WHEN THE SPITE DIES
𐔌 ↳ ༉‧₊˚ art by @huedmmi
pairing: CEO!damian wayne/personalassistant!reader
𐔌՞. .՞𐦯 - whereas, you were expected to quit after Damian Wayne’s first vicious insult, but fueled by spite you stayed— only to end up hopelessly attracted to the despicable man. You decided to strut into work in stockings and a miniskirt, but he frustratingly refuses to notice. Inspired by ‘miniskirt’ - aoa
cw: no smut just fluff, no y/n mentioned (you will absolutely never catch me using y/n), bad first impressions, enemies(?) to lovers, comedy/humor, bad at feelings, slightly in denial with feelings, happy ending, reader is sick of damian, no angst, and a makeout session.
wc: 18.1k. | part 2
You don’t really remember how you ended up getting the job.
You just knew the economy is going to shit, much to your dismay. You were an adult and life as an adult isn’t what it’s cracked up to be, especially when you’re in a world that has heroes, vigilantes, and villains that pop a perc and run around causing havoc.
Just like many other people in the country, you’re applying to several jobs a day and receiving multiple rejection emails almost daily. However, you decided to run around Gotham with your applications after moving here. The hiring manager in front of you was skimming your resume, nodding along and telling you they were impressed, which felt like a small personal victory to you!
Yay! Pat yourself on the back!
They decided to have an interview with you, right then and there!
“That’s amazing! Could you tell me what made you interested in this position?”
Money.
“What made me interested—” And right in the middle of your interview with the hiring manager, the office door slammed open.
A woman that seemed to be in their late twenties or early thirties, long gorgeous blonde curls stumbled in, red-eyed and shaking, sobbing so hard her words broke apart as she begged you not to work here.
“THE CEO IS AN ABSOLUTE SHITHEAD—”
“Ma’am you need to lea—”
“Do not work with that sorry-excuse of a MAN!”
“Alright, that’s it—”
“Get your hands off of me NOW! I AM SAVING THAT POOR GIRL—” Security dragged her away while she kicked and cried, and the hiring manager cleared their throat like they were trying to swallow an entire cough drop.
“Anyway…” they awkwardly moved on.
Yikes didn’t even begin to cover it.
After the interview, you just went back to your life. You were cleaning your apartment, keeping your mind busy with chores the next few days, binge-watching a series, and applying to different jobs. Honestly, You kind of assumed that you weren’t going to get the job after that happened, I mean would you hire someone after that interruption? Yeah. After that incident, there was no way they were calling you back.
“I mean, that was the craziest thing I’ve ever experienced, and I just moved here!” You said loudly, half–talking over the sizzle of the pan as you stirred your dinner with one hand and kept an AirPod tucked in the other ear. “What do you expect, babe? You moved from Star City on the west coast all the way to the east coast.” Chelsea’s voice crackled lightly through your AirPod.
You glanced at your phone on the counter. The FaceTime screen showed your friend lounging on her couch in Metropolis, her hair tied up and a mug in her hand, looking far too comfortable compared to the chaos you had walked into this week. Her eyebrows were raised like she already knew you were regretting the relocation.
“You should’ve just come with me to Metropolis, I don’t know why you decided to end up in Gotham, New Jersey. For god sake's, have you seen the crime rate!?” You snort, rolling your eyes.
“I’d rather see dumbass people try to get into my nice apartment and not my whole ass apartment blown away by some creature from another planet—”
“Oh please! At least one of them erases the problem easily!” You frowned at that.
Okay. Maybe she got you there.
“Doesn’t Metropolis rip in half like every once a month—” Chelsea cut you a look through the screen, lifting her mug like she was preparing to smack you with it through FaceTime. Her expression said don’t even start, which you replied with your hands up in surrender, your spatula raised with it.
“Where’d you even apply, anyways?”
You shrugged and kept stirring your food. “I don’t even know. I applied to a bunch of companies, but I think the interview I actually went to was at Wayne Enterprises.”
Silence.
A dangerous, heavy silence.
“Are you dumb—!?”
“Chill! I have my AirPods in!” you shouted back, flinching from the raise of her voice. Chelsea let out a long, exhausted sigh that somehow felt like a lecture.
“Which position did you apply for?”
“…personal assistant?”
She immediately screamed your full government name, and you winced so hard your shoulders nearly hit your ears.
You decided to turn her volume down.
“Are you just going to keep screaming at me without actually telling me what’s wrong with applying there?” you snapped, waving your spatula like it could shield you from her judgment.
Chelsea grumbled, pure disappointment settling into every line of her face. “I cannot believe you live under a rock. Damian Wayne. One of the youngest, successful, and arguably the hottest CEO in the country— not my type, but his father is, he’s a standard DILF in my book and will always be in my heart. Ring any bells?”
You blinked.
Slowly.
Did she have to mention the fact her type is the CEO’s father?
“He is notorious for going through personal assistants,” she couldn’t believe your lack of knowledge while continuing. She gestures wildly with her mug with a click of her tongue. “Girl, they all leave within the first month, it’s all over Reddit! Constantly! And it’s not even because he fires them. They just cannot deal with him!”
“Not even the paycheck can make them stay in this economy?” Chelsea slapped her hand on the coffee table so hard her cat shot straight into the air and sprinted out of frame like it feared for its life.
“Not even the paycheck can make them stay in this economy!” She shouted, leaning so close to the camera you could see every stressed-out pore on her face.
“Well, it’s a good thing I won’t be hired then, right?” You begin to scoop your food into a bowl, turning the stove off while you listen to Chelsea relievingly sigh in approval, her shoulders relaxing when she recalls the story you’ve told her.
“Yeah, I doubt they’ll hire you since Goldilocks decided to save you from the trenches. You’re lucky you dodged a bullet.”
Chelsea was wrong.
The next day, you received an email from the poor hiring manager with stressed eye bags that showed straight through the concealer, informing you that you had been accepted for the job.
You stared at the screen.
You got the job.
You should reject it.
Yet, you’ve been rejected left and right.
And the salary was so good—
Chelsea’s vice echoes through your head, the warnings she has told you.
“They all leave within the first month!”
Well. If you’re expected to leave the first month, you might as well get your money and dip when it gets intolerable. I mean, like, fuck it, the worst you can do is ghost the job.
What’s the worst that can happen?
No one warned you.
Well, Chelsea technically warned you.
But, you knew he would be presentable, but not—
Not like this.
“Ah! There he is, this is your boss, Damian Wayne.”
He didn’t walk into the room so much as he cut through it like gravity pulled differently around him. Sharp posture, silent steps, and sharp narrowed eyes that hit you with the same force as a spotlight— green, but not soft. More like polished jade or a blade’s edge reflecting light. It spoke of calculation, assessing, and it felt so direct when it landed on you.
It felt like getting pinned to a corkboard.
His face was almost unfair.
They were clean, symmetrical, and sharp lines. He had a strong jaw that looked like it had been carved deliberately.
There was no boyish charm to him; he had the kind of beauty people hesitate to call beautiful because it sounds too delicate for someone who carries that much confidence. But handsome didn’t feel strong enough either. He was absolutely striking to look at, unattainable, and unforgettable. He had that kind of attractiveness that makes your brain lag for half a second while your mouth tries to remember how to say ‘hello.’
And his expression didn’t help.
He looked at you the way someone looks at a report they already expect to be disappointed by (it was awful), brows slightly drawn, and lips pressed flat in a line that made you painfully aware of just how nice his lips were, they were clearly well taken care of, moisturized and a hue of color on them.
His hair was annoyingly perfect too. Dark, thick, not a strand out of place, like it was styled by sheer discipline instead of product. The kind of hair you could imagine falling into his eyes if he let it grow even a little longer but he never would, of course.
Then there was the way he dressed: crisp, tailored, so flawlessly put-together that you suddenly felt underdressed in clothes you had ironed twice in your blouse and your slacks. He didn’t even have to try; he just existed and the room rearranged itself around him.
But the worst part?
He didn’t even seem aware of how attractive he was. Or maybe he was and just didn’t care.
He looked at you, held your gaze for a fraction too long, and said flat, cool, and without so much as a greeting.
“Um, it’s nice to meet you, I’m your—”
“Tt, I know who you are. You’re the new assistant. HR must be desperate nowadays. You look like someone they scraped off the bottom of the applicant pile.”
Your first impression of Damian Wayne?
You want to absolutely kill him.
Surely you misheard him. Right?
Surely no living person with a functioning sense of self-preservation would say that out loud. Right?
But no. Damian Wayne just stood there, expression carved from ice, like your existence itself was an inconvenience he was being forced to endure.
You inhaled slowly through your nose.
“I—” You forced your voice to stay even.
“I’m here to make your schedule easier, Mr. Wayne.”
“Good,” he plainly said with a monotone voice, already brushing past you like you were a piece of office furniture. “I don’t have expectations for you to stay here longer than a month, so don’t try too hard as a temporary assistant, they always do.”
Your eye twitched.
This aggravating piece of shit—
He stopped at his desk, not even glancing back before gesturing to a stack of folders that’s on his desk.
“Organize these by priority and competency.” He paused, glancing briefly at your figure.
“Assuming you’re capable of both.” You wore the most corporate expression you’ve ever worn in your life, a face that felt like you wanted to shatter yourself and slap the shit out of him. “Of course,” you said sweetly with the fakest smile you’ve ever worn on your life.
Venomously sweet.
“I’ll handle it.” You knew he could hear that sickening sweet fake voice.
“Good.” He simply stated, sighing before he shooed you away. “Try to keep up.”
You didn’t trust yourself to respond.
Not with words. Not with sounds.
You swallowed every snarky comment sitting on your tongue, because nothing in that office could legally be used against you in a workplace lawsuit. Instead, you scooped up the stack of folders he shoved into your arms and marched out before your own mouth created problems your paycheck could not fix.
God, you needed this job.
The salary alone was enough to chain you here for at least a few weeks, maybe even longer if your spite stayed strong. A traitorous part of you even considered turning this into a personal challenge. If you had to endure the daily torment of working for Damian Wayne, then fine. You would survive this place. You would outlast his attitude. You would make it to the one month mark just to prove a point.
And before you finally walked out of this corporate purgatory, you would leave a little surprise in his office, something truly unforgettable, something that would remind him that you had been here. The door shut behind you with a soft click that somehow felt like it saved your life.
The hiring manager trailed after you like a ghost fleeing the scene of a violent crime. Their footsteps were rushed, panicked, like they were afraid Damian might call them back inside if they didn’t move fast enough. They had been completely silent during the encounter, which— given what just happened— felt like its own form of apology.
Or guilt.
You didn’t speak at first.
You needed a second.
Your soul needed a second.
Your blood pressure needs at least 30 seconds.
Finally, once you’d made it a safe distance down the hall, far enough that Damian can’t hear the rattling cage of your heart that wanted to scream at him.
You exhaled.
“…Okay,” you muttered, gripping the folders so tightly they crinkled. You’re going to need to find different folders if they end up creased.
“So that happened.”
The hiring manager let out a strangled sound that might have been a laugh. It might’ve been a whimper. It was hard to tell. “That,” they said, “was… one of his better mornings.” You stared at them in stunned silence.
They avoided eye contact, shoulders tensed like someone with chronic fight-or-flight syndrome. “I hoped he’d be in a good mood today. He had coffee. And a board meeting went well. Usually that helps.”
“That was him in a good mood?”
They nodded, grimly. “Comparatively.”
You stared down the hallway toward Damian’s office door, half expecting it to burst open again just to finish you off.
Honestly? You kind of hoped he would. At least then you could be the first assistant in Wayne Enterprises history to get fired in under ten minutes.
But no.
You were still employed. And you wanted so badly to prove that dickhead wrong.
“Don’t take it personally,” the hiring manager mentions quickly, hands fluttering like they were trying to calm a spooked animal. “He’s usually like that! I mean, not worse, but not better either.” They winced at their own explanation. “Here, let me… let me just take you to your office.”
You followed with the folders clutched to your chest. Your inch-heels clicked softly against the sleek hallway floors, each step a quiet reminder that you were officially in too deep to turn back.
The office around you was alive in that overwhelming, corporate-machine kind of way. Murmurs drifted from half-open doors, printers whirred like they were running for their lives, phones rang nonstop, and people in tailored suits rushed past with urgent expressions and coffee cups that looked dangerously full.
It was the kind of place where everyone seemed to be moving toward something important.
Except you.
You were just trying not to drop the folders or spontaneously combust. You adjusted your grip, inhaled slowly, and forced yourself to match the hiring manager’s brisk pace.
Every passing face glanced at you, all of them were curious, sympathetic, or simply entertained by the existence of a new victim. The looks were so blatant you started to wonder if there was a running office bet on how long you’d last. If there was, you were absolutely putting your money on surviving a month.
A month and a day. And an extra minute just to spite all of them.
You were going to get through this.
You were going to make it through the first month, even if you hated your boss with the intensity of a thousand suns. If not out of ambition…
Then out of pure, unadulterated spite.
Within an hour, you’ve finally settled into your new office, which was far too large for any normal personal assistant, you began plotting. Every drawer, every neatly stacked folder, every perfectly lined pen became part of your mission to prove him wrong.
You were going to arrive early, organize everything to perfection, and carry yourself with the righteous fury of someone determined to weaponize competence.
You were going to be the best goddamn assistant he had for a month!
You’re going to look him in the eye, tell him to eat fuckin’ shit, and walk out of his office with your dignity intact and his pride dented.
Except.
This is going to be really awkward.
You have been his personal assistant for three months.
Chelsea sits across from you in a high-end Gotham café, the kind of place with marble tables, velvet chairs, and coffee so expensive it feels like a personal attack. It is a luxury you can finally afford thanks to the absurdly generous salary that comes with being Damian Wayne’s personal assistant.
“So what’s been up with you—”
Once she settles into her seat, you launch into the whole story, unpacking every chaotic detail of your first week under the city’s most insufferable, sharp-tongued, walking stress migraine of a boss while she gaped at you, even she choked on her coffee once you mentioned the fact you were originally going to plan to tell your boss to eat shit!
“You have been keeping this from me for months!?”
Chelsea nearly shrieks, her voice shooting up enough that you can practically picture her cat back home sprinting under the nearest piece of furniture in self-defense. She drags a hand through her hair with the kind of exasperation that suggests she is seconds away from either combusting or demanding financial reparations for emotional distress.
“I thought you worked at a different company! I thought you didn’t get the Wayne job!” You flinch and lean forward, shushing her as a few nearby patrons glance over with raised eyebrows.
“I’m sorry! Trust me, I am surprised too!” You exclaimed in a quieter voice, pinching the bridge of your nose before your nerves started leaking out of your mouth. “I thought you would have seen it on the news or Reddit. People keep making threads about Damian Wayne’s personal assistant. Me! I am the longest assistant he has ever had.”
Chelsea just stares.
It is the kind of stare reserved for witnessing small miracles, natural disasters, or an animal walking into a Walmart wearing a vest.
“He hasn’t fired you,” she says.
“He hasn’t fired me,” you repeat.
“Not yet.”
“Hopefully not.”
Chelsea sighs, not out of dialing but exaggeration. “At least it pays you well, right?”
“It does, it pays really well actually.” You point to your bracelet, displaying Tiffany and co., that you were surprised to even purchase with the first paycheck that came in, it could cover your rent, car insurance, and two months worth of groceries!
Chelsea hums.
“Well, it’s been a few months now, why haven’t you left your boss if you hate him, babe?”
Well. Things have changed.
You fiddled with your drink, turning the cup in slow circles before lifting it to your lips. The moment you glanced off to the side, pretending to admire the ridiculously pretentious light fixtures or the overpriced pastries behind the counter, you knew you were done for. Chelsea had known you for years.
She could read you like a billboard on a highway.
Her eyes narrowed. “That,” she said, pointing her straw at you like a weapon, “is your I am hiding something face.”
“I’m not hiding anything!”
“That’s your lying voice too.”
You groaned, slumping your shoulders. “I don’t wanna tell you.” You leaned against your arm on the table with a frown, looking at her with the most depressing gaze ever.
She sighs.
“Tell me, what’s wrong.” You mumbled incoherent words that she couldn’t catch.
“It can’t be that bad, but you gotta tell me clearly, babe.”
“I said I like him,” you folded your arms together against the table, slowly hiding your face while you looked at your friend.
Chelsea froze, processing your words slowly.
For a full three seconds, she did not blink, breathe, or otherwise behave like a living organism. Then she leaned forward, squinting at you like you had just confessed to worshipping a fantasy character.
“You what.”
You pulled your arms in tighter, sinking into yourself like you could physically escape the consequences of your own admission.
“I like him,” you repeated, quieter this time, feeling a burn on your neck and the tip of your ears, and your cheeks as well.
Was it getting hotter in this cafe?
Chelsea slapped both hands on the table so hard the silverware rattled. “You have got to be kidding me,” she hissed, keeping her voice just barely below a scream. “You like Damian Wayne?! THE Damian Wayne!? I thought you said you hated him not even five minutes ago!?”
You winced.
“I know.”
“He insulted you on sight!”
“I know.”
“He made three assistants cry before lunch in one week according to that Reddit post five months ago when I last went on there!”
“I know, I read that too.” You cringed.
She leaned in even closer, eyes wide with catastrophic disappointment.
“And you like him.”
You nodded, defeated.
Chelsea dropped her face into her hands.
“Oh my god,” she whispered into her palms. “There’s absolutely no way.” She dragged her fingers down her cheeks in slow, tortured disbelief, then lifted her head just enough to glare at you through the cracks.
“What happened to your standards!? He was rude, mean, a dickhead, a shit-head! And he said you wouldn’t last a month!”
You huffed, crossing your arms with a pout.
“It’s not my fault,” you muttered. “He’s… different when he’s not being… rude.” Chelsea scoffed loudly.
“Different how. Does he switch from dickhead to mildly tolerable asshat? Does he say please once every equinox?”
Chelsea shook her head, disbelief etched on her face.
“He basically insulted your existence before you even started!”
You glared at her, already feeling a creak of embarrassment from the reminder she’s given.
“He… holds doors sometimes.”
“Oh dear Jesus,” she groaned quietly, staring at you like you had personally disappointed the entire human race, shock was an understatement for her.
“Sometimes? Not all the time!? You are not just down bad. You are subterranean! You are in the Earth’s core and you are at the center of the planet melting!”
You were starting to feel like you were melting into a puddle.
“Holding doors? Are you kidding me!? I fear that’s the bare minimum!” She reiterated once more, shooting back with a cry.
You wilted a little.
“Babe! I literally held the door for you 30 minutes ago!”
She wasn’t wrong.
Chelsea sighed, long and heavy, like she was preparing herself for a friendship intervention. “Okay,” she finally came down from her thoughts, sitting upright again. “Start from the beginning. And tell me exactly how long you’ve had this tragic, misguided crush so I know how early the corruption began.” You glanced away, a small, knowing smile tugging at your lips.
You already knew where it began.
Damian Wayne didn’t just hold doors for you— sometimes, he could actually be kind.
Actually, erase that.
What the fuck are you talking about?
It started off when there was an office party at the end of your second week at the company.
The team decided it was best to celebrate after successfully completing a tough collaboration, and despite your reservations, you found yourself there, trying to blend in among Gotham’s elite.
The “party,” which was really just a glorified networking event, was held in a sleek, modern lounge with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the glittering sprawl of Gotham. Soft jazz curled through the air, creating a warm atmosphere while coworkers clustered in small circles, murmuring over half-finished drinks. Glasses clinked. Ice chimed against the crystal. Someone laughed too loudly at a joke that probably wasn’t funny.
You lingered by the refreshment table, holding a champagne flute you had barely touched, watching the room from the safety of the sidelines. The dim lighting made everything feel softer, warmer, less like the corporate machine you worked in and more like a scene from a movie you didn’t belong in.
You were debating whether to grab a cheese cube or just take another sip of your second drink when you felt a shift in the atmosphere beside you. A quiet disturbance, like the air bracing itself.
Damian had appeared.
He stood a few feet away, dressed sharply as always, although the usual severity in his expression seemed dulled by the warm glow of the lounge lights. His posture was still rigid, but the sharp scowl you had come to mentally prepare for wasn’t as deep.
His gaze found yours immediately.
“Oh. It’s you. I wondered why all the birds stopped singing.”
Damian’s voice cut through the hum of conversation, quieter than usual but still carrying that cool edge that scraped your nerves raw.
You raised a brow and crossed your arms, turning to face him fully with a slight fire of irritation, faking a smile in his direction. “No one's forcing you to be around me? Pick another spot, or fire me. I don’t care.”
You were surprised he didn’t fire you right then and there.
It was only your second week.
His eyes flicked over you, assessing, unreadable, before he reached for a drink from the nearby table. “I highly doubt you want to be fired within two weeks.” You furrowed your brows, the anger rising quickly.
You cannot believe you work with this man.
Around the two of you, the soft buzz of the party carried on. Laughter drifted from a nearby table, someone popped open a bottle of sparkling water, and the jazz band eased into a slower melody. Yet despite the noise, the space between you and Damian felt strangely isolated, a small bubble of tension carved clean out of the room’s warm energy.
Please don’t stand next to me. Please don’t come stand next to me. Pleasenotnexttome!
But he shifted, stepping just slightly closer as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Of course, he stands next to you, but just far enough away that there’s an empty space between you.
“Do you really have to stand there?” you muttered, frowning at him.
“You don’t own the space,” he replied, rolling his eyes with that signature Damian Wayne disdain, the type that somehow felt personally designed to get under your skin.
Before you could bite back, the crowd shifted.
A girl you didn’t recognize wove through the party’s glittering mess of people, smiling so brightly it made your teeth ache. She slipped right between you and Damian, brushing your shoulder with a light, oblivious, “Oops, sorry!”
You step back, momentarily thrown off, while Damian’s eyes narrow slightly, but he says nothing.
Luckily, your drink wasn’t spilled.
Oh! Mr. Wayne,” she gushes, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear in a move so practiced it should’ve come with choreography. “I didn’t expect to see you here. You look amazing tonight!”
Damian gives her a flat, polite look that is somehow more dismissive than if he’d ignored her entirely.
“Thank you.”
She steps a little closer, her shoulder nearly brushing his.
“I was just telling my friends I’d love to get to know more people in the industry. Maybe you could give me some tips?”
Damian’s expression doesn’t change.
“Tips,” he repeats, voice cool.
“I do not offer those.”
“Oh! Well, maybe you could show me instead?”
“Not interested.”
“Not even one minute of your time, sir?”
“I’m busy.”
“I could jus—”
“Are you deaf, woman?” you cut in before she can finish, smiling sharply when her head snaps toward you in offense.
Your tone is honeyed, your eyes absolutely not. You watch her expression, her mouth opening, outrage bubbling up.
“Excuse me?”
You tilt your head, taking a slow sip of your drink. Her jaw works soundlessly, cheeks flushing red, and she sputters a half-formed insult before managing,
“Who do you think you are?”
Before you can respond, Damian does.
“She’s my childhood best friend.”
You choke on your drink so violently you almost decorate the floor with it.
Childhood best—
The hell is this coming from?
The girl snaps her head toward Damian, frowning, irritation breaking through her forced sweetness.
“Really? She doesn’t look like it.”
You raise a brow so sharp it could cut glass.
What is that supposed to mean?
“Well, she used to be.”
She raised an infuriating brow at Damian with a twisted frown, clearly offended by your continued existence and a tad bit curiosity shining within them.
You mouthed seriously over her shoulder at your boss that completely ignored you.
You lean in slightly, lowering your voice in a conspiratorial tone that makes her perk up just enough.
“If you’re so curious,” you say, smiling with all the sincerity of a cat staring at a canary, “we’re not childhood friends for a reason.”
You lie through your teeth without hesitation.
And right beside the woman, Damian watches over you— quiet, unreadable, and unmistakably intrigued.
“Why is that?” she asks, hesitating, clearly torn between morbid curiosity.
You smile sweetly.
“When we were young, I went over to his house and watched him drink his own blood for breakfast, like it was some artisanal smoothie because he thought he was a vampire.” You shook your head. “His family had to send him to a mental hospital after he bit four of our classmates' necks, luckily he only killed two.”
There is a silence so thick you could scoop it with a spoon.
The girl’s eyes widened in absolute horror.
And beside her, Damian— Damian Wayne, Gotham’s coldest, most composed, most impossible-to-shake man stares at you over her shoulder, lips parted, expression stunned.
“Seriously?” She say, absolutely turning pale by the second with a hint of disbelief and skepticism in her tone, yet she’s starting to believe you.
You nodded solemnly, as if delivering a tragic, documented truth.
“One of the nurses put garlic in his sandwich and he absolutely freaked out. Therapists had to come in and talk him down while he kept yelling about curses, mortal treachery, and how garlic was the ‘bane of his eternal existence.’”
You shrugged.
“Thank god he’s on medication.”
Damian closes his eyes for one long, suffering second. When he opens them again, there’s a spark there.
A dangerous one.
“I’ll do you better,” he says, voice smooth and deadpan. “When she was younger, she used to crawl into the garbage at one in the morning because she was fully convinced she was a raccoon. She tried to square-up with the actual animal for dominance. She lost.”
Your smile freezes, peering over her shoulder. Raccoon? Are you serious? You mouthed. “She ate the wrappers in our garbage. Ate them. Like they were gourmet. A total nutcase. She walked on all fours so committedly she developed calluses. Hissed at anyone who got too close— neighbors, mailmen, and the mayor once. Animal control tried to trap her three separate times. A complete lost cause.”
The woman looks like she’s about to throw up, hand hovering near her mouth as if bracing for a second round of trauma.
Your jaw drops.
“She’s come a long way,” Damian adds, eyes glinting with quiet amusement, “but sometimes she relapses and we find her in a dumpster in the back of BatBurger.”
You stare at him, appalled.
You turn to her, lowering your voice like you are sharing the saddest, darkest secret of your generation.
“One time he didn’t take his meds and someone accidentally spilled water on him. He thought it was holy water,” you say gravely, watching her head swivel back to you. “So he started screaming about being burned alive like bread in a toaster. In public. Very loud. Very dramatic. He threw himself onto the floor and writhed like a dying Victorian child. People thought an exorcism was happening in aisle five.”
You sigh, shaking your head as if reliving the tragedy.
“He yelled that he was going to die. It took four security guards and his dad to calm him down.”
“She had to wear an ankle monitor that she bit off,” Damian cuts in, no longer staring at her, but at you.
What the absolute fuck.
“She sharpened her claws since she still thought she was a raccoon and gouged someone’s eyes out in a local church. She ate those eyeballs, but told the police that god took them. The victim is still alive. They’re blind and they no longer go to church.”
The woman swallows so hard you can hear it.
“You’re absolutely joking.”
Yes, he is,” you say sweetly, pinning the woman with a reassuring smile that is only a few degrees away from a threat.
“I’m not, he killed two of my cats and my other friend for one of his sacrificial rituals, trying to summon the damn devil to get immortality. At age ten. We had to get a priest, and the actual exorcist,” you continue, as if you’re giving her directions to the mall.
“We had to strap him to a bed. Full head spin. Latin chanting. He spoke in seven different voices— none of them his. One of them was an elderly Italian man who’s been dead since 1842.”
She looks absolutely sick to her stomach.
“Holy symbols were flying off the walls. The lights flickered, and the temperature dropped twenty degrees. At one point, he levitated. Horizontally. Like a possessed IKEA shelf.” You lift your glass, sipping unbothered.
“He nearly killed the priest, too. Launched him across the room with telekinetic rage. The priest survived only because we dumped an entire Costco-sized vat of holy water on him and force-fed him garlic cloves like he was a charcuterie board and faced him towards the sun.”
“You— both of you are absolutely insane!” The woman sways a little, looking between the two of you like she’s trying to decide whether to run, scream, or call the police.
“I thought this was a networking event. I’m not… I’m not spiritually prepared for whatever that was.” She makes a choked noise, turns on her heel, and speed-walks away like she expects one of you to start foaming at the mouth.
You watch her disappear into the crowd. Then you turn to Damian, giving him the flattest, most pointed look you can manage.
“Childhood friends? Seriously.”
He exhales through his nose, the closest he ever gets to an eye roll without actually doing it.
“A vampire. Are you kidding me?”
“I just wanted to tell someone that you drank blood for breakfast.”
After that incident, Damian had somewhat tolerated you.
You were going to make it— the first month, you’ve found yourself also tolerating Damian’s presence after that incident.
He stopped ignoring you like you were a ghost only he wished was dead.
You stopped fantasizing about strangling him with his own tie.
He stopped snapping at you every time you breathed within a three-foot radius.
You stopped wanting to shove him into the nearest supply closet (and lock it).
You started walking into his office without rehearsing three insults in your head first.
He started not sighing dramatically every time you would walk in, only because you told him to quit it.“What’re are you fuckin’ five years old? Get a grip.”
You were surprised you weren’t fired the minute you said that too.
There was honestly a lot of things that you’ve been lucky to get away with.
It was honestly nice.
He started becoming too nice.
He started holding doors for you.
Not in a showy, look-how-chivalrous-I-am way.
More like: he’d reach the door, pause, and wordlessly keep it open without looking at you. As if it was simply easier than watching you juggle your bag, tablet, water bottle, and your will to live all in one minute.
Then came the coffee.
Not just any coffee.
Your order.
Perfectly correct down to the amount of sweetener you never told him about.
It would appear on your desk at 8:07 every morning. The exact minute you usually sat down, being 23 minutes early as always with no explanation except a quiet, muttered:
“The barista on the first floor kept messing up my drink. They gave me this instead.”
He said it like it annoyed him.
He handed it to you like it didn’t.
And he walked away before you could question him about how the barista “accidentally” made your drink four days in a row.
Then there were the other things.
He’d push the elevator button for both of you without being asked.
He’d slow his stride by half a step so you could keep up with files in your arms to attend the next meeting with him, pretending it was unintentional.
If you were carrying too many folders, he’d take half without comment, eyes forward, as if he could pretend he wasn’t helping you.
Once, he even redirected a rude executive who barked at you in the hallway, stepping in with a clipped, cold:
“My personal assistant is busy. Speak to someone else.”
You almost dropped your tablet at that comment.
That was when your heart started racing. It was sharp, sudden, and betraying you before you even understood why.
It wasn’t the dramatic kind of fluttering people wrote about in books, nothing soft or romantic. It was a tight, startled thump in your chest, the kind that made your breath catch for half a second as heat crawled quietly up your neck.
It happened in the small moments, the ones you never expected to matter— when his hand brushed yours as he passed you a file, when his voice dropped lower than usual as he asked a question, when he stood just a little too close in the elevator and you could feel the faint warmth radiating from him.
Every quiet act of consideration, every glance that lingered a beat longer than it should have, stirred something unsteady beneath your ribs. It felt like your body realized something before your mind did, like your instincts were trying to tell you that Damian’s sudden gentleness wasn’t random at all.
And once you noticed it, once your heart reacted— you couldn’t un-notice it.
Each day it only beats a little faster.
Especially that one night, the night everything went sideways so violently it felt personal.
The office was unnervingly quiet after hours. Most of the overhead lights had already clicked off, leaving long stretches of the floor in a low, ambient glow. The only illumination near you came from your monitor, washing your desk in a cold, bluish light that made the scattered papers look like crime scene evidence.
Your shoulders ached from sitting too long.
Your eyes burned.
Your coffee had gone cold sometime around 7 p.m., and you kept drinking it anyway because the bitterness felt like fuel.
You had taken on too much work. You knew that. You felt it as soon as your fingers began to tremble over your keyboard.
The HVAC system hummed softly above you. Somewhere far down the hall, a printer woke up and made a lonely mechanical noise before going quiet again. Your own breath sounded too loud in the open, empty space.
You clicked into the project folder that was supposed to contain sixty-eight documents.
It had six.
Six documents blinking back at you like they were mocking you.
Your stomach dropped so fast it made you dizzy.
You refreshed the tab. Nothing changed. You tried again. Still six. The rest had vanished— scrambled somewhere across Wayne Enterprises’ ocean of internal servers.
You whispered, “No, no, no… oh, come on, not tonight.”
Your fingers flew, searching through subfolders, archives, misnamed files. You found some mislabeled under an entirely different project. Others were saved in outdated formats. A few looked corrupted, their icons taunting you with dull, broken symbols.
You spent the next hour piecing them back together, shuffling between windows, dragging things into place, the soft clicking of your mouse echoing in the cavernous silence.
When you finally rebuilt the folder and opened it again…
Half of it was still missing.
Gone.
Deleted.
Not even a ghost in the recycle bin.
Your pulse thundered in your ears.
The fluorescent light above your cubicle flickered once, dramatically, like it was judging your life choices.
The air felt too thin.
Your throat tightened.
All of this— every file, every signature, every revision— was due in two days.
You pushed both hands into your forehead and muttered, “This is it. This is where I die. Right here. In this stupid chair. They’ll find my corpse fossilized into this mesh ergonomic backing.”
You mumbled to yourself before glancing at the clock on your screen.
8:43 p.m.
The rest of the floor was a graveyard. Dark offices. Empty chairs. Silent conference rooms. Not even the janitorial staff had come by yet.
You forced yourself to sit down and get to work because no one else was going to fix this disaster, even if it wasn’t your fault. The responsibility still sat heavy on your shoulders if you didn’t do anything, almost like a physical weight pressing between your shoulder blades.
You had to track down every missing document, rebuild what was gone, and prepare the entire set before the deadline that glared at you from your calendar in a furious shade of red.
Your own workload sat beside it, equally demanding after you’ve redone the first five of the thirty documents.
Your email inbox kept chiming every few minutes, each notification a tiny reminder that you were behind.
The piles on your desk had grown uneven and tall enough to lean like stressed-out skyscrapers.
Half of Damian’s stack stared at you like it had been personally offended by your existence. Your shared calendar flickered on your monitor with overlapping meetings, last-minute adjustments, and bright color-coded tasks that all claimed to be the highest priority.
You glance at the time.
10:28 p.m.
Just as you’re about to dive back into the mountain of paperwork, the door to the office swings open. Damian steps in, his expression a mix of confusion and mild irritation.
“You’re still here?” His voice is calm but edged with disbelief.
You look up, blinking away the exhaustion.
“I have one more thing to finish.”
Multiple things actually.
He shakes his head slowly, eyes narrowing. “It’s late. Everyone else has gone home hours ago. Your light is the only one on.”
Oh.
You bite back the exhaustion creeping into your voice.
“I’m almost done.”
Damian’s gaze lingers on you for a moment, unreadable.
Then, without another word, he steps back toward the door, the quiet weight of the night settling once more around you.
You thought he had left, leaning against your chair to take at least a five minute nap without any interruption.
But moments later, he reappears, holding his jacket in one hand, his eyes fixed on you with that same sharp intensity.
“Let’s go.”
You blink in surprise.
“What—?” You shake your head, stubbornness flaring despite your exhaustion.
“I’ve got it under control. I just need a little more time.”
He cuts you off with a flat tone, hearing you yawn afterwards.
“It’s almost 11 p.m. I don’t trust you behind the wheel when you’re this close to falling asleep in your office chair.” You blink, caught off guard by his blunt concern, the tension in the room shifting just a little.
“I can just call an Uber?” you offer weakly, half out of stubbornness, half because you don’t know what else to do with the sudden warmth crawling up your neck.
What are you supposed to do in this situation?
“Don’t be stupid and waste your money on that…” he fiddles with his cuffs, “I’ll drive you home.” His tone snaps like a reprimand, firm and irritated, but underneath it is something unmistakably protective.
He clicks his tongue, already annoyed for you, at you, around you, like you were the one being unreasonable for… existing past 10 p.m. in a corporate building.
He gestures sharply at your desk with a small glare, the kind that isn’t really anger but more of a silent command.
Pack up. Now.
And despite yourself.
Despite how confusing this whole moment is, despite the way your face warms at the edges, you actually listen. Your hands move on instinct, gathering your things while your thoughts spiral in a confused, flustered whirl:
Why does he care?
Why is he doing this?
Why is he taking you home?
Is this normal? You thought.
It’s just work related, right?
Yeah. Work-related.
For a boss to take their personal assistant home?
The realization lands with a quiet, heavy thud— one that makes your fingertips fumble over the zipper of your bag, your breath catching for just a beat.
Did he do this to his other assistants?
You glance at the man and the calendar on your desk.
He shows up at your doorframe at almost eleven at night, jacket in hand, eyes lingering on you as he patiently waits for you to gather your things. And as you sling your bag over your shoulder, heart a little too light and a little too frantic, you can’t stop thinking:
Why is he still at Wayne Enterprise at 11 p.m. when his schedule was cleared after 6 p.m.?
You follow him out the door, steps quiet, falling just a half-pace behind him like your body hasn’t caught up to the situation yet. Confusion presses tightly across your face, your brows drawn together, lips thinned as you stare at the back of his head. His strides are steady, purposeful, like this is the most normal thing in the world.
Meanwhile, your thoughts are a mess, tumbling over each other as you trail him down the dim hallway lit only by recessed lights and the soft hum of overnight ventilation.
He doesn’t glance back once.
Of course he doesn’t.
Damian Wayne never does anything as obvious as checking if you’re following.
He just expects you to.
And you do.
You both get onto the elevator, pressing onto the garage floor button while you both stand awkwardly next to each other.
“I hope… you don’t mind me asking sir, but what were you doing here past 10 p.m…”
“Finishing reports,” he says simply. His tone is flat, businesslike, but not sharp. “Some of the board files were delayed, so I stayed to review them before tomorrow.”
You nod, knowing he can see it from the corner of his gaze.
The elevator hums around you, the soft whir of machinery filling the quiet. The two of you stand side by side, close enough that you can feel the faint heat radiating off his suit jacket but not close enough to touch. You could smell his cologne that lingers on him. It drifts toward you in soft waves: clean, subtle, and expensive in a way that doesn’t brag.
Something sharp at the start, like bergamot or cedar, softened by something warm underneath, like velvet.
The elevator quietly dings, the soft chime echoing through the empty garage as the doors slide open. Fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting long shadows across rows of empty parking spots. You trail after Damian, your footsteps sounding small in the cavernous space.
He walks with purposeful strides, not hurried but direct, straight past the reserved spaces, toward a sleek black car with two doors, a nice Porsche 911 that looks too polished for how late it is. He doesn’t check if you are keeping up, yet somehow you know he is fully aware of every step you take behind him.
You follow him through the quiet, cool air of the garage, watching the way his jacket shifts with each movement, the way he reaches into his pocket for his keys without slowing his pace.
He unlocks the car with a soft click.
He reaches the car and stops beside the passenger side, pulling the handle without hesitation. The door swings open smoothly, the interior lights blooming to life in a soft glow that spills onto the concrete floor.
He doesn’t look at you while he does it.
His gaze stays forward, jaw set, expression unreadable, as if this is purely routine and not an act of shockingly old-fashioned courtesy from a man who once told you “move faster” instead of “good morning.”
He steps back just slightly, giving you room. “Stop standing around and get in.” He says quietly.
You blink at him, unsure whether to be offended, flustered, or concerned that your notoriously rude boss is speaking to you like a person instead of a defective office appliance.
His hand still rests on the top edge of the door, waiting.
You feel more awake than ever.
You think you can drive home.
“Mr. Wayne, it’s fine, I can drive myself home—”
He gives you a look.
Just one sharply raised brow that communicates an entire paragraph:
You’re not driving. Get in the car.
Your protests die on your tongue.
You swallow once, pulse kicking up for reasons you refuse to examine, gather yourself, and finally slide into the seat. The leather is cool beneath you, the interior quiet, the door closing with a soft, final click that feels far too intimate for something so mundane.
He walks around the hood, steps measured, and unhurried.
Instead, he glances at you. Just once. Brief, unreadable, but with enough weight behind it to pin you to the seat.
“Seatbelt,” he says.
Two syllables. Low. Firm. Not unkind, which is worse somehow. Your fingers move before your brain catches up, tugging the belt into place with a soft click.
Dear god. Sitting this close to your boss, the one you’ve found attractive, annoying, tolerable, and infuriating in rotating intervals— has to be the worst experience of your entire life.
You stare firmly ahead, refusing to let your gaze drift even an inch in his direction, because if it does, you’re almost certain you’ll combust on the spot. Meanwhile, he shifts into gear, turning the notch of the volume of his music that slowly settles into the air with the same calm, controlled ease he applies to everything, as if your internal panic isn’t loud enough to fill the whole car.
You exhale once, quietly.
This is fine.
You’re fine.
You’re absolutely not fine.
“Your address.”
You blink, turning your head a fraction before you can stop yourself.
“What?”
Damian raised an amused brow, the expression subtle but unmistakable. “I can’t drive you home if I don’t know where you live. The address.”
You swallow, suddenly aware of how loud your pulse sounds in your ears. “Oh. Right. It’s—” you recite it, stumbling only once over the street name.
He inputs it into the GPS with the same calm efficiency he approaches everything with, one hand steady on the wheel, the other moving with practiced ease across the screen.
“You shouldn’t be working overtime without telling me.” You blink, taken aback.
“What? I didn’t— I mean, it wasn’t— that late.”
“It was past ten,” he counters, tone flat but unmistakably irritated, what’s with him and having that underlying tone of passive aggressiveness? This is why everyone’s scared of him.
“That qualifies as late.”
“It really isn’t that late,” you argue, crossing your arms even though it does absolutely nothing to make you feel less defensive.
Damian shifts his grip on the wheel, making a turn at an intersection, leading to the freeway. “For you, maybe,” he says.
“You look like you were five minutes away from face-planting into your keyboard.”
Your shoulders stiffen.
“I was fine.”
“You were drooling,” he adds without missing a beat. You snap your head toward him, scandalized.
“I was NOT—”
He doesn’t even look at you— just continues driving, voice maddeningly even.
“You were. A small puddle. Tragic, really.”
Your jaw drops.
“A puddle—?!”
“Don’t worry,” Damian says, completely unbothered. “Nobody saw, except I did.”
Unbelievable.
This man was lying to your face.
“I didn’t drool.”
“You did.”
“I did not.”
He exhales through his nose, like you’re the unreasonable one here.
“You were unconscious in your chair. Head tilted back. Mouth open. Classic drooling posture.”
YOU DIDN’T EVEN SLEEP?!?
“I wasn’t drooling,” you repeat, slower this time, because you know— you know— you weren’t.
“You’re lying.”
Damian’s lips twitch.
Not a smile.
Not quite.
But close enough that your stomach flips.
“I don’t lie,” he says coolly.
“You’re lying right now.”
Silence. A beat.
“…You were about to drool.”
Your jaw dropped.
“You—!”
“That’s worse,” he adds dryly.
You’re ready to launch into a full rebuttal, but he cuts in before you can speak: “You should thank me,” he says. “If you had actually started, I would’ve had to mop you off your desk.”
You’re actually going to kill him.
“Get me out of this car now.”
He doesn’t even flinch.
“If I stop on the freeway, we’ll both die.”
“That’s fine.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“Yes. It is.”
He finally glances your way, one eyebrow raised with a spark within his eyes, you knew he was reveling in it.
“You’re being dramatic.”
“You literally invented dramatic.” His fingers drum lightly against the steering wheel, betraying a flicker of amusement he refuses to acknowledge.
“That’s rich coming from you,” he says, voice calm but edged with something warm.
“If anyone here has a flair for theatrics, it’s the person who nearly face-planted onto a stack of financial reports and told that woman that I’ve supposedly killed two kids and was possessed.” You glare at him.
“It was for a good reason and I did you a favor!”
Damian turns his head just slightly, enough that you can see the curve of disbelief at the corner of his mouth.
“A favor,” he repeats, tone dry enough to evaporate water. “Your solution,” he says slowly, “was to convince her I bit a classmate, splashed with holy water by accident, summoned the devil, and committed— what was it?—‘multiple cat sacrifices.’”
You lift your chin. “To be fair, you added the part about me gouging out a guy’s eyes in church. And face-planting into the reports? Are you serious?”
“It haunts me to this day.”
“You didn’t even see it happen!” You scoffed.
“I didn’t have to. I heard the thud from halfway across the floor.”
Your jaw drops.
“You liar!”
“Possibly,” he admits, gaze returning to the road, “but you can’t prove it.” You grip your bag tighter, fighting the urge to throw it at him.
He’s impossible! A douchebag! A liar!
Despicable. Insolent. Smug. Humorous.
And Handsome with the capital ‘H’ annoying.
A soft, almost amused exhale slips out of him and you hate that your heart notices.
Your apartment building edges into view through the windshield. The familiar, worn brick and warm lights in the windows, something easy curls in your stomach.
You glance at him, then at the building, then back at him. You should probably at least have the decency to thank him for dropping you off to your place.
“Thank—”
“I’ll pick you up tomorrow before work.”
Your mouth snaps shut, staring at him.
“…What?” you finally manage, voice embarrassingly thin.
He wants to pick you up.
He’s planning to pick you up.
Damian slows to a stop at the curb in front of your building, the streetlight casting soft gold across the sharp line of his jaw. His hands remain steady on the wheel, expression irritatingly unreadable.
“I said I’ll pick you up tomorrow,” he repeats, this time he’s looking at you with a tilt of his head, like he’s informing you of the weather. “You clearly can’t be trusted to get adequate sleep, and I’m not dealing with you hallucinating through spreadsheets.”
Your jaw drops.
“I do NOT hallucinate— you’re— ugh! Unbelievable.” For a second of silence, there was a look of gentleness settling in his eyes, softening the sharp green into something that lingers a little too long on you.
“Seven thirty,” he says, ignoring your previous comment.
“Don’t be late.”
You grip your bag, still stunned, still not sure you’re hearing him correctly. “You don’t have to do that,” you protest, even though your voice comes out softer than you’d like.
“I know,” he replies simply.
You step out of the car on unsteady legs, heart beating far too fast for reasons you refuse to examine yet… but you do look back. You shift your weight, gripping your bag strap until your knuckles ache.
You watch the passenger window slide down. “Mr. Wayne, seriously. You don’t have to—”
“Damian.”
You ignore that.
Your front steps are only a few feet away now, but you suddenly feel like you’re standing on the edge of something a lot higher.
“You’re confusing me, you’re not making any sense at all,” you murmur, even though your voice betrays you by going soft again.
A cold breeze skims across your cheeks, the kind that promises Gotham’s autumn is heading towards the colder month. You pull your coat a little tighter, but it does nothing for the strange warmth curling under your ribs.
“It makes perfect sense,” he counters. “You run yourself into the ground. You forget meals and you revise everyone’s work.”
“I—”
“Twice,” he says without hesitation. “You revise their work twice.” He continues, quieter now, “you need to take care of yourself.” You blink, stunned by the simplicity of it.
By sincerity.
By the fact that it sounds dangerously close to concern.
“And that concerns you?” you ask, trying to keep it light, teasing, anything but the vulnerable thing it threatens to be. His eyes flick to yours, a spark of truth breaking through his usual restraint.
“It should,” he murmurs. “Shouldn’t it?”
There’s a silence that feels unsteady, fragile in a way neither of you dare acknowledge. He watches the faint cloud of breath that escapes you in the cold Gotham air, the way your frown tries and fails to hide the shift in your expression.
His gaze flicks toward your apartment, then back to you.
“Go inside. Get some rest.”
And even though you want to argue… you don’t. You can’t with him. Not when he’s looking at you like that. Your fingers curl around your keys. “Seven thirty,” you echo, trying not to sound as flustered as you feel.
He gives the smallest nod, the kind that somehow manages to feel like both approval and silent victory.“Good,” he says, a smirk across his lips.
You hesitate for half a second, then turn toward the entrance. “Goodnight,” he adds, voice low, steady and almost gentle if you weren’t careful with how you interpreted it.
You start walking, each step slow enough that you hate yourself a little for it. The lobby lights spill warm against the pavement, and just before you reach the door, something makes you glance back.
He’s still there, watching you get in safely.
One hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely by the gearshift, posture composed— but his eyes remain fixed on you until the very moment you slip inside with a scan of your apartment’s key and disappear from his sight.
Only then does he finally look away.
“And then? Did he pick you up?”
Chelsea asks, her face squished between her palms, eyes wide and sparkling like she’s watching the season finale of her favorite drama.
You stare at her.
She stares back, vibrating.
As if she wasn’t hating your boss 30 minutes ago.“Chelsea,” you say slowly, “I don’t even know what that was.”
“Oh my god, stop—did he pick you up?” She demands again, shaking your arm like she’s trying to rattle the answer out of you.
You sigh, drop your forehead onto the table, and mumble into the wood, “Yes.”
Chelsea gasps so violently you’re pretty sure she inhaled half the air in the café.
“There’s no way—”
“Not only that!” you cut in, throwing your hands up. “He would do it multiple times! My poor car would be stuck here at my job forever!” Chelsea doesn’t even try to hide her disgusted wince.
“Honestly… that thing has seen better days.”
“It still works just fine!” you snap, offended on behalf of your dented, aging, slightly rattling Honda civic. She raises a brow. “It screams when you turn left.”
“It groans,” you correct. “And only in winter.” Chelsea leans in, looking way too delighted while you picked yourself up from the table to sit up straighter. “And winter is here, with that next paycheck you should really get a new car.” You sigh, shoulders sinking because— annoyingly— she’s right.
But you can’t help it.
You’re attached to that stupid car. It was your first big purchase after high school, the thing you saved for through every miserable minimum-wage shift, every extra hour you picked up, every time you resisted food to stash a few more dollars away.
“It’s sentimental,” you mutter, poking at your empty drink. “I practically raised that car.”
Chelsea stares at you.
“It’s dying, babe.”
“It has character.”
“It has medical issues.” You glare.
“You’re rude.”
“I picked it up from the best,” she says, giving you a slow, pointed once-over before winking. “Don’t act shocked, you taught me to be quick with it.” Okay, maybe it was about time to get a new car.
“So… what are you going to do about it?”
“I’ll buy a damn new car,” you grumble, dragging a hand down your face.
Chelsea snorts.
“No— I mean Damian.”
You freeze. Of course that’s what she meant. “What about him?” you ask, already regretting it. Chelsea lifts both brows like she’s about to deliver a divine revelation.
“Well, are you going to shoot your shot…?” You blink.
“What shot?” She just stares at you.
“Look, you’re not that dumb, but you can’t be THAT dumb.”
“There’s absolutely no way,” you insist, shaking your head.
Chelsea throws her hands up before pointing her pretty manicure finger at you. “Babes, you told me what he’s done. It sounded pretty obvious he didn’t like you at first— sure, but clearly there’s something now.”
You pinch the bridge of your nose.
“Chelsea—”
“No, don’t ‘Chelsea’ me. He’s clearly teasing you. He picks you up. He drops you off. He notices when you haven’t eaten. He scolds you for working late. That’s not normal boss behavior. That’s not even barely normal human behavior!”
You blink.
She leans closer, voice lowering conspiratorially.
“It’s playground logic,” she says. “Pulling pigtails to get the girl’s attention. That man is either in love with you… or putting a suspicious amount of effort into someone he claims is ‘just an employee.’”
You fold your arms, leaning toward her, unimpressed and curious all at once.
“Okay, if you’re right. What do you think I should do then?”
Chelsea’s grin spreads slow and wicked, like she’s been waiting for you to ask.
“Babe, I know I am right. What’s your dress-code policy lookin’ like?”
You narrow your eyes at her.
“Don’t say it like that.”
“Oh, I will say it like that,” she fires back immediately, kicking her heel against your chair. “Because if your boss is driving you home, picking you up, buying you coffee, acting all nonchalant like a storm cloud with feelings—”
“He doesn’t have feelings.”
“—then,” she continues loudly, ignoring you, “it is time to… gently nudge the situation.”
You stare. “Gently nudge?”
She lifts her brows.
“Keep up, dummy.” She rolls her eyes. “Wear something that’s not what you’re wearing now.” She gives a pointed look at your cute button-up blouse and slacks. “You need to remind him you’re not just his sleep-deprived assistant who alphabetizes spreadsheets for a living, ya’know.”
You narrow your eyes at her theatrics, but she just lifts her chin smugly.
“A theory?” you echo, suspicious.
She nods, all-knowing, all-smug, infuriatingly Chelsea.
“Mm-hmm. A very important, scientifically proven theory.”
“What theory?”
“That if you dress even slightly hotter than usual,” she says, leaning in like she’s sharing a state secret, “your boss will start to make advancements.”
Your face heats. “He is not—”
“He is,” she interrupts, unfazed. “And I want updates. Detailed ones. Because when I’m right—”
“When,” you repeat flatly.
“When,” she confirms with a decisive nod, “I expect a thank-you gift. Preferably edible. Or expensive.”
You groan into your hands.
She pats your shoulder.
“Don’t worry. It’s just step one.”
“Step one?” you muffle.
“Oh absolutely,” she says, already pulling out her phone. “I’m making a checklist.”
“Okay,” she announces, displaying the screen of a small list. “Step one: act normal, but slightly hotter and slightly busier. Men go insane if they don’t receive attention.”
“I’m literally his assistant. I can’t ‘act busy,’ I am busy.”
“Perfect,” she says brightly with a wide grin. “You’re already a natural!”
You drop your face back into your palms.
“Chelsea, this is a terrible idea.” She leans in until she’s a mere few inches away from your gaze, nose nearly touching your hands.
“But you’re going to do it anyway.”
Your silence betrays you.
Chelsea gasps scandalously.
Loudly. Dramatically. Offensively.
“Oh my god, you’re already thinking about what you’re going to wear!”
“I’m not—!”
“You are,” she sings, grabbing your wrist and shaking it like you’ve won a prize. “This is amazing. I love this for you. I love this for me!”
You yank your hand back, trying and failing to will down the heat in your cheeks.
“This is not a romance novel,” you mutter. “He’s my boss.”
“And he’s driving to your apartment at seven-thirty in the morning to pick you up from overworking,” Chelsea retorts. “Sweetheart, you already skipped half the tropes and went straight into the slow-burn danger zone.”
You stare at her, she’s grinning like she’s narrating your funeral. “Text me tomorrow,” she says, gathering her purse. “And remember: make his jaw drop!” She winks, watching your face twist into a frown.
“You’re welcome in advance.” And like the good friend you were… you listened to her.
The next morning, you woke earlier than usual, the soft glow of dawn just beginning to filter through your curtains. You began your daily routine that made you groan at the crack of dawn, except this time— you carefully sifted through your clothes, weighing options, second-guessing, and finally settling on the outfit that felt just right.
You stood in front of your mirror with your arms crossed, face scrunched up, judging your own reflection with the same intensity Damian reserved for quarterly reports.
After a full minute of squinting, stepping back, stepping forward again, and muttering to yourself like a deranged tailor, you finally picked an outfit that was technically within the dress code.
It wasn’t your usual safe, comfortable, neutral-choice outfit.
You wore an outfit with clean lines, sharp edges, the kind of put-together that didn’t just fit you, instead it looked like it had been waiting for you. The skirt hit exactly where it should, the stockings gave just enough edge to balance the professionalism, sexiness, and confidence without tipping into trying too hard.
Your skin had that annoying, unfair glow too— not the “I slept a full eight hours” kind, but the lived-in, effortless natural appearance. It kinda gave you that youthful look with a charming smile. It was professional but warm. It made you look like someone who knew exactly what they were doing with both their life and their wardrobe, even if you’d spent the last thirty minutes pacing and overthinking every choice.
You told yourself it had nothing to do with him.
You were lying to yourself and you knew it.
Especially this morning, when you found yourself running later than usual. You had spent too much time trying to look good, carefully applying a light layer of makeup and a nice lipstick color that felt almost weightless on your skin and blended perfectly. It wasn’t just about professionalism; it was about feeling confident in your own skin.
Then there was the traffic. Slow, frustrating, testing your patience at every turn. This was exactly why you usually came in early— to avoid moments like this.
Today is going to be different.
It already felt different.
You clutched your bag a little tighter as you walked through the halls, acutely aware of the way heads subtly turned your way. The usual hum of the office seemed to shift around you, as if your presence had suddenly carved out a new kind of attention— one you weren’t quite used to but didn’t entirely dislike.
A few compliments floated your way, especially from the friendly female coworkers you often chatted with, all emphasizing how great your outfit looked.
“You look amazing today! Who are you trying to impress?”You shook your head with a laugh that escaped.
“Date tonight? You’re glowing!”
“I’ve never seen you in a skirt before! You look good!” Clearly, you were doing something right.
Yet, beneath the surface, your mind was racing, waiting for Damian’s reaction. You told yourself to follow Chelsea’s advice— play it cool and don’t give him any obvious attention. That should be simple enough, right? But the anticipation buzzed quietly in your chest, making it hard to focus on anything else.
You made your way down the hallway toward your office, the soft morning light filtering through the windows and casting long shadows across the floor. Your heart fluttered just a bit faster with every step, the nerves mixing with the rush of the new day ahead. The usual hum of early activity filled the air. The quiet chatter, the clatter of keyboards waking up, and the faint hiss of the coffee machine from the break room.
“Alright, time to get to work,” you muttered under your breath, already mentally bracing yourself for the long day ahead.
Your fingers wrapped around the cool metal of the doorknob as you pushed the door open.
Only to freeze mid-motion when you spotted the figure inside.
Damian was there, leaning casually against the edge of the desk, a cup of coffee in one hand, his sharp eyes fixed on you with that familiar unreadable expression.
He didn’t bother to hide his surprise or disapproval as his gaze flicked to the clock on the wall behind him before snapping back to you.
“You’re late.”
The words hung in the air, low and deliberate, cutting through the quiet hum of the office as if he’d been waiting for this moment all along.
His gaze briefly flickers to your outfit before meeting your eyes again.
You frowned, glancing at the time on your phone.
“I’m not even late, I just came in a bit later than usual.”
He lets out a quiet, almost amused sigh, the corners of his mouth twitching like he’s fighting a smirk.
“Later than usual still counts as late,” he mumbled, but there was a subtle shift in his voice. Less of a reprimand, more of a teasing edge that made it clear he wasn’t really mad.
“Are you going to fire me over it?” You raised a brow.
“…No, but do you have the documents I asked you to review before my next meeting?” His tone was calm, laced with that usual professionalism.
You nodded slowly, pressing your lips together as a familiar ache settled in your chest. There was disappointment, and something deeper that’s unspoken.
That quiet hope you’d been nursing quietly unraveled, leaving behind a sting of frustration that simmered just beneath the surface.
You fought the urge to let it show, burying the mix of longing and irritation behind a controlled expression as the silence stretched between you.
“Uh, yeah, it’s in the drawers in my desk, let me hand it to you.” You replied, moving around your desk and quietly pulled out the documents that’s given to him immediately.
Damian took the stack without looking away, his grip firm but not unkind. The faint rustle of the papers felt loud in the stillness between you. For a moment, you both stood there. He focused on the documents while you watched the subtle lines around his mouth soften just a fraction. It was small, almost invisible, but it made your chest tighten in a way you could not quite explain.
“I’ll review these now,” he comments, voice low and steady. “Make sure nothing is overlooked.”
You nodded, suddenly feeling the weight of the morning settle on your shoulders, relief and that quiet, stubborn hope that maybe, just maybe, he noticed more than just the paperwork today.
Without another word, he turned on his heel and walked out of the office, the door closing softly behind him.
Well, okay… fuck you too, I guess.
You slump into your chair, crossing your arms tightly while you lean back against your chair.
Why does he act like he doesn’t notice, yet does all these little things that say otherwise?
Like the way he always somehow knows your coffee order, or the way he holds the door without a word, takes you home and picks you up from your apartment to arrive at work together before anyone else,
You bite your lip, frustrated and confused. You want to ignore him, to stop caring so much, but it’s like he’s woven into the edges of your day whether you like it or not.
Maybe that’s the worst part.
“Men go insane if they don’t receive attention.”
Chelsea’s voice rang out in your head.
Hmph. Okay.
If there’s one thing Damian knew, it was this.
You were filled with spite.
Spite that rivaled his own.
Damian walked into your office again, the quiet sound of his footsteps sharp enough that you knew it was him before you even looked.
Not that you did look.
He carried the documents he’d reviewed, the ones covered in his perfectly neat handwriting. Normally, you would have glanced up. Maybe rolled your eyes. Maybe muttered something under your breath. Anything.
But not today.
Today, your spite had a bit of purpose.
You kept your attention fixed on your monitor, staring at a screen full of the usual information. Your schedule. A few reports. His own schedule, and a spreadsheet you’d already finished hours ago. You weren’t even pretending to work well— just clicking occasionally, scrolling through nothing.
You didn’t look at him.
You didn’t greet him.
You didn’t acknowledge him.
“Just set them down,” you swat your hand in the air calmly, voice flat and professional. “I’ll look over them and send next week’s project to your email. And the financial reports.”
You didn’t turn.
You didn’t give him a single glance.
You just kept staring at the monitor like he was irrelevant.
You could feel him pause beside the desk, like he was expecting you to react.
You didn’t.
Good.
Let him feel it.
Let him choke on it.
You clicked your mouse once, the smallest little sound, but in the silence of your office it felt loud. Almost pointed.
He set the documents on your desk carefully, almost too carefully, as if waiting for you to turn your head.
You didn’t.
Your heart was pounding, but your face stayed neutral. Your posture stayed still. Your eyes stayed glued to the screen. The stubborn part of you reveled in the fact that Damian Wayne, of all people, was just… standing there, trying to figure you out.
“You will have them done by the end of the day?” he asked, his tone cool but edged with something else. Something you weren’t used to hearing from him.
Irritation?
Annoyance?
Confusion?
Good.
“Of course,” you said, still not looking at him. “That’s my job, isn’t it?”
You heard him inhale very quietly, the smallest break in his composure.
For the first time, you realized something.
He didn’t like being ignored.
Not by you.
You could feel him lingering in your peripheral vision, the way someone stands in a doorway when they aren’t done with a conversation. Except you weren’t giving him the satisfaction of acknowledging it. You clicked again, scrolling through a report you had already memorized.
You could almost picture his expression without looking.
Brows drawn just a touch.
Mouth pressed into a thin line.
That proud, composed, annoyingly perfect face trying to figure out what exactly you were doing.
Good.
Let him think.
You kept your posture straight and your breathing even, even though your heart thudded a little harder with every second he didn’t walk away. Normally, you would have caved by now— just a glance, just a look.
Something.
But Chelsea’s voice was louder.
Men go insane if they don’t receive attention.
He exhaled quietly. You could feel his patience wearing thin, like the air itself tightened.
“You usually provide updates when I walk in,” Damian said, tone smooth but laced with something sharper.
“Are you not doing that today?” You moved your mouse, opening another tab, to click into your email.
You did not even blink in his direction.
“My updates will be in your inbox once everything is finalized,” you said in the same neutral, pleasant tone used with distant coworkers. “You’ll have them before noon, Mr. Wayne.”
A beat of silence, he was absolutely staring at you.
You could feel it.
The weight of it warmed the side of your face, heavy and irritated and trying to cut through your indifference.
“You seem…” His voice paused for a split second, almost like he was choosing the word.
“Preoccupied.”
You nearly smirked.
Nearly.
Instead, you let out the smallest hum of acknowledgement and said, “Just focused on work.”Your silence after that was deliberate. It was something Damian had felt when you began working here, and now it was back.
It was clean and sharp enough to make something in him twitch. For a man who commanded rooms, who intimidated CEOs twice his age, who was used to precise attention at all times… Being dismissed by you hit differently.
You could practically feel it.
He shifted his weight.
You heard the faint rustle of his suit jacket as he straightened, something colder slipping into his composure.
“Fine,” he said quietly. “I will expect the email.” There it was— that clipped tone he only used when something actually annoyed him.
He walked toward the door.
The sound of his steps was sharper this time.
More pointed.
But right before he left, he hesitated.
Just for half a heartbeat.
As if waiting for you to turn.
You didn’t move.
The door opened.
Closed.
And you finally let yourself breathe, jaw tight with a mixture of triumph and nerves.
Okay.
So ignoring Damian Wayne actually worked.
And that little discovery warmed you with the most satisfying, petty spark of victory.
You really did have things to handle. Your inbox was already overflowing with messages from partner companies, potential investors, a few overeager rivals, and the usual crowd of people who suddenly decided they “urgently” needed a meeting with Damian Wayne. You sifted through each request, drafting replies, rerouting calls, flagging anything even remotely suspicious.
If nothing else, it kept your hands busy.
It kept your eyes on the monitor.
And most importantly, it kept your attention away from him.
Except.
You see Damian Wayne’s email sitting at the very top, stamped with a fresh timestamp that tells you he sent it less than a minute ago.
Of course he did.
The room feels a little too quiet all of a sudden. You hover your cursor over the subject line, debating with yourself like the fate of Gotham depends on whether or not you open a single email.
But your pulse betrays you anyway.
DAMIAN WAYNE
Subject: Regarding the Adjusted Projection Report
Your amended notes are missing from page 14. Correct this and send the updated file before noon. You also forgot to attach the preliminary figures for the Q4 meeting. Re-send.
YOU
Re: Regarding the Adjusted Projection Report
Mr. Wayne, I’ll have the updated file on your desk before noon. The missing attachment will be included.
DAMIAN WAYNE
Re: Regarding the Adjusted Projection Report
Have them by my office an hour from now.
Your stomach drops. Your irritation flares. And something traitorous inside you sparks to life. And being the petty person you are, you did exactly what you were supposed to do.
You compiled the missing files, fixed the notes on page 14, double-checked the preliminary figures, then triple-checked them, because if you were going to be petty, you were at least going to be professionally petty. You formatted everything in the crisp, immaculate style you knew Damian preferred: every header perfectly styled, every section labeled, every graph aligned down to the pixel because God forbid you accidentally offend his sense of order.
Fine. He wanted flawless? You’d give him flawless.
With nothing else left to tweak, you stacked the pages, tapped the spine against your desk to neaten the edges, and slid the packet into a folder. A neat folder. A purposely nicer folder than the one he usually gave you.
You grabbed your things and stepped out of your office, heels clicking down the hall in a steady, determined rhythm. The Wayne Enterprises floor was quiet at this hour— most people had gone for lunch, leaving only the echo of distant printers and the hum of central air vibrating through the walls.
You rounded the corner toward Damian’s office, folder in hand, ready to slam it onto his desk with the polite professionalism of someone who absolutely was being petty and absolutely refused to acknowledge it.
But something shifted in the corner of your vision.
A familiar figure stepped out of the stairwell, head bowed over a tablet, moving with the kind of restless focus that suggested he hadn’t slept in three days.
Tim- ‘F’ucking- Drake.
Sometimes you ran into him in the café on the first floor, where he’d already be two coffees deep and debating whether a third was “necessary or just responsible.” Other times, you’d cross paths when Damian sent you to drop something off for him, because— according to Damian, seeing Tim’s face could “derail the productivity of an entire day.”
Dramatic much? Yes.
Always. Every single time.
Tim, on the other hand, never seemed bothered. If anything, he’d take the file with a blink, a grateful nod, and then immediately forget to breathe while reading it. One time you were pretty sure he walked into an elevator door while scrolling through an email.
IT also adored him.
Half the departments relied on him. He had an office here but never seemed to actually use it. And today, based on the speed he was walking straight toward Damian’s area, he was clearly on some kind of mission.
You slowed just slightly.
His gaze flicked to you, then paused, brow lifting in mild surprise.
“Oh— hey,” he said, offering a small, apologetic smile. His eyes dipped once, taking in your outfit, and he actually registered it. “You look really nice today, the skirt looks good.” He chuckles, which you replied with a coy smile.
“Thank you, it’s been a while since I’ve seen you around, Tim!” You smiled brightly.
At least someone in this building had functioning eyeballs.
“Yeah, I’ve been busy lately.” He hums, “Damian around? I need to drop something off and—” he looks at the folder in your hands.
The universe practically handed you the moment on a silver platter. “Yeah, he’s in his office.” You replied, having a plan already forming within your head. “I’ve actually got some documents for him.”
Tim nodded, stepping closer. “Want me to take them? I’m going straight there and you’re his personal assistant, right? You probably have better things to do than babysitting that kid.”
You laughed, “you don’t say?”
He chuckled under his breath, the tired kind that said he understood exactly what you had to deal with. You didn’t hesitate to give him the folder.
Not even half a second.
You placed the folder into his hands with a soft, grateful smile, one that hid the mild, sparkling pettiness coiling in your chest.
“Thank you, Tim.” He accepted it with the solemn responsibility of someone who absolutely did not realize the chaos he was about to deliver.
“Of course, anytime!”
And somewhere, in his office, Damian Wayne was probably waiting, expecting your knock, anticipating your appearance, ready to critique your delivery or your timing or your skirt or your existence—
Only for his brother to walk in instead.
You remembered turning back to your office, going back to your daily tasks and answering a phone call.
“Wayne Enterprises, this is the office of Mr. Damian Wayne. How can I help you?” The caller launched into a pitch about a potential collaboration, some sleek new product they believed could be mutually beneficial. You took notes, asked the right questions, nodded along even though they couldn’t see you.
By the time you hung up, your head was already drifting back toward your inbox, another email from a vendor, a reminder for next week’s meeting, and three new calendar changes—
A soft knock hit your door.
It wasn’t Damian’s solid, impatient rhythm.
It wasn’t security.
You looked up just as Tim Drake slipped inside, easing the door shut behind him like he was afraid of startling you, or maybe afraid of being seen. He moved with that deliberate quietness he always had, but this time something in his posture was different. His shoulders were too tight.
His mouth twitched like he was holding back commentary.
His expression said he had something to say and definitely something you would want to hear. “Hey,” he greeted, stepping in a little further. His voice carried a strange mixture of sympathy and amusement, as if he had walked straight into a soap opera and was still processing the plot twist.
“So… I delivered your files.” You raised an eyebrow, leaning back ever so slightly in your chair.
“Yeah? And?” Tim inhaled sharply, the way someone does before delivering bad news wrapped in entertainment, pinching the bridge of his nose.
Then he started laughing.
Not loudly, it was just that soft, incredulous laugh of someone who’d just witnessed pure, distilled bullshit and needed a moment.
“He was not amused,” Tim said finally.
You blinked. “Define not amused.”
“Oh, you know.” He waved a hand in the air. “Classic Damian. He gave me the look.”
“The… look?”
“He was both offended and confused.” You felt heat prick the back of your neck.
“Well,” you said, turning back to your computer as if you were totally unfazed, “maybe he should’ve specified how he wanted the files delivered.”
Tim leaned against the wall, studying you with that annoying detective perceptiveness he was born with.“No wonder why you’ve given me your files, for someone trying very hard not to care,” he said, rocking back and forth at the heel of his dress shoes.
“You are enjoying this a little too much.” You scoffed at Tim. “I’m not enjoying anything. I’m working.” He snorted at your response. “Sure. And I didn’t watch Damian stare at that folder like it personally betrayed him.” Your heart thudded but you kept your expression flat.
Tim shook his head, still amused.
“Whatever’s going on between you two… I don’t want to know,” he said with a little grimace. “But I do feel obligated to tell you that he told me— very coldly, very dramatically— to ‘inform his assistant she is expected to deliver important documents directly.’”
“Oh, he said that?”
“Word for word.” You let out a slow breath, releasing a very slow, very smug breath.
“Huh,” you murmured, eyes returning to your screen.
“Sounds like a him problem.”
Tim chuckled under his breath as he pushed off the wall.“For a personal assistant I’m surprised you’ve lasted this long, you’re driving him insane,” he laughs, heading for the door while you didn’t bother to look up, but you smiled when the door shuts.
DAMIAN WAYNE
Subject: Incompetence
You forwarded the documents through Timothy. Why? If you are capable of delivering them yourself, then do so. If you are not, inform me so I can make the appropriate adjustments to your workflow.
Confirm you received this.
You stared at the screen for a moment, feeling your pulse flicker between irritation and… something far less dignified. The man had the emotional intelligence of a cinder block, yet here he was, typing sentences that made you feel like you were being called into the principal’s office and dragged behind the bleachers at the same time.
Chelsea would call it a toxic cocktail.
You called it Tuesday.
Your fingers hovered above the keyboard before you slowly began to type your response.
YOU
Re: Incompetence
Received. Sent the files through Timothy because he was already going to your office. It was efficient for the both of us. Let me know if you have any other concerns regarding the workflow.
DAMIAN WAYNE
Re: Incompetence
Your definition of efficiency is questionable. Next time, deliver the documents yourself. I expect accuracy and consistency, not shortcuts. Report to my office in ten minutes. We need to review the adjustments together.
YOU
Re: Incompetence
You have a meeting in ten minutes. I’m busy, my schedule is booked out the entire week.
DAMIAN WAYNE
Subject: That Was Not a Request
You will make time. You have 5 minutes to get here.
The cursor blinked at the bottom of the screen, taunting you. Five minutes. Not ten. Not politely asking. A downgrade. A summons. You could practically hear the clipped irritation in every word.“Unbelievable,” you muttered, grabbing your tablet. “Now he wants to act like I’m late twice in one morning.”
You stood, smoothing down your skirt, steadying your breath, choosing professionalism over the urge to slam your forehead into the desk repeatedly.“Fine,” you said to the empty room. “If he wants a meeting, he’s going to get the most unbothered, least impressed version of me alive.”
And with that, you stepped out of your office, spine straight, chin high, fully prepared to make Damian Wayne question every life choice that led him to ordering you around in five-minute intervals. You walked down the hall with purpose, your heels clicking firmly against the polished floor, each step echoing your determination. The usual flutter of nerves twisted in your chest, but you shoved it aside.
Damian wanted your attention? He was going to get it on your terms.
As you approached his office, the door stood slightly ajar, the faint aroma of leather and coffee drifting out. You paused for a brief second, smoothing your blouse, making sure you looked every bit the professional, confident, composed, and untouchable. You stepped inside without knocking. Damian looked up from the sleek glass desk, his sharp eyes briefly scanning you before narrowing ever so slightly, an unreadable expression on his face.
“Five minutes,” he said, voice low but steady. No anger, no impatience, just that razor-sharp control you both knew too well. You nodded once, crossing your arms. “I’m here. What’s the emergency?”
His gaze flickered to the screen, then back to you. “Your revisions on the Q4 projection report. There are discrepancies in the sales figures for three key markets.” You raised a brow, already prepared with a mental list of where things might have gone sideways. “I triple-checked those. Unless you want to explain what you found, I don’t see the problem.”
Damian smirked, the faintest lift of his lips betraying his amusement. “I’m not here to argue. I’m here to make sure you’re not missing something.”
Something about the way he said it. It was calm, controlled, but not dismissive. It softened the edge of your frustration. You almost wanted to remind yourself to stop overthinking it.
Almost.
Instead, you pulled up the file on your tablet, ready to dive back into the numbers, ignoring the quiet thrum of something unspoken hanging between you. You tapped through the pages, fingers steady despite the fluttering in your chest. Damian watched you closely, leaning back in his chair with that same unreadable expression, as if waiting to catch you slipping.
“Here,” you said, pointing to the figures that didn’t line up. “This market’s revenue was recorded late, which threw off the totals. I flagged it in the notes, but it looks like your version missed that.”
He leaned forward, scanning your screen carefully.
“I see. Good catch.” The brief praise caught you off guard. He can compliment your work but not your fucking outfit—
“Is that it?” You said in the most infuriating tone ever, a leak of poison lying underneath it.
Damian quirked a brow.
“Is there something else you want to say?”
Oh, this infuriating man.
“No, sir,” you say firmly, trying to keep your irritation in check. Without a word, Damian rises and crosses the room with purposeful strides. He stops just in front of you, leaning casually against his desk with his arms folded, his eyes locked on yours.
“No, really,” he insists, voice low but laced with that unmistakable challenge. “Say it. I’m waiting.” You glare up at him, the frustration bubbling just beneath your skin.
You think back to all the little things he’s done. All those moments you tried to dismiss as nothing more than duty or habit, yet they added up— small cracks in the fortress he built around himself.
Say it? Say what? How maddening he is? How crazy does he makes you feel?
How every little thing he’s done, every unexpected coffee, every silent check-in, every begrudging act of care has tangled up your thoughts and emotions into a frustrating knot you can’t quite unravel. You want to blow up at him for making you feel like you’re under a microscope one moment, and the next, like you’re the only person who matters in his whole damn world.
You want to shout at him for how his sharp gaze can cut through your defenses, leaving you exposed and scrambling to catch your breath, yet somehow, it also holds a softness that drives you crazy because it’s so rare, so fleeting. You want to scream at him for the way he invades your thoughts when you least expect it, like the memory of a red scarf he wrapped around your neck, so unexpectedly gentle it made your skin burn with warmth, or the mysterious lunches that somehow felt like silent apologies or unspoken promises.
You want to tell him how unfair it is that he can act so cold and detached while making your heart race like you’re the most important person in the room. How annoying it is that despite every sharp word, every sarcastic barb, you find yourself wanting him to notice, to care, to see beyond the suit and the stoic facade.
“It’s—”
But most of all, you want to tell him that he’s become this impossible puzzle you can’t stop trying to solve, even if it’s driving you mad.
“Say it.”
And you’re absolutely sick of it.
You are sick of the way he pushes, prodding at you like a stubborn wound that won’t heal. The tension is thick in the air, every word a battle you don’t want to fight but somehow can’t avoid.
“You are—” you start, voice tight with frustration. He cuts you off with a slow, deliberate sigh that feels like it’s dragging the weight of the entire world. “Say it, right now.” He demands, eyes sharp and unblinking, daring you to defy him.
Fine.
You grit your teeth, trying to keep your voice steady, though it trembles with the effort it takes to keep everything inside from spilling out.
“I am trying to best to say it! Mr. Wayne, please, you’re so—” He raises a hand, silencing you without a word.
“No, that’s wrong, I’m not going to listen if you don’t say it.”
Say what?!?!! You’re absolutely done with Damian Wayne, the way he gets under your skin.
“Mr. Wa—”
“Wrong.”
Done with his cold, infuriating way of twisting your feelings into knots, like some cruel game only he knew the rules to.
“Fucking— eat shit, Damian!”
The words ripped out of your mouth, raw and unapologetic, carrying every ounce of frustration and anger you had held inside for far too long. They lingered between you, heavy and electric, like a spark igniting a fire that had been smoldering beneath the surface. It was a release, a challenge, and maybe the first honest thing you had said aloud in weeks.
You whipped around, determined to leave before your emotions could spiral into something even more reckless. Your chest felt tight, burning with a mixture of disappointment and hurt that you hadn’t allowed yourself to fully acknowledge. But before you could put space between you, his hand shot out and closed firmly around your wrist.
He pulled you back with quiet, steady strength. It was enough to stop you but never enough to cause pain. Slowly, deliberately, he turned you to face him.
His grip was warm and unyielding, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your skin prickle. Usually, his gaze was sharp and distant, but now it was something different—focused, unreadable, and strangely alive. The cold, controlled expression you expected softened just enough to reveal a small, almost smug smirk. It was the kind of smirk that said he was both amused and pleased by your outburst.
“Took you long enough to say my name,” he murmured, his voice low and edged with something like satisfaction, as if your words were exactly what he’d been waiting for all along.
Your breath caught. Excuse me?
“You wanted me to say your name?” you snap, incredulous, heat rising under your skin. “That’s what this was about?” You try to yank your hand back, fueled by a spark of irritation beneath the haze of desire, but he doesn’t let go.
His grip tightens just enough to stop you, not enough to trap you, his thumb brushing the inside of your wrist in slow, steady circles that make your anger stutter. “Don’t twist my words,” he says, gaze steady, unflinching. “But yes.” His voice softens, becomes something quieter, more dangerous. “Hearing you say my name like that…” His eyes hold yours, burning.
“I’ve wanted that for a long time.” Your heart skips, the fight in you wavering. “You’re unbelievable,” you whisper, torn between shoving him away and pulling him back in.
“You unravel me,” he cuts the tension, his fingers ghosting over your clenched hand, gentle but insistent. His touch was slow, like he was afraid to break something fragile, yet impossible to pull away from. Carefully, he eased your fingers open, one by one, before weaving his own through yours. His grip was quiet but absolute, as if claiming you wordlessly, without need for permission.
“Every time I told you to drop the titles, to leave the distance between us, you never did.” His voice was softer now, threading through the space between you like a secret. “You didn’t even realize… how long I’ve been waiting for this. Want you.”
You tried to pull away, heart suddenly thundering in your chest, mind spinning too fast to catch a single thought. But his hand stayed firm around yours, steady and warm, holding you not to restrain you, but to keep you from slipping out of the moment.
“Wait,” he breathed, and the word washed over you like a shiver. His grip wasn’t demanding, just certain. Certain in a way that made your pulse jump.
“Do you know you make me insane?” The words left him low, almost ragged, like he’d been holding them back for far too long. His gaze pinned you in place, sharp enough to cut through every layer you tried to hide behind. And the way he stood so close, his cologne wrapping around you in a rich, intoxicating warmth, made it impossible to pretend you weren’t affected.
You glared at him, a rush of heat blooming in your chest, a mixture of anger and something more tangled.
“Well, good,” you snapped, voice trembling despite yourself. “Maybe now you understand how it feels.”He didn’t let go. “No,” he murmured, low and rough, “I know exactly how it feels.” His eyes darkened, shadowed with something deeper than frustration or desire— something raw and aching.
“You walk into a room, and everything shifts. The air tightens around me, like a storm rolling in, and I can’t catch my breath.” He exhaled softly, as if confessing a truth too dangerous to hold inside any longer. “You wear your confidence like a second skin, like it’s as natural as breathing.” His gaze dropped for a moment down to your lips, then snapped back, sharp and consuming.
“And you think… you think I don’t notice?”
You face in a different direction, overwhelmed by the intensity burning in his gaze. But he leaned closer— just enough so that his breath warmed your cheek, sending a shiver down your spine. “You think I don’t notice the way your skirts sway when you walk, just enough to unbalance me. The stockings that catch the light, like they were made to break me. The way you move, commanding every eye without even trying.” His thumb traced a slow, deliberate path along your knuckles— tender and sure.
“You undo me.” he whispered, voice thick with something almost vulnerable. You tried again to pull your hand free, desperation flickering in your movements, but his fingers tightened around yours, firm, steady, and grounding. “With every step you take, every glance you try to hide, and every breath you draw like it’s meant for someone else. You think you slip by unnoticed—” He swallowed hard, eyes locking with yours, raw and unguarded.
“But you don’t.” His voice was a breath, a confession hanging in the space between you.
“You make a liar of everything I thought I knew about myself.”
You stand there, heart hammering so loud you’re sure he can hear it, breath catching and unsteady. The room feels impossibly small now, like the space between you has been carved down to this one fragile moment.
His eyes flicker down, tracing the curve of your lips, hesitant but drawn.
The air thickens between you.
“Would you allow me to kiss you?” he breathes, barely more than a question, but charged with everything he’s held back until now.
Your eyes flicker downward for a brief moment, then back up, meeting him again.
Slowly, almost imperceptibly, you give the faintest nod, a silent surrender that speaks volumes.
His fingers tighten around yours with a gentle yet possessive grip, grounding you. With his other hand, he reaches up, fingers brushing along your cheek before cradling your jaw with careful reverence, thumb tracing small circles that send a shiver through you. The warmth of his touch contrasts with the cool air around you, anchoring you to the moment.
Then, with deliberate, breathtaking slowness, he leans in. His lips hover just over yours for a heartbeat longer. It was soft, tentative, and reverent— before they finally meet yours in a brush of warmth and promise. The kiss is gentle but shattering, breaking down every wall you built, every doubt you held, leaving only the raw, undeniable truth between you both.
Then, his hand tightens on your jaw, tilting your face just so, as if commanding you to surrender, to feel everything he’s held inside. The intensity builds gradually, like a rising tide, each breath mingling, each movement deliberate and fierce.
Your heart hammers, your breath hitches, and his touch sends a shiver that steals what little air you have left. It’s a kiss that is deep, urgent, impossible to ignore, like he’s pouring every ounce of longing, frustration, and desire into this one perfect moment.
“Damian—” you gasp, barely able to get the word out as your breath catches in your throat. You try to pull away, desperate for air, but he’s faster, more urgent.
His hand slips from your fingers and moves with a firm, confident grip to your waist. Before you can steady yourself, he shifts you effortlessly, pressing you back against the desk that a few pens slip from his desk, laying on important papers that Damian didn’t care about at this moment. The sudden motion makes your knees wobble, a rush of dizziness swirling through you, but there’s no room for doubt or hesitation in this moment— only the overwhelming euphoria of his lips claiming yours again.
Your back arches slightly against the cool surface of the desk, every nerve igniting with electricity. Each breath is stolen and returned, shared between you as his kiss deepens, becoming more urgent, more intense. The world tilts and spins around you, overwhelmed by the raw heat of his touch.
His hands move with purpose, sliding up from your waist to hold you closer, anchoring you as if you might float away. Your fingers tangle in the soft strands of his hair, pulling him nearer, matching the hunger in his kiss.
You don’t remember the exact moment the kiss ended, only that when it did, you were left utterly breathless.
Your chest heaved, every inhale shallow and desperate, and you were certain you looked wild, your lips flushed and trembling from the way he kept chasing for them.
But Damian— he looked even more undone.
Damian looked worse off than you. His usual composed mask was shattered, replaced by a raw, almost vulnerable expression. His dark eyes were half-lidded, glazed with an unspoken hunger and something softer, maybe wonder, and maybe relief. His breathing was heavy, each breath a sharp intake that seemed to shake his entire frame.
Your lipstick was smeared across his mouth, a vivid stain that made his usual cold demeanor melt away. A few strands of his hair hung over his forehead, disheveled and rebellious, like the moment had stolen every last piece of control from him.
His fingers traced a slow line down your arm, thumb brushing lightly.
“I was beginning to think your spite would never stop pretending you didn’t want this.”
You met his gaze, fierce and honest.
“Maybe I was just waiting for you to admit it first, Mr. Wayne.”
Your tone was teasing, light, deliberately provoking. And it worked. His brows pulled together immediately, a sharp, irritated frown that would’ve been funny if your heart wasn’t pounding.
“Do not say that.”
The words weren’t raised, but they carried heat.
They carried want.
“Then what do you prefer?”
You tilted your head, pretending innocence, even though you both knew exactly what you were doing.
His glare deepened, steady and pointed, the kind meant to pin you in place. Not angry— not even close. Just frustrated that you were still playing when he was already past pretending.
He held your gaze for a long, heavy moment, eyes dark with meaning.
And in that silence, it was so clear:
He wanted to hear his name from your mouth.
Not the title.
Not the formality.
Him.
Only him.
He leaned in again, voice just above a whisper.
“You know patience was never my strong suit.”
“I know,” you mumbled, your thumb smudging the lipstick smear a little further with a small smile.
“You look good in this color, Damian.”
His eyes flickered over your face, lingering on your mouth, then dropping briefly to your hand still resting against his jaw.
Your name left his lips like a warning and a plea all at once.
“Do not say things like that unless you intend to finish what you started.”
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a/n: how we feel about this banger, my phone could barely handle 18k words ngl 🥹 but this was so fun to make, it was genuinely 4-5 days straight writing this out because I had so much ideas ! And miniskirt was the inspiration to write it out! And the BANTER?? I just knew I wanted A LOT OF BANTER in this oneshot, you guys have to let me know your favorite part, because I LOVE LOVEEEE the part/line when they started going back and forth with lies about each other at the company party!!!
