the shape of a sun - damian wayne
request dollvan if it's not too much trouble, i wanted to ask for more about tamaran gn reader x damian wayne, more like a scenario. i'll leave it all to your imagination
content aged up!damian wayne x tamaranean!reader, gn!reader, blood/injury, near death experience, mutual pining, slow burn (except im bad at slow burns), teammates to lovers, oblivious!reader, accidental courtship, dick grayson being a matchmaker, sparring as flirting
wordcount 9.9k
masterlist | damian masterlist
The first thing Damian noticed about you was that you were loud.
Not merely in volume, although your laughter did carry effortlessly across the training deck and shake loose the careful silence Damian preferred to cultivate around himself. You were loud in colour, in movement, in the way you seemed to take up space without ever apologising for it. Your hair burned like a living banner behind you when you flew, your eyes caught every fragment of light, and your skin held an undertone that seemed warmer than the sterile illumination of the Titans’ headquarters deserved.
You arrived beside Koriand’r with a duffel bag slung over one shoulder and a smile broad enough to suggest you had not yet been warned about him.
That was Nightwing’s fault.
Grayson had greeted you first, sweeping into the hangar with his arms spread as though you were a beloved cousin rather than an unknown Tamaranean warrior who had been invited to join Damian’s team with very little notice.
“You made it!” Dick exclaimed.
“I said that I would,” you replied, immediately catching him in a hug that lifted him several inches off the ground.
Dick laughed instead of defending himself. Typical.
Kori watched from nearby, radiant with amusement. “You must remember that humans are very easily compressed.”
“I am being gentle.”
“You are holding me like a stress toy,” Dick wheezed.
You placed him carefully back on his feet. “Was I successful in relieving the stress?”
“Honestly? A little.”
Damian stood several paces away with his arms folded over his chest, watching the display with a tightening jaw.
Beside him, Jon leaned closer.
“They seem nice,” Jon whispered.
Damian did not look at him. “That remains to be determined.”
“You say that about everybody.”
“Because everybody must be determined.”
Jon gave him a long look that Damian chose not to acknowledge.
The team had been expecting a new recruit, though Damian had received very little useful information beforehand. You were from Tamaran. You had previously worked alongside Kori during several diplomatic and humanitarian missions. You possessed the standard Tamaranean gifts of flight, immense strength, durability and starbolt projection, though Kori had warned them that your energy manifested differently from hers.
You were, according to Kori, “a brave and most affectionate friend.”
The word affectionate had concerned Damian immediately.
He did not dislike affection. He simply believed most people used it carelessly, like an untrained swordsman waving a blade in a crowded room. Grayson weaponised hugs. Kent leaned against people with the boneless entitlement of a house cat. Brown had once kissed the crown of Damian’s head after a mission and then fled before he could retaliate.
Affection created vulnerabilities.
It also created witnesses.
You turned towards the waiting team, your gaze moving curiously over each of them. The expression on your face was open and unguarded, but Damian did not mistake that for carelessness. Your stance was balanced. Your weight remained light on your feet. You had catalogued every exit within seconds of entering the room.
Then you looked at him.
Something in your expression brightened.
“You are Damian.”
It was not a question.
“Yes.”
“I have heard many things about you.”
Damian’s eyes narrowed. “From whom?”
“Richard.”
Dick made a sound that might have been a laugh and might have been the squeak of a man who had suddenly realised he had left classified documents in a public library.
Damian looked at him.
Dick smiled innocently.
Damian returned his attention to you. “Anything Grayson has told you should be treated with extreme scepticism.”
“That is similar to what Koriand’r says.”
Kori folded her arms. “It is because Richard enjoys making his stories more exciting.”
“I add flavour,” Dick protested.
“You add lies.”
“Colourful context.”
You laughed again, your eyes remaining on Damian. “Richard said that you are the fiercest warrior among the Titans.”
The compliment should not have affected him. It was merely an accurate observation. Even so, Damian felt the smallest shift beneath his ribs.
“He also said that you pretend not to care for anyone while caring so intensely that it causes you great emotional distress.”
The shift vanished.
Damian slowly turned his head.
Dick was already backing towards the exit.
“I’m going to let everyone get acquainted,” he announced. “Have fun. Don’t break anything expensive. Or, if you do, make sure Bruce thinks it was Gar.”
“You will not escape this conversation, Grayson.”
“Love you too, Dami.”
Damian’s glare followed him until the hangar doors closed.
When he faced you again, you were smiling.
Not mocking him, exactly. That would have been easier to handle. Your smile was softer than that, threaded with something warm and curious.
“I believe he cares for you very greatly,” you said.
“That has never prevented him from being insufferable.”
“On Tamaran, those qualities are not always considered opposites.”
Damian did not know how to respond to that. He settled for turning towards the training deck. “You will require an assessment before joining field operations.”
Jon groaned behind him. “They just got here.”
“And if they intend to remain here, they will demonstrate their capabilities.”
Your smile sharpened, suddenly bright with challenge. Green light began to gather around your hands. “Is the assessment combat?”
Damian paused.
For the first time since your arrival, he felt something dangerously close to approval.
“Yes.”
Your grin widened. “Wonderful.”
You put him through three reinforced walls.
In your defence, Damian put you through two.
The spar lasted just under nineteen minutes, which was significantly longer than most people lasted against him without outside interference. You moved with none of Kori’s elegant restraint. Your fighting style was brutal, fast and joyful, a collision of Tamaranean aerial combat and hand-to-hand techniques Damian did not recognise.
You did not merely endure being struck. You seemed delighted by the challenge of it.
Every time Damian adapted to your movements, you changed them. Every time you thought you had cornered him, he used the environment to create an opening. You fought in the air, across the ground, along walls and ceilings, leaving scorched metal and fractured concrete in your wake.
Damian landed on the edge of a broken platform, one hand gripping his sword, blood warm at the corner of his mouth.
You hovered opposite him, hair drifting around your face like fire beneath water. There was a bruise developing along your jaw. Your uniform was torn at the shoulder. Green energy flickered around your fingers.
You looked exhilarated. Damian suspected he did too.
“You are skilled,” he admitted.
Your eyes widened slightly, as if the praise meant more than he had intended. “You are magnificent.”
Jon, watching from behind a reinforced barrier with the others, made a choking sound.
Damian ignored him.
“You leave your left side exposed when launching your starbolts,” he continued. “A faster opponent could exploit it.”
You tilted your head. “You were unable to.”
“I was evaluating your endurance.”
“Of course.”
“Do not be smug.”
“I do not understand. Is this not the correct response when one has impressed their commander?”
“You have not impressed me.”
Behind the barrier, Raven coughed into her fist.
You looked past Damian towards the cratered training room. “Then I must improve.”
The challenge in your voice settled between you.
Damian raised his sword. “You must.”
You collided again before anyone could stop you.
By the end of your first week, Damian had established several facts.
You woke before dawn, but only because you enjoyed watching the sun rise from the highest available point. You hated artificial sweeteners, loved spicy food and considered coffee “a bitter punishment humans inflict upon themselves for failing to sleep correctly.” You were incapable of entering a room quietly despite possessing enough stealth training to infiltrate a secure alien warship.
You touched people constantly. A hand on Jon’s shoulder when you laughed. An arm linked through Raven’s when you walked. Your forehead pressed briefly to Kori’s in greeting. A hand curled around Jaime’s wrist when you wanted his attention. A full-body embrace for Gar whenever he transformed into something you considered particularly delightful.
Damian watched these interactions with increasing distrust.
Not jealousy. Distrust.
You were unfamiliar with Earth customs. Your behaviour could easily be misunderstood. Someone needed to ensure you did not inadvertently create complications for yourself or the team.
That was all.
Unfortunately, Damian was beginning to suspect that person would have to be him.
The issue came to a head during a routine mission briefing.
A weapons shipment had been intercepted near Jump City, containing technology traced to a Psion research facility. The Titans intended to investigate the warehouse where the shipment had originated, retrieve any remaining technology and determine whether the Psions themselves were operating on Earth.
You stood beside Damian at the central table, leaning over the holographic map. Your shoulder pressed against his. Your hair brushed the side of his face whenever you moved.
Damian attempted to ignore both details.
“The eastern entrance appears most heavily fortified,” you said.
“Which likely indicates either a decoy or the primary storage area.”
“Then we should enter there.”
“No. You and Kent will create a diversion on the western side while I enter through the roof.”
You frowned. “You wish to enter alone?”
“I am capable of doing so.”
“I do not question your capability. I question the wisdom.”
Damian lifted his eyes from the map. “Elaborate.”
“If the enemy expects us, they may have prepared for your methods. You are the leader. You would be the most desirable target.”
“I am aware.”
“Then I should accompany you.”
“You are our most visible member. Your presence would compromise the stealth approach.”
Your brows drew together. “I can be stealthy.”
“You knocked over three shelves while attempting to retrieve a glass of water last night.”
“The kitchen was dark.”
“You possess enhanced vision.”
“I was hungry.”
“That does not explain anything.”
“It explains much.”
Gar snorted from across the table. Damian’s glare silenced him.
You straightened, though you did not move away from Damian. “Then take Raven. Or Jaime. Do not go alone.”
“I have completed more dangerous infiltrations without assistance.”
“That does not make the choice less foolish.”
The room fell quiet.
Damian could feel the attention of the entire team turn towards them.
He should have been offended. Perhaps he was. Yet beneath the irritation was the inconvenient awareness that your concern was genuine. You were not challenging his authority for the pleasure of it. You were worried.
For him.
An unfamiliar pressure gathered in his chest.
“I will take Raven,” Damian said.
Your expression softened immediately. “Good.”
Before Damian could anticipate the movement, you placed one hand against the centre of his chest.
The contact lasted only a moment.
“Your life should be guarded as fiercely as you guard ours,” you said.
Then you turned back to the table and began discussing entry routes with Jon.
Damian remained perfectly still. He could feel the lingering warmth of your palm through the layers of his uniform.
Raven was staring at him.
“What?” Damian demanded.
Her mouth twitched. “Nothing.”
The mission was successful, though Damian found himself more distracted than he would ever admit. Twice, he caught himself monitoring your position despite knowing Kent was with you. Three times, he altered the formation to keep you closer to the centre. When one of the Psion drones struck you across the back, Damian crossed the warehouse fast enough that Raven later described it as “deeply alarming.”
The drone did not survive. Neither did the two behind it.
Afterwards, you cornered him in the medbay while he was attempting to treat a shallow cut along his ribs.
“You are injured.”
“It is superficial.”
“It is bleeding.”
“Those statements are not mutually exclusive.”
You approached with a medical kit. Damian stepped back.
“I am capable of tending to it myself.”
“I know.”
“Then leave.”
“No.”
Damian stared at you. You stared back.
Neither of you moved.
After several seconds, Damian realised you were prepared to continue doing this indefinitely.
He exhaled sharply and sat on the edge of the examination table. “You are remarkably stubborn.”
You smiled as you moved closer. “Koriand’r has told me this is why we are becoming friends.”
“We are teammates.”
“Yes.”
“That is not the same.”
“Not yet.”
Damian looked away before you could notice the brief, strange flutter those words caused.
You knelt to inspect the wound, your hands surprisingly careful as you peeled back the damaged edge of his uniform. Damian’s muscles tightened instinctively.
You noticed.
Your touch stopped immediately.
“May I?”
The question was simple. Quiet.
Damian looked down at you. Your eyes, usually so bright and fearless, held only patience. You were strong enough to tear through reinforced steel. You could have moved him without difficulty. Instead, you waited.
“Yes,” Damian said.
Your hands resumed their work.
You cleaned the cut with steady precision. Your fingertips were warm against his skin, almost feverishly so, but not unpleasant. Damian watched the concentration settle across your face. You treated the small wound with the gravity of a battlefield injury, checking twice for foreign material before applying a sterile dressing.
“You have received medical training,” he observed.
“All royal guards are taught basic healing practices.”
“You were a royal guard?”
“For a time.”
There was something in your voice he had not heard before. A closing door.
Damian understood closed doors. He did not press.
Instead, he said, “Your technique is adequate.”
You looked up at him, visibly pleased.
It was ridiculous how easily you accepted the scraps of approval he offered. It was more ridiculous that Damian began searching for additional ones.
“Thank you.”
You secured the dressing, then rested your palm briefly over it.
The gesture should not have felt intimate. It was practical. Meaningless.
Damian’s heartbeat disagreed.
You rose, remaining between his knees for half a second too long. Your face was close to his. Close enough for him to notice the faint gold scattered through the green of your eyes. Close enough to feel the warmth of your breath.
You smiled.
Then the medbay doors opened.
Jon stepped inside, took one look at the two of you and immediately stepped back out.
“Absolutely not,” Damian snapped.
The doors had already closed.
You glanced towards them. “Was he injured?”
“Only if he returns.”
Later that night, Damian travelled to Blüdhaven.
He did not tell anyone why. He did not need to. His visit to Grayson’s apartment was a tactical consultation. Nightwing possessed greater experience working alongside Tamaraneans, and Kori in particular. Damian needed to understand whether your behaviour indicated cultural misunderstandings that could compromise team cohesion.
That was the sole reason.
He entered through the window at half past midnight. Dick, who was sitting on the couch eating cereal directly from the box, barely flinched.
“You know,” Dick said, “most people use the door.”
“Most people lack imagination.”
“Most people also text before showing up.”
“You would have asked why I was coming.”
“And apparently that would’ve been a problem.”
Damian removed his cape and folded it over the back of a chair. Dick watched him with growing interest.
This was already intolerable.
“I require information.”
“Okay.”
“Regarding Tamaranean customs.”
Dick’s expression changed. It was subtle. A fraction of a second in which surprise became comprehension and comprehension became something far too delightful for Damian’s liking.
Dick placed the cereal box on the coffee table. “What kind of customs?”
“General ones.”
“That is wildly unspecific.”
“Social interactions. Displays of loyalty. Physical contact.”
Dick leaned back against the couch. “Oh.”
Damian’s eyes narrowed. “Do not make that sound.”
“What sound?”
“That one.”
“I just said ‘oh.’”
“You said it suggestively.”
“I didn’t know a vowel could be suggestive.”
“You make everything suggestive. It is one of your least tolerable skills.”
Dick’s mouth twitched, but he managed to keep his expression almost neutral.
Almost.
“So,” Dick said slowly, “this is about our new Tamaranean teammate.”
“This is about maintaining professional boundaries within my team.”
“Obviously.”
“Your tone implies disbelief.”
“My tone is being supportive.”
“Your tone is being Grayson.”
Dick patted the couch beside him. “Sit down.”
“I will stand.”
“Then loom less aggressively.”
“I am not looming.”
“You broke into my apartment at midnight to ask about alien affection rituals.”
“I did not use the word affection.”
“You didn’t need to.”
Damian considered leaving. Unfortunately, that would mean admitting defeat.
He sat in the chair opposite Dick, posture rigid.
Dick studied him for another moment. There was amusement in his eyes, but something gentler beneath it. Damian mistrusted both equally.
“What exactly happened?” Dick asked.
“Nothing happened.”
“Great. That really narrows it down.”
Damian’s jaw tightened. “They touch everyone.”
“They’re Tamaranean.”
“I am aware.”
“Then why is that an issue?”
“It is not an issue.”
Dick waited. Damian hated when he did that. Grayson’s silences were worse than his questions. They created a space people felt compelled to fill.
Damian refused.
Dick waited longer.
Damian’s fingers tapped once against his knee.
“They touched my chest during a briefing,” he said at last. “They insist upon treating minor injuries. They stand unnecessarily close. They have referred to us as becoming friends despite insufficient evidence.”
Dick nodded solemnly. “Tragic.”
“Do you intend to be useful?”
“I’m trying. I’m just processing the horrors you’ve endured.”
“Grayson.”
“Okay. Tamaraneans are generally more physically affectionate than humans. Kori definitely is. Touch can be casual, friendly, familial, romantic or a combination that doesn’t map perfectly onto Earth customs.”
Damian absorbed that. “Meaning the behaviour cannot be interpreted without further context.”
“Exactly.”
“And what context would determine the nature of the interaction?”
Dick’s eyes gleamed. Damian recognised the warning too late.
“Well,” Dick said, “Tamaranean courtship tends to be very direct.”
Damian’s spine stiffened. “I did not ask about courtship.”
“No, but it helps to know the difference, right? Professionally.”
Damian should have left then. Instead, he said, “Continue.”
Dick’s expression became almost painfully innocent. “It varies. Tamaran’s a whole planet, not one culture, and Kori’s royal upbringing influenced a lot of what she was taught. But some gestures tend to carry more weight. Sharing food is significant. Especially fruit or sweet things.”
“Humans also share food.”
“Sure, but offering someone the best portion can be a sign of devotion. Warm food, too. Tamaraneans associate heat and sunlight with life, safety and home.”
Damian filed the information away. “Anything else?”
“Flying together.”
“That is hardly unusual for them.”
“Not just flying in formation. Inviting someone to fly with you for no reason. Sunrise flights are especially intimate.”
Damian frowned. “Why?”
“New beginnings. Shared warmth. Trusting someone beside you when the rest of the world is still asleep.”
Grayson’s voice had softened. Damian suspected he was recalling something.
“And combat?” Damian asked.
Dick smiled faintly. “Sparring can be flirtatious.”
“That is absurd.”
“Says the guy who communicates primarily through attempted murder.”
“I communicate clearly.”
“Yeah. With knives.”
Damian ignored him. “They spar with several members of the team.”
“But do they choose you when they have other options?”
Damian thought of the training deck. Your bright, challenging grin. The way your eyes followed him whenever he entered the room. “That proves nothing.”
“I didn’t say it proved anything.”
“You implied it.”
“Maybe you inferred it.”
Damian’s glare sharpened.
Dick raised his hands. “There are other things. Direct praise is important. Tamaraneans can be pretty emotionally open, so vague hints tend to get lost. Complimenting someone’s strength, courage, or appearance is meaningful.”
“They called me magnificent.”
Dick went very still.
Damian immediately regretted speaking.
“When?” Dick asked.
“After our initial assessment.”
“You fought for nineteen minutes and then they called you magnificent?”
“How do you know how long we fought?”
“Jon sent me the security footage.”
Damian made a mental note to dismember Kent.
Dick was visibly struggling not to smile. “Anything else happen?”
“No.”
“Damian.”
“They put me through three walls.”
“That might be the most romantic thing anyone’s ever done for you.”
“This conversation is over.” Damian stood.
“Wait, wait.” Dick caught his wrist before he could leave. “I’m sorry. I’ll behave.”
“You have never behaved a day in your life.”
“True, but I can fake it for ten minutes.”
Damian looked at the hand on his wrist. Dick released him.
“There are ways to show respect without making assumptions,” Dick continued. “You could learn more about Tamaran. Ask about their home. Offer food. Invite them to train. Tamaraneans value honesty, even when it’s uncomfortable.”
“I am always honest.”
“You once claimed you weren’t worried about me while carrying me three miles with a bullet in your shoulder.”
“I was concerned about blood loss compromising the mission.”
“Whose blood loss?”
“Yours.”
“Right.”
Damian looked towards the window. The conversation had provided useful information. He saw no reason to remain.
“Damian,” Dick said before he could move. “One more thing.”
“What?”
“If a Tamaranean gives you jewellery or clothing in their family colours, that can be a pretty serious gesture.”
“I have no intention of exchanging clothing.”
“Good to know.”
“And I am not courting anyone.”
“I never said you were.”
Damian turned back.
Dick was smiling now, not mockingly. Warmly. It was somehow worse.
“I am ensuring a new member of my team feels understood,” Damian said.
“Of course.”
“That is all.”
“Absolutely.”
“Your agreement is suspicious.”
“I’m proud of you.”
“For what?”
“For caring enough to ask.”
Damian’s shoulders tightened. “I care about the effectiveness of my team.”
Dick’s smile did not change. “Sure, baby bird.”
Damian left through the window.
He ignored the laughter that followed him across the rooftops.
The following morning, you found a bowl of fresh fruit outside your door. Not the bruised apples and underripe bananas Gar had purchased during his last disastrous shopping trip. These were blood oranges, mangoes, pomegranates, starfruit and peaches, each one perfectly ripe.
A small card rested beside the bowl.
You turned it over. The handwriting was precise, angular and unmistakable.
The fruit currently stocked in the kitchen is nutritionally and morally offensive. Use these instead.
You read the note twice. Warmth spread through your chest.
On Tamaran, food was rarely a thoughtless gift. To feed someone was to recognise their continued existence as desirable. To choose fruit—sweetness grown beneath sunlight—and arrange it so carefully felt almost ceremonial.
You knew Earth customs differed. Damian was likely only being practical. Still, you carried the bowl to the common room as though it were made of gold.
Damian sat at the table, reviewing mission reports. His posture was as rigid as ever, his dark hair falling across his brow.
You placed the bowl beside him.
He glanced up. “You received it.”
“I did.”
“Good.”
You selected the ripest peach and held it out to him.
Damian stared at it.
“You should have the first taste,” you said.
Something changed in his expression. Not understanding, exactly. Caution.
“I purchased them for you.”
“And I am sharing them with you.”
“I have already eaten.”
“Then eat again.”
“That is not how nutrition works.”
You continued holding out the peach.
Damian looked at it, then at you. You smiled.
With the solemn air of a man accepting a blood oath, he took it.
You sat beside him and chose a pomegranate for yourself.
Across the room, Raven lowered her book. Her eyes moved from the fruit to Damian, then to you.
“Oh,” she said.
Damian looked at her sharply. “What?”
“Nothing.”
It was the same nothing she had offered in the medbay.
Damian disliked patterns he could not interpret. He disliked them more when they involved you.
The fruit became the first of many inexplicable changes.
Damian began inviting you to train with him in the mornings, claiming your aerial combat required refinement. The sessions occurred earlier and earlier until you found yourselves sparring beneath the pale gold of sunrise, the air cool against your skin as the city slowly woke below.
He did not fly, of course, but he learned to move with you.
Damian adapted grappling equipment so he could meet you in the air. He launched himself from rooftops, using momentum and precision to strike before disappearing again. You learned to predict the pull of his lines. He learned to read the shifts in your shoulders before you fired a starbolt.
It became a dance performed at dangerous heights.
Sometimes, when the fight ended, you remained above the city together. You hovered while Damian sat on the edge of a building, one knee raised, the rising sun turning the edges of his hair bronze.
During those moments, he seemed younger. Not childish. Damian was never childish, even when he had been a child. There had always been too much history behind his eyes. But the tension left him. The hard lines of his posture softened. He watched the sun emerge between the buildings with a quiet that felt different from his usual silence.
“You enjoy this,” you said one morning.
Damian glanced at you. “Training?”
“The sunrise.”
“It is adequate.”
You smiled. He scowled.
“You could simply admit that it is beautiful.”
“Beauty does not require my admission to exist.”
“No. But your admission would allow me to know you see it.”
Damian looked towards the horizon again. The sky burned orange and pink, spilling colour over the windows below. The city looked gentler in that light. Nearly innocent.
“It is beautiful,” he said.
The words came quietly.
You drifted closer until your boots touched the ledge beside him.
“Yes,” you replied, though you were no longer looking at the sky.
Damian continued offering you food. He brought spicy dishes from restaurants you had not yet discovered. He learned which Earth fruits you preferred and which reminded you of Tamaran. When you mentioned that one of Alfred’s desserts resembled something served during a Tamaranean festival, Damian demanded the recipe and spent an afternoon attempting to recreate it.
The first attempt was nearly inedible. The second was burned. The third was perfect.
Damian presented it without ceremony, setting the plate beside you while you reviewed footage from a previous mission.
You stared at the warm pastry. Then you looked at him.
“You made this.”
“It is not complex.”
“You were in the kitchen for four hours.”
“I was correcting Pennyworth’s inadequate instructions.”
“Alfred’s instructions are never inadequate,” Tim said from the other end of the communications link.
Damian reached forward and ended the call.
You picked up the pastry, feeling the warmth seep into your fingers.
“On Tamaran,” you said slowly, “this would be considered a gift of devotion.”
Damian froze.
For one brief, brilliant second, you wondered whether he understood what he had been doing.
Then his expression settled back into familiar certainty. “Grayson informed me that warm foods are culturally comforting.”
Of course. Richard. You should have known.
You took a bite to hide your smile.
The pastry was sweet and rich, spiced almost exactly like the ones made in your childhood home. Not perfect, perhaps, but close enough that memory rose in your throat. A courtyard beneath three moons. Music carrying over warm stone. Your oldest sibling stealing pastries from a ceremonial table and pushing one into your hands. Koriand’r laughing as you ran from the furious cook.
Your eyes burned unexpectedly.
Damian noticed. His posture changed at once.
“What is wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“You are crying.”
You touched your cheek. Your fingers came away wet. “So I am.”
Damian stepped closer. His expression was guarded, but concern moved clearly beneath it. “Is the food unpleasant?”
“No.” You laughed softly, even as another tear escaped. “It tastes like home.”
Damian’s face went still.
You had told him very little about leaving Tamaran. He knew there had been conflict. He knew you had served the royal family. He knew returning was presently impossible.
He never pushed.
Now his gaze lowered to the pastry in your hands. “I see.”
You reached for him without thinking. Your fingers closed around his wrist.
Damian did not pull away.
“This is a precious gift,” you said. “Thank you.”
The pulse beneath your fingertips beat faster.
“You are welcome.” His voice was quieter than usual.
You remained like that for several seconds, your hand around his wrist, his body close enough to share warmth.
Then Tim’s face reappeared on the monitor.
“I’m not saying I hacked back into the call,” he said, “but the silence got suspicious.”
Damian threw a knife at the screen.
You began to laugh so hard that your tears no longer felt painful.
The team noticed.
Of course they noticed. The Titans might have respected Damian’s authority, but they had never respected his privacy.
Jon noticed the early training sessions and began smiling whenever Damian mentioned your name. Raven noticed the food and started leaving the common room whenever the two of you entered together, claiming she “did not consent to being trapped in the emotional radius.” Gar noticed Damian allowed you to touch his shoulder without threatening amputation. Jaime noticed that your uniform had gradually gained dark green accents matching Damian’s.
That last detail was not Damian’s fault. Your original uniform had been damaged during a mission. Damian had offered to redesign the replacement because the construction was inefficient and insufficiently armoured.
He spent three nights working on it. The final design incorporated Tamaranean materials with reinforced Earth technology. It allowed for unrestricted flight while offering additional protection across the ribs, shoulders and spine. The dark green sections were chosen because they best concealed damage from energy discharge.
That was what Damian told himself.
You stepped onto the training deck wearing it for the first time, the black and green fitting close to your body, gold fastenings catching the light. Your hair was braided away from your face. You turned slowly, examining the way the material moved.
Damian forgot what he had intended to say.
You looked powerful. That was not new. You always looked powerful.
This was different. The colours made you appear as though you belonged beside him. Not behind him. Not beneath his command.
Beside him.
Your eyes met his. “What do you think?”
Damian’s mouth was suddenly dry. “The armour is functional.”
Gar made a wounded noise from the observation deck.
You tilted your head. “Only functional?”
“It fits correctly.”
“Damian,” Jon muttered. “Come on.”
Damian ignored him.
You smiled, though a flicker of uncertainty crossed your face.
He hated it immediately.
“The colours suit you,” Damian added. “You look…”
Magnificent.
The word rose unbidden. He remembered you saying it to him after your first fight, blood on your mouth and delight in your eyes.
“You look formidable,” he finished.
Your uncertainty vanished. Warmth spread across your face. Tamaraneans did not blush exactly as humans did, but your skin gained a faint glow, as though light had gathered beneath it.
Damian stared.
Behind the glass, Raven covered Gar’s mouth before he could make another sound.
You stepped closer.
“On Tamaran, wearing another’s colours can signify alliance,” you said.
“That is appropriate. You are a member of my team.”
“It may also signify loyalty to a chosen family.”
Damian’s chest tightened.
“You are a member of my team,” he repeated, though the words sounded different now.
Softer.
You looked at him for a long moment.
“Yes,” you said. “I am.”
Then you embraced him.
Damian went rigid.
Your arms wrapped around his shoulders. Your body was warm against his, your strength carefully restrained. The clean scent of your hair surrounded him, something bright and unfamiliar that reminded him of sun-heated flowers.
Every instinct told him to move.
He did not.
Slowly, uncertainly, Damian placed one hand against your back.
You held him tighter.
The observation deck erupted.
Gar cheered. Jon shouted something unintelligible. Jaime slapped both hands against the glass. Raven simply closed her eyes, as if the emotional noise had become physically painful.
Damian stepped away from you at once and turned towards them. “You have five seconds to evacuate.”
They disappeared in three.
You laughed against his shoulder before releasing him.
After that, the rumours became unbearable.
Damian ignored them with the discipline of a trained assassin. You remained blissfully unaware. Or perhaps not unaware. You understood that the others believed there was something between you and Damian. What you did not understand was why this was considered humorous.
Something did exist between you. Trust. Loyalty. A growing collection of sunrise memories and shared meals. The knowledge of how Damian’s footsteps sounded when he was angry versus merely irritated. The awareness that he slept poorly after missions involving children. The fact that he preferred jasmine tea but drank black coffee when he wanted others to believe he was not tired.
You knew he sharpened his swords when anxious. He knew you sang quietly when homesick. You knew he fed every stray animal within three streets of the headquarters. He knew you kept a piece of red stone from Tamaran beneath your pillow.
Something existed between you, and it felt far too precious to be reduced to the team’s teasing.
You simply did not realise it was love. Not yet.
Damian’s realisation came during a mission six months after your arrival.
It was not gentle. There was no sunrise. No shared fruit. No warm laughter or quiet touch.
There was only blood.
The Titans had been dispatched to stop an alien vessel descending over the Atlantic. The ship carried mercenaries trafficking stolen technology and living weapons between systems. Their shields resisted most external attacks, forcing the team to board while the vessel was still moving.
The mission deteriorated almost immediately. Gravity shifted without warning. Communications failed. The interior corridors separated, sealing members of the team into different sections.
Damian found himself beside you in the engine chamber, surrounded by armed mercenaries.
Under ordinary circumstances, the odds would have been insulting.
Then the vessel activated a red-sun emitter. The effect on Jon was immediate, wherever he was. The effect on you was slower but no less dangerous. Tamaranean abilities came from absorbed ultraviolet radiation. The weapon did not strip your strength entirely, but Damian watched your flight falter. Your starbolts dimmed.
You landed heavily beside him.
“Can you fight?” Damian asked.
You rolled one shoulder, breath unsteady. “I can always fight.”
There was no time to argue.
The mercenaries attacked.
Damian moved without hesitation, blades flashing beneath the emergency lights. You fought beside him with your remaining strength, no longer able to fly but still powerful enough to break armour with your hands.
The two of you had trained together for months. You knew each other’s rhythms. Damian ducked before your elbow passed over his head. You turned before he warned you, catching the enemy attempting to strike from behind. He used your shoulder as a platform, launching himself into the air. You caught him by the waist when the gravity shifted again.
For several minutes, you were unstoppable.
Then Damian saw the weapon aimed at him. It was Psion technology, compact and ugly, its centre burning with contained red energy.
He calculated the angle.
Too close to evade. Too powerful to block.
Damian raised his sword anyway.
You struck him from the side.
The blast hit you instead.
Your body arched. For one frozen second, green and red light burned through the room.
Then you fell.
Something inside Damian broke open.
He did not remember crossing the distance to the shooter. He did not remember what happened to the remaining mercenaries. Later, Raven would tell him that she felt his rage from three sections away. Jon would say Damian moved like he wanted to tear the entire ship apart with his hands.
When Damian returned to himself, he was kneeling beside you.
Your eyes were closed. There was a blackened wound across your chest, the edges glowing faintly beneath torn armour. Your skin had gone cold.
Tamaraneans were never cold.
“No.”
The word left Damian before he could stop it.
He pressed his hands around the wound, though he knew pressure would do little against an energy injury.
“Open your eyes.”
You did not move.
Damian’s heartbeat thundered against his ribs.
He had seen death too many times. He knew its shapes. He knew the slackness of a body no longer occupied, the terrible absence that arrived before anyone was willing to name it.
He looked at you and saw every sunrise you would never witness. Every argument left unfinished. Every word he had refused to say because he believed there would always be more time.
The truth entered him like a blade.
He loved you.
It was not new. That was the worst part. The love had been there for months, growing quietly beneath every offering and every touch, beneath every spar and shared meal. Damian had mistaken it for responsibility because responsibility was safer. He had called it loyalty because loyalty demanded nothing from him that he did not already know how to give.
But this was not the love he offered his team.
This was terror sharpened into longing. This was the unbearable knowledge that the world would be altered beyond repair if you left it.
Damian bent over you, one bloodied hand cradling the side of your face. “Do not do this.”
His voice cracked. He despised it.
He would have allowed the entire universe to hear him break if it meant you opened your eyes.
“You will not die for me.” Nothing. “Do you understand? I forbid it.”
Your face remained still beneath his hand.
Damian lowered his forehead to yours. The gesture was Tamaranean. He had seen you exchange it with Kori, a greeting shared between those bound by trust. You had never done it with him.
Perhaps you had been waiting for permission. Perhaps he had waited too long.
“I was not ready,” Damian whispered. “I did not know.”
A weak sound escaped you.
Damian stopped breathing.
Your fingers moved against the floor.
Then your eyes opened.
The green within them was faint, but alive.
“You are… very loud,” you murmured.
Damian closed his eyes. Relief struck so violently that it was almost pain.
“You are insufferable.”
Your mouth curved weakly. “Yes.”
He lifted his head and activated his communicator. “Raven. Respond.”
Static cracked through the channel.
Then her voice emerged. “We have control of the bridge. Jon is injured but stable.”
“I require immediate medical support in the engine chamber.”
Raven heard something in his voice. Her reply came faster. “We’re coming.”
You tried to sit up.
Damian pressed you back down. “Do not move.”
“We must disable the engine.”
“It has already been done.”
“When?”
Damian glanced towards the ruined control system, a sword embedded through its centre. “While you were unconscious.”
“You destroyed it.”
“It was inefficient.”
“You are angry.”
“I am considering several forms of murder.”
“Of me?”
“Particularly of you.”
Your smile faded. “You would have been killed.”
“That was my risk to assess.”
“You are my commander.”
“I am not asking as your commander.”
The words escaped before Damian could contain them.
You stared up at him. Damian stared back. The room seemed to narrow around you.
Your gaze moved over his face as though searching for something he was no longer capable of hiding.
“Then what are you asking as?”
Footsteps thundered in the corridor beyond the sealed door.
The team was approaching.
Damian could have answered. He should have answered. Instead, fear rose in a form he knew too well: not fear of battle or injury, but exposure. The kind that came from placing something vital into another person’s hands and trusting them not to crush it.
His jaw tightened.
“As your friend,” he said.
Something in your expression dimmed. It was small, nearly invisible beneath the pain.
Damian saw it anyway.
The doors opened before either of you could speak again.
The medical team carried you away.
Damian remained standing in the engine chamber with your blood on his hands.
Recovery took three weeks. The blast had disrupted your body’s ability to process solar energy. Kori stayed for the first several days, hovering protectively near your bed while the medical staff created a concentrated ultraviolet treatment.
Damian visited every day. He never stayed long.
He brought food, mission reports and books you had once mentioned wanting to read. He adjusted the blinds so sunlight reached your bed in the afternoon. He replaced the red stone from Tamaran after it went missing during the destruction of your quarters.
He did not mention the engine room. Neither did you.
The silence between you changed. Before, it had been comfortable, filled with all the things neither of you needed to say. Now it felt like a wall Damian had built and regretted before the mortar dried.
You remained kind to him.
That made it worse. You thanked him for the gifts. You listened while he updated you on the team. You smiled when he criticised the medical staff’s security protocols. But you stopped touching him.
No hand on his wrist. No shoulder against his during briefings. No thoughtless embrace when he brought something that made you happy.
Damian discovered, with growing horror, how accustomed he had become to your affection. Its absence followed him everywhere.
On the fourth day after your release from the medbay, Damian returned to Blüdhaven. This time, he used the door.
Dick opened it wearing sweatpants and an expression of immediate concern.
“Hey,” he said softly.
Damian walked past him.
Dick closed the door. For once, he did not make a joke.
Damian stood in the centre of the apartment, fists clenched at his sides.
Grayson waited.
“I require advice,” Damian said.
“Okay.”
“You deliberately misled me.”
Dick blinked. “That could refer to a lot of things.”
“The fruit. The sunrise training. The food. The colours.”
Understanding crossed Dick’s face. “Oh.”
“Do not make that sound.”
“Sorry.”
“You instructed me to court them.”
“I gave you ways to make them feel welcome.”
“You knew how those actions might be interpreted.”
“I did.”
Damian turned on him. “Why?”
Dick did not retreat. “Because you liked them.”
“I did not know that.”
“I know.”
“That does not justify manipulating me.”
“No,” Dick said. “It doesn’t.”
The immediate agreement disrupted Damian’s anger.
Dick sighed and leaned against the counter. “I’m sorry. Really. I thought you’d figure it out faster.”
“That was your first mistake.”
“Apparently.”
“And your second?”
“Underestimating how stubborn both of you are.”
Damian looked away.
The city lights filled the windows, blurred gold against the night.
“They nearly died.”
“I heard.”
“I thought they had.”
His voice came out lower than he intended.
Dick’s expression softened.
Damian hated pity. This was not pity. That almost made it harder.
“I realised,” Damian continued. “In the engine room.”
“That you love them.”
The words settled into the apartment.
Damian did not deny them.
Dick drew a slow breath. “Did you tell them?”
“They asked what I was speaking as.”
“And?”
“I said a friend.” Dick closed his eyes. “I panicked,” Damian snapped.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Your face did.”
“My face has always been expressive.”
“It is a character flaw.”
Dick approached carefully, stopping within arm’s reach. “Why did you say that?”
Damian’s laugh held no humour. “Because they were bleeding out beneath my hands and I had only just understood that I loved them. Because the possibility that they might not return the sentiment felt like another wound I was ill-equipped to survive.”
Dick remained silent.
Damian’s throat tightened. “They have stopped touching me.”
“Oh, Dami.”
“Do not.”
“I wasn’t going to hug you.”
“You were considering it.”
“I’m always considering it.”
Damian glared at him.
Dick’s mouth twitched, but the humour quickly faded.
“You hurt them,” he said gently.
“I am aware.”
“But you can fix it.”
“How?”
“Honesty.”
Damian scoffed.
“I’m serious. You can’t strategy your way around this.”
“Everything can be approached strategically.”
“Love can’t.”
“Then it is poorly designed.”
“Extremely.”
Damian paced towards the window. “What if they do not feel the same?”
“Then it’ll hurt.”
“Remarkably useless advice.”
“It’s the truth.”
Damian’s shoulders went rigid.
Dick moved to stand beside him.
“But,” Dick continued, “I’ve seen them look at you.”
Damian stared out at the city. “How?”
“Like you hung the sun.”
Damian’s chest tightened. “That is melodramatic.”
“They’re Tamaranean. Melodrama is part of the charm.”
“You dated Kori.”
“I did.”
“And you allowed that relationship to end.”
Dick’s expression shifted. Pain passed through it, old and familiar. “Yes.”
“Then why should I trust your advice?”
“Because sometimes loving someone and building a life with them aren’t the same skill. Because timing matters. Because people change. Because Kori and I loved each other, and part of loving each other was eventually accepting that we weren’t meant to keep hurting ourselves trying to fit into the same future.”
Damian looked at him.
Dick smiled sadly. “I don’t regret loving her. I only regret the times I let fear speak for me.”
The words struck too close.
Damian looked away again. “What should I do?”
Dick’s smile returned, gentler now. “Tell them everything.”
“That is an unreasonable amount of information.”
“Start with the important part.”
“And what would that be?”
“That you weren’t acting as their friend in the engine room.”
Damian’s jaw tightened.
Dick nudged his shoulder. “And maybe apologise for accidentally courting them for six months without realising it.”
“I will not describe it that way.”
“They might.”
“They would be correct.”
Dick’s brows rose.
Damian scowled. “Do not look pleased.”
“I’m always pleased when you demonstrate emotional growth.”
“I could still push you from this window.”
“There’s my baby brother.”
Damian did not hug him before leaving.
He did, however, pause at the door. “Grayson.”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you.”
Dick smiled. “Anytime.”
You were on the roof when Damian returned.
The sky above Titans Tower was clear, the stars faint beneath the city’s glow. You sat near the edge with your knees drawn to your chest, your hair moving slowly in the warm night wind.
Damian approached without attempting stealth.
You heard him anyway.
“You went to Blüdhaven,” you said.
“Yes.”
“To speak with Richard?”
“Yes.”
“About Tamaraneans?”
Damian stopped beside you. “About one Tamaranean.”
You looked up.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
Then you turned back towards the sky.
Damian sat beside you, leaving a careful distance between your bodies. It felt enormous.
“I owe you an explanation,” he said.
“You owe me nothing.”
“That is untrue.”
Your hands tightened around your knees.
Damian forced himself to continue. “Grayson informed me of several Tamaranean customs shortly after you joined the team.” You glanced towards him. “He told me that sharing fruit, offering warm food, flying at sunrise and wearing another’s colours could have cultural significance.”
Understanding spread slowly across your face. “Oh.”
“Yes.”
You looked down at the green sections of your uniform. “Did you know?”
“Not precisely.”
“You did those things because he told you to.”
“At first.”
The words left Damian quickly.
You went still.
He looked at you fully. “At first, I intended only to make you feel welcome. I believed understanding your culture would improve your integration into the team.”
“That is very romantic.”
“It was not intended to be.”
“I know.”
Your voice was soft.
Damian pressed his palms against the rooftop. He had faced gods with steadier nerves.
“I continued because I wanted to.” Your gaze lifted to his. “I sought out food you would enjoy because your happiness became…” He paused, hating every inadequate word available to him. “Necessary to me.”
Your expression changed.
Damian continued before courage abandoned him. “I trained with you at sunrise because those hours were the only time I had your attention entirely to myself. I redesigned your uniform in my colours because the sight of you wearing them satisfied something possessive and irrational within me.”
A breathless sound escaped you.
Damian’s face heated. He persisted. “I did not understand the nature of these feelings until the mission.”
“The engine room.”
“Yes.” His voice lowered. “I believed you were dead.”
You turned towards him completely.
Damian looked down at his hands. “When you asked what I was speaking as, I lied.”
“You said you were speaking as my friend.”
“I was afraid.”
“You are never afraid.”
“I am frequently afraid. I have merely been trained not to display it.”
You watched him in silence.
Damian’s heartbeat felt violent enough to bruise. “I was speaking as someone who loves you,” he said.
The world did not end. The roof remained beneath him. The stars remained distant. The city continued moving far below, indifferent to the fact that Damian had just removed his heart from behind his ribs and placed it between you.
You stared at him.
Damian’s mouth tightened. “If you do not return the sentiment, I will accept that. Our professional relationship need not be compromised. I only ask that you—”
You moved.
One moment, you were sitting an arm’s length away.
The next, your hands were against his face and your mouth was on his.
Damian forgot every prepared sentence.
The kiss was warm, almost unbearably so. Tamaranean heat sank through his skin, sunlight given shape. Your fingers curved carefully along his jaw. You kissed him with the same openness you brought to everything else, without hesitation or disguise.
Damian’s hands hovered uselessly for half a second.
Then he caught your waist and pulled you closer.
You made a soft sound against his mouth. It travelled through him like electricity.
Damian had been kissed before. He understood the mechanics. He understood breath, angle, pressure and the chemical reactions associated with physical intimacy.
None of that knowledge prepared him for you. You tasted faintly of the spiced tea you drank at night. Your hair brushed his hands. The heat of your body surrounded him as you shifted closer, one knee pressing against his thigh.
Damian kissed you until breathing became unavoidable.
When you separated, your forehead rested against his. The gesture he had offered in the engine room.
Trust. Recognition. Home.
“You are a fool,” you whispered.
Damian’s eyes opened. “That is not the response I anticipated.”
“I have been in love with you for months.”
His grip tightened around your waist. “You said nothing.”
“You said we were teammates.”
“You could have corrected me.”
“I believed you did not feel the same.”
“I prepared Tamaranean pastries from memory.”
“You also threatened to remove Gar’s spleen for eating the last dumpling.”
“That was justified.”
You laughed, and the sound broke through the final tension between you.
Damian stared at your face, at the glow beneath your skin, at the joy he had nearly convinced himself he would never be permitted to cause.
“When did you know?” he asked.
You considered. “Perhaps when you gave me the fruit.”
“That was the first week.”
“Perhaps before that.”
“Our initial spar?”
“You looked very beautiful while bleeding.”
Damian blinked.
You smiled. “On Tamaran, this is a reasonable observation.”
“It is a reasonable observation anywhere.”
“Then you agree?”
“That I am beautiful?”
“Yes.”
“Objectively.”
Your laughter grew louder.
Damian allowed himself to smile.
Your eyes widened. “You should do that more often.”
“I smile frequently.”
“No.”
“I do.”
“You bare your teeth in warning.”
“That is a type of smile.”
“It is a threat.”
“The concepts are not mutually exclusive.”
You touched your nose to his. Damian’s breath caught at the tenderness of it.
“Richard knew,” you said.
“Grayson suspected.”
“He arranged this.”
“He interfered.”
“He helped.”
“He manipulated us for his amusement.”
“He gave you courtship instructions.”
“Without adequate disclosure.”
“You followed them very faithfully.”
“I was attempting to be culturally sensitive.”
“You invited me to watch the sunrise every morning.”
“For combat.”
“You fed me by hand after I injured my wrist.”
“You were incapable of holding a fork.”
“You gave me your colours.”
“They provide tactical camouflage.”
“Damian.”
He looked at you. Your expression was bright with fondness.
Damian exhaled.
“I courted you,” he admitted.
“Yes.”
“Accidentally.”
“Only at first.”
The accuracy of that statement settled warmly inside him.
Damian lifted one hand to your face. His thumb brushed beneath your eye, following the faint line where your skin glowed brighter. “I would like to continue,” he said.
“Continue what?”
“Courting you.”
Your smile softened. “This time intentionally?”
“Yes.”
“And what does intentional courtship look like for Damian Wayne?”
He considered. “More efficient.”
You laughed again.
Damian’s mouth curved. “It would involve honesty,” he added. “Shared meals. Training. Regular opportunities for flight.”
“You do not fly.”
“I am capable of using a jetpack.”
“That is not the same.”
“It is safer.”
“For you, perhaps.”
“And,” Damian continued, “I would attempt to express my feelings before either of us is critically injured.”
“That seems wise.”
“I would also prefer that you refrain from intercepting weapons intended for me.”
“I cannot promise that.”
“Then this relationship is already experiencing conflict.”
You leaned into his hand. “On Tamaran, conflict is not considered the opposite of love.”
“So you have said.”
“It can make love stronger.”
“Within reason.”
“Of course.”
“And if you nearly die again, I will personally revive you in order to kill you myself.”
“That is the most romantic thing you have said tonight.”
“It was not intended to be.”
“I know.”
You kissed him again.
This time, Damian was ready. He wrapped his arms around you as you lifted from the rooftop, your body rising easily into the night. His feet left the ground, but he did not look down.
You held him securely, one arm around his waist while your other hand remained against his cheek.
The city spread beneath you.
Damian had travelled through the air in countless ways. Grappling lines. Aircraft. Jetpacks. The arms of Kryptonians who made jokes about his weight. This felt different. There was no engine, no metal, no line tethering him to the earth.
Only you.
“Do you trust me?” you asked.
The wind pulled at his cape.
Damian looked into your eyes. “Yes.”
You smiled and carried him higher. The tower became small below. The city lights blurred into constellations, streets transformed into glowing rivers. The air cooled as you climbed, but your body remained warm against his.
At the edge of the clouds, you stopped.
The moonlight touched your face. Damian understood then why flying together carried such meaning. It was not merely the height. It was the surrender. The willingness to leave solid ground and trust another person to hold you above the world.
You turned slowly through the air, allowing him to see the ocean stretching black and endless beyond the city.
“It is beautiful,” Damian said.
You looked at him. “Yes.”
He recognised the echo of your first sunrise together. This time, he did not pretend you were speaking about the view.
Damian leaned forward and pressed his forehead to yours.
Your eyes closed.
On the roof below, hidden behind an industrial ventilation unit, several heads appeared.
Jon grinned so broadly his face had to hurt. Gar was recording until Raven lowered his phone with her powers. Jaime whispered something that made them all duck when Damian glanced towards the tower.
He could not see them clearly from this distance. He did not need to.
Damian sighed. “We have an audience.”
You looked down. The team scattered with all the subtlety of startled pigeons.
Your laughter rolled across the clouds. “Should we return?”
“No.” Damian tightened his arms around you. “Let them wait.”
You smiled. “As my commander orders.”
“I am not speaking as your commander.”
“No?”
Damian kissed you beneath the moon, held aloft by green fire and the strength of your arms.
“No,” he murmured against your mouth. “Not this time.”
Dick received a message at six the following morning. It contained no greeting.
You interfered in my personal affairs without permission. Your methods were manipulative, presumptuous and intolerable. If you attempt anything similar again, I will expose the location of your emergency snack reserves to Todd.
A second message arrived before Dick could respond.
They have agreed to intentional courtship.
Dick smiled down at his phone.
Kori, sitting across from him in the twenty-four-hour diner they had chosen for breakfast, leaned forward. “Is it Damian?”
“Yeah.”
“And our friend?”
“Apparently, they’ve agreed to intentional courtship.”
Kori’s face lit with delight. “I knew they would be well matched.”
Dick laughed. “Damian thinks this was all my idea.”
“It was.”
“Okay, it was mostly my idea.”
Kori reached across the table and stole a strawberry from his plate. “You told him of Tamaranean courtship traditions?”
“I told him enough.”
“And did you tell him that many of the traditions you described are primarily associated with royal courtship?”
Dick paused. “No.”
Kori smiled serenely. “Then Damian has accidentally been courting them with the intensity of a Tamaranean prince.”
Dick stared at her. Then he began to laugh so hard that the waitress looked concerned.
Across the city, Damian stood in the headquarters kitchen, preparing breakfast while you sat on the counter beside him.
You wore his sweatshirt over your uniform.
Not a similar sweatshirt.
His. The dark green fabric hung loosely from your shoulders, the sleeves falling past your wrists. You had taken it after returning from your flight and shown no intention of giving it back.
Damian found that he did not mind.
He placed a plate of cut fruit beside you. You selected a piece of mango and held it towards him. Damian accepted it without complaint.
Then you leaned down and kissed him, sweet and brief, your fingers curling beneath his chin.
Behind you, the kitchen doors slid open.
Jon stepped inside. He stopped.
Damian’s hand moved towards the nearest knife. Jon slowly backed out. The doors closed again.
You smiled against Damian’s mouth. “He will tell the others.”
“They already know.”
“Richard will be pleased.”
“Grayson’s happiness is irrelevant.”
“Will you tell him that?”
“I already have.”
You laughed and wrapped your arms around his shoulders. Damian stepped between your knees, his hands settling at your waist.
Morning light poured through the kitchen windows, gilding the edge of your hair. The sight of you still struck him with an intensity he was learning not to resist.
For most of his life, Damian had understood love as a duty. It was standing guard. Sharpening weapons. Memorising injuries. Knowing which exits to use and which enemies to kill. Love was vigilance, sacrifice and the promise that no harm would reach the people under his protection without passing through him first.
You had taught him another shape. Love could be fruit left outside a door. A ruined recipe attempted three times. A sunrise watched from the edge of a roof. Love could be laughter after battle, a hand offered before touching, a body carried safely through open air. It could be green fire burning above a sleeping city. It could be the terrifying, impossible choice to be known.
You rested your forehead against his.
“Where are you?” you asked softly.
Damian understood the question. Not where his body stood, but where his thoughts had gone.
“Here,” he said.
Your smile warmed. “Good.”
Damian kissed you again as the sun rose over the horizon. Intentional courtship, he decided, was not significantly different from accidental courtship.
The food remained. The training remained. The stolen clothing, shared flights and direct praise remained. The primary difference was that now, when you called him magnificent, he kissed you instead of pretending the word meant nothing.
And when Damian looked at you as though you had hung the sun, he no longer looked away before you could notice.
