Why, She Sounds Positively Demented

“I got a text!”

The sound of Hannah’s voice has you all rushing to meet her on the grassy lawn, Allie’s nails digging into your arm excitedly as you all swarm around Hannah.

She clears her throat, a soft blush painted over her cheeks at everyone’s attention, though clearly enjoying it nonetheless. She looks down at the text on her phone. “‘Islanders! Today, a new bombshell will be entering the villa—,”

Allie lets out a loud squeal. “YES!”

“— He has chosen to take Hannah on a one-on-one date. Prepare for heads to turn! #NewArrivals #VillaShakeUp’”

The Villa erupts into cheers, though you notice that Justin is a little more subdued. In the commotion, you lock eyes with Joe. His expression is unclear—he almost looks like he’s disappointed, which confuses you. Before you can pull him aside to chat, the girls start rushing you all to the dressing room to help Hannah get ready.

“This is so exciting!” Meg cheers.

Allie’s already started plugging in a hair straightener, curler, and crimping iron.

“So we have options,” she tells you when Hannah shoots her a look.

“I am not letting Hannah go on a date with a crimped bob,” Dionne’s muffled shout comes from where she’s rifling through the closet.

You shake your head with a laugh as Allie unplugs the crimper, reaching for Hannah’s makeup bag and moving to sit on the stool next to her. As you take out her primer, you watch Hannah quietly examine herself in the mirror.

“Are you excited for your date?”

Hannah meets your eye in the mirror with a soft sigh. “I think so?” She bites her lip hesitantly. “I don’t know. I know it’s only day 3, but I do like Justin, I just… I wish he would put a bit more effort in, I guess.”

You nod along, pumping some of Hannah’s primer onto your fingertips.

“Like, he’s not being disrespectful or anything. But I feel like I kinda have to initiate everything? Like he doesn’t really pull me for chats and I always have to be the one to keep the conversation going.” Hannah’s eyes flutter closed as you press the primer into her skin.

“Well, then, I think this date came at a perfect time for you,” Dionne assures her, pulling out an apricot colored halter top and skirt set with a questioning look.

Allie cocks her head at it thoughtfully, before shaking her head and Dionne puts it back in the closet and continues looking. “Exactly. Even if you end up not really clicking with the new bombshell, it’ll definitely be a wake-up call for Justin and show him that there’s a Villa full of guys waiting for him to fuck it up with you.” 

“He did seem kinda nervous when you read the text out,” you offer, getting up to let Allie take your place to do the rest of Hannah’s makeup.

“Really?” Hannah asks hopefully.

Meg nods. “Yeah, I clocked that too. It’s definitely got him sweating a bit.”

“See?” Allie grins. “It’s already working. Now, let’s all manifest that this bombshell is crazy, fucking hot and makes all the guys sweat a bit.”

Dionne reemerges from the closet with a baby blue mini dress, which receives a squeal of approval from Meg, a proud nod from Allie, and two thumbs up from you. She lays the dress across the back of one of the chairs, before her eyes land on you with a knowing expression.

“Are you going to talk to Joe after this?”

Allie furrows her brows. “What’s going on with Joe?”

Suddenly all the girls’ attention is on you and you shift uncomfortably, grabbing a hairbrush to busy yourself with Hannah’s hair.

When you don’t immediately move to speak, Dionne passes you the now hot curling iron and speaks for you. “Maybe it’s nothing, but he was acting weird as fuck outside. And I know you noticed.”

Allie meets your eye with raised brows and you shrug noncommittally.

“Maybe he’s just worried about the new bombshell coming in?” Hannah offers.

“I don’t know…” You trail off, gathering a strand of Hannah’s hair to wrap around the barrel of the curling iron. “He didn’t really seem nervous. He looked more disappointed.”

You remove the curl of Hannah’s hair from the iron, holding it in your palm to set before letting the ringlet fall. “Things between us have been fine, I guess, but I keep waiting for this, like, spark with him and it’s just not there.”

Allie looks up from applying blush to Hannah’s cheeks. “Is there anyone else in the Villa you’re interested in?”

You shake your head. “Not really. But, I don’t know, I’m probably overthinking everything. It’s still such early days, I think Joe and I just need to spend more time together. I’ll try to talk to him more today.”

“I think that’s a good idea,” Hannah reaches behind herself, waiting for you to place your hand in hers before giving it a comforting squeeze. “And, whatever happens, you’ll be okay.” 

After that the conversation falls back into excited squeals and loudly hyping Hannah up before you’re all standing by the entrance to wave her off. 

As you all cheer, you catch something small falter on Allie’s face. Almost as soon as you notice it, it’s gone, and she’s cupping her hands around her mouth, “Bye, have fun! Bring back someone hot!”

Once Hannah turns the corner and is fully out of sight, you turn to get Joe’s attention. You nudge your head in the direction of the sandy swing and he nods, following you. Dionne’s fingers brush yours as you pass and she gives you a supportive smile.

A somewhat uncomfortable silence falls over you and Joe as you make yourselves comfortable on the swing seat.

“Hey,” you say simply.

“Hey.”

It’s quiet for another moment and you clear your throat. “I just wanted—I mean, I just noticed something seemed weird with you after the bombshell announcement and I wanted to, like, just check in with you.”

Joe makes a face. “What seemed weird with me?”

“Well, I don’t—You just seemed disappointed?” You look down, running your nail along the cushioned seat. “The other girls noticed too.”

“You talked to the other girls about it?”

“Yeah, they—,”

Joe cuts you off. “Why are you bringing this up with the other girls?”

“Because I—Why are you getting mad about this?” You ask, Joe’s tone catching you off guard.

“I’m not getting mad,” Joe huffs. “I just don’t really appreciate you spreading my business to everyone.”

Your brows crumple in confusion. “Your business? What are you even—They noticed you were acting weird and asked if I was gonna talk to you about it. How is that me spreading your business?”

“Because you should have just come to me to talk about it,” Joe argues.

You throw your hands up in exasperation. “That’s literally what I’m doing right now!”

“Fine, whatever,” Joe crosses his arms dismissively. “Sorry I seemed weird or disappointed or whatever it is that you’re even mad about, but I think that you’ve made this a way bigger thing than it needed to be.”

He gets up before you can respond, brushing off his shorts. “And, in the future, I’d appreciate it if you wouldn't go tell everyone every little thing that happens between us.”

And then he’s walking away, leaving you there dumbfounded as you try to piece together how your simple attempt at communication escalated so quickly.

Hours later, you’re lounging on the daybeds—still trying to process what happened between you and Joe earlier that morning—when the sound of two footsteps catches your attention. Meg lets out a loud gasp, her ping pong paddle clattering against the ping pong table, and drags Tucker away from their game. 

“They’re back!”

Though there’s obvious excitement at finally being able to meet the new Islander who’s been lingering in all your heads since the morning, your conversation with Joe left you feeling off and has distracted you enough that it takes you a bit longer than everyone else to get up and greet Hannah and the new bombshell.

Justin was the first to see them, having spent most of the morning looking up at every little sound and waiting for them to return. Upon seeing Hannah and the bombshell walking in with a respectful amount of space between them, his posture relaxes.

Unfortunately, you do the exact opposite. 

The second your eyes land on the new bombshell, your breath catches in your throat and your lips part in shock. You were going to have to have a much more serious conversation with Allie about the powers of manifestation later because whatever it was that she asked to bring in a “crazy, fucking hot” bombshell had delivered.

He was hot in a way you didn’t think men could even be hot; tall and broad, with deep brown eyes you would happily drown in.

You try not to make your staring obvious, your immense attraction faltering when Hannah turns to smile at him brightly.

“Guys, this is Garrett.”

“Okay, spill, right now.”

Garrett had barely planted both feet on the Villa grass before Allie had called for an immediate girls debrief, leaving the boys to make proper introductions as you and the girls sat around the fire pit to hear the details of Hannah’s date.

Hannah bites her lip, before breaking out into a girly giggle. “I mean… You’ve seen him.”

The girls break out into shrieks and Allie hits Hannah’s shoulder excitedly.

“Yes, bitch!”

“Okay, slow down,” Hannah laughs, holding out her hands. “You’re acting like we had sex or something.”

“Did you?” Allie smirks.

“No. I mean, we kissed a little—,”

Another wave of shrieks erupts from the group, loud enough to get some looks from the guys on the other side of the Villa.

“—But that was the only thing we did.” Hannah stresses. “It was a nice date though. He’s definitely the type of guy I’d go for on the outside.”

Something in Hannah’s tone dips at the end of her sentence and you narrow your eyes slightly. 

“But…”

Hannah looks up at you like you’ve scolded her, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. “But I couldn’t stop thinking about Justin,” she confesses, covering her face with her hands. “Like, I had a lot of fun on my date with Garrett and he didn’t do anything wrong, I just…”

“Wished you were on a date with Justin instead?” Dionne finishes for her.

Hannah gives a small nod. “Does that sound crazy? I mean, we’ve only known each other for three days.”

“Girl, if that makes you crazy then Justin is, like, psychotic,” you tease softly. “He was waiting for you to come back like a puppy with separation anxiety.”

The rest of the girls chime in with their own forms of agreement.

“I don’t think he spoke to any of us the whole morning. Tucker asked if he would spot him at the gym and Justin literally said ‘no’ because he wanted to be able to hear when you got back,” Meg tells her.

When Hannah looks at her in disbelief, Allie grins. “Genuinely babe, I don’t think you’re gonna have to worry about him not putting in effort anymore.”

Hannah opens her mouth to press for more information, but whatever question she asks gets lost in your ears as—very much against your will—your eyes drift to find Garrett.

He’s leaning against one of the kitchen counters, listening to an animated Tucker who is no doubt giving him a very thorough tour of where all the dishware and cutlery goes. You watch as his lips twitch with a faint smile when Tucker opens one of the drawers and lets out an offended gasp at the state of it, quickly forgetting Garrett as he starts to sort the forks and spoons to his liking.

Before you have time to look away, Garrett turns around, immediately locking eyes with you. Your eyes widen in mortification at being caught staring, but you can’t seem to look away. Garrett takes you in with muted interest, arms crossing lazily as his eyes slowly travel up and down your body. When he’s satisfied with looking at you, he meets your gaze again and cocks his head almost challengingly.

“Do you girls mind if I pull Hannah for a chat?”

Justin’s sudden arrival at the fire pit causes your head to snap back so fast, you almost get whiplash and you force your eyes to stay on him—and not on Garrett who, you can feel, is still watching you—as the girls shoo Hannah into his arms.

The evening comes quickly after that, everyone changing out of their swimwear and getting ready for the night, before mingling around the Villa. You haven’t seen Joe since the beginning of the night, when he and the guys were waiting for the girls at the bottom of the stairs and, even then, he only gave you a small hum in greeting before promptly disappearing. The two of you haven’t really spoken since the morning. 

That uncomfortable, off feeling you’ve been feeling since the morning multiplies. 

Still, you tried to ignore it, half-committing to a conversation with Allie and Sean that quickly devolved into you just watching as they started arguing about something unimportant. Like what is increasingly becoming common with the two, the argument ends with Sean taking Allie off somewhere to speak privately. You shoot Allie a sympathetic smile, before scanning the rest of the Villa. 

The lawn is surprisingly empty—you’ve reached the point in the night where many of the couples have snuck off for some private time together (or as private as you can get in a villa full of cameras)—and that’s the excuse you’re using if anyone questions how quickly you were able to find Garrett standing by the ping pong table.

“You know, if you wanted to play ping pong, Tucker’s really good at it.”

Garrett turns around at the sound of your voice, though doesn’t really seem surprised that you’ve come to talk to him. “What about you?”

“Absolutely not,” you laugh.

Garrett’s eyes light up at your immediate refusal. “Well, now we have to play.” He holds a ping pong paddle out to you teasingly.

You shake your head, but it’s futile. “I’m telling you, we wouldn’t even be able to play. It would just be me chasing the ball the whole time.”

“That still sounds fun,” he nudges your hand with the paddle. “I’ll go easy on you.”

“How gracious,” you mutter sarcastically, but you take the ping pong paddle from him anyway.

Garrett moves to the other side of the table, grabbing a ping pong ball and his own paddle. You eye the ball warily as he bounces it on the table a couple times. When he moves to serve, you panic, blurting out the first thing you can think of.

“Where’s Hannah?”

Garrett freezes, and you can tell he knows exactly what you’re doing, but he indulges you anyway, letting his paddle arm drop.

“Don’t know. Justin grabbed her for some grand gesture. I didn’t really get the details.”

“Oh.” You state dumbly. “I’m sorry.”

Garrett frowns slightly. “Why?”

“I mean—Aren’t you interested in Hannah?”

“I am.” He nods in agreement. “But she’s not the only girl here I’m interested in.”

Before you can respond, he serves the ping pong ball. It bounces once on your side of the net and you awkwardly lunge for it, missing it entirely.

You watch as it bounces on the floor a couple times and rolls away. “That’s not fair.” You look up at Garrett accusingly. “We haven’t started yet.”

“We have, actually.” Garrett smirks. “I made the executive decision to start when you kept trying to distract me.”

You let out a noise of protest. “I was not trying to distract you, I was being friendly and getting to know you.”

“Oh, is that what that was?”

“Yeah. Sorry for being an active listener.”

Garrett nods in amusement. “You gonna get the ball then?”

“You can get it,” you say defiantly. “Since you decided to serve before we were actually playing.”

With a small chuckle, Garrett jogs over to where the ping pong ball had rolled to, picking it up with three fingers and walking back to the table. 

He makes a show of getting ready to serve, winding his arm back with a slow flourish. “This is me starting, by the way.”

“Okay, now you’re just—,”

The ball whizzes past you. 

When you look back at him, Garrett is biting back a laugh.

“You did that on purpose.” You turn around to stomp after the ball.

“Why don’t you serve first, then?” He offers.

When you get back to the table, you hesitate, looking between the paddle and the ball uneasily. Letting out a breath, you drop the ping pong ball on the table, letting it bounce once before swinging the paddle to hit it. You miss the ball entirely—underestimating how high it would bounce—and swinging into the air underneath it.

“Okay,” you try to laugh, but your face burns with embarrassment. “I’m done now, actually.”

You drop your paddle to the table, unable to look at Garrett through the humiliation. “Like I said, if you actually want to play against someone, you should ask Tucker.”

“Hey, wait a sec.” Garrett puts down his own paddle, walking over to stand in front of you before you can dramatically run away. “You were doing good.” When you look up at him flatly, he winces. “Well, okay, maybe not—Look, just give it one more try. You’re really close.”

Garrett grabs another ball from the ping pong table and holds it out to you. After a moment, you take it from him, letting out a sigh of defeat. You both move back to get into position and, when you glance at him nervously, Garrett gives you an encouraging nod.

Right before you’re about to let go of the ball, you pause. “This is me starting, by the way.”

You bounce the ball on the table, now having a much better sense of where it will be, and this time your paddle makes contact, hitting it lightly over the net. It bounces on Garrett’s side once and he easily sends it back. You watch the ball bounce, swing, and miss it again.

Before you can say anything, Garrett hands you another ping pong ball.

You take it begrudgingly. “We’re gonna run out of ping pong balls if you keep just using new ones.”

“Then I’ll go grab the other ones,” he says simply. “Now try again.”

It takes you three balls—and one more that Garrett had to grab from the grass—before you’re finally able to hit the ball back to him. You let out an actual gasp when you do that turns into a shocked, increasingly more excited, mutter of “Oh my god” every time you’re able to successfully send the ball back. Your ability to actually play a game of ping pong is largely aided by the fact that Garrett is intentionally aiming for where your paddle already is when he sends the ball back, but that does nothing to diminish your sense of victory.

You make it through about five passes before you get too eager and accidentally hit the ball hard enough that it goes flying past Garrett’s shoulder, but you don’t even care, instead turning to Garrett with a delighted squeal.

“Did you see that?! I did it!”

“You did,” Garrett smiles.

“Oh my god, Tucker’s not gonna—You have to be there when I tell him.” You stop mid-celebration, grabbing Garrett’s hand without thinking. “Because you genuinely don’t understand how bad I usually am at ping pong, he’s not gonna believe me. I need witnesses.”

In your excitement, you miss the way Garrett’s features soften as you swing his arm around happily. “I’ll be there.”

“I’m gonna go get all the balls, okay?” You drop his hand suddenly, rushing away and shouting over your shoulder as you start picking up all the ping pong balls that have scattered across the floor. “We’re doing that again!”

"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 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, for when she decided that you should be 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 to 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."