at freaking Romeo's after this, if you wanted this to be real too."

The moment those words leave your lips, Damian closes in. His fingers tug you by your waist, his hand wrapping around the nape of your neck, and his lips are on yours. Damian Wayne, who still has forming bruises at his knuckles from a fight he landed in to defend you, is kissing you on a park bench in the middle of the night—and you're not dreaming.

It's clearly his first, but there's something so tenderly sweet about it that your heart trembles uncontrollably—enough to render something wet at your lashes by the time he's pulled back.

He pulls apart just to meet your gaze, and you've never seen him this relieved. "This is real." He restates, as if he can't quite truly believe it.

“We did just have our first official fight.” You murmur, cheek pressed to his chest.

"Official." He hums in acknowledgement. "I like that."