𝙰𝚋𝚋𝚒𝚎 ꫂ ၴႅၴ

Your phone buzzes on the countertop. You don't have to look to see who it is. Still, a smile tugs at the corners of your lips as you go pick it up. Sure enough, you're greeted with a wall of texts from Dick.

Your eyes skim through it.

There was an emergency.

He was sorry and felt terrible.

He’ll make it up to you.

Somewhere between the third paragraph, you find yourself chuckling. Not necessarily because it was funny, just because it was so him. You could practically hear his voice from the other end.

A few hours later, there's a knock on your door. You don't even bother checking who it is. Dangerous? Sure, but worth the risk—especially when it was his arms you're running into. “Dick!”

The two of you embrace, and only when you pull away do you look at him clearly. The bag of takeout in one of his hands, the bouquet of your favorite flowers in the other, and a bruise near his cheekbone that you almost miss from the sheer charm of his smile.

Your smile falters instantly. “Dick, what happened to your face?” You reach out and lightly brush your fingers over the blooming purple like he was bruised fruit. “Turns out gravity doesn't make exceptions.” He shrugged, still smiling as he gently led your hand away from the mark.

You laugh, and decide to brush it off. Accidents happen all the time, right? He slips his shoes off when you lead him inside, taking the takeout to set everything up.

As soon as everything is laid out on the table, Dick slides a container full of your favorite food towards you. He didn't need to be asked twice. Of course he remembered, whether you had mentioned it once or a million times.

“Eat up,” he says, carefully nudging it closer. “I bet you were surviving off of caffeine again.” Underneath the teasing comment, a hint of worry flickers in his eyes. With a hand on your chest, you gasp dramatically. “I'll have you know that I was also surviving out of spite.”

“Ah. A balanced diet.” He nods. “I only expect the best from my girlfriend after all.” You narrow your eyes before taking a bite of your food. The television hums quietly in the background, playing some sitcom you left on while the two of you eat.

You swat his hand away from your container for the third time this whole dinner because Dick claims your food apparently tastes better. (What can you say? You have great taste.)

“What about you?” you ask after a moment. “How was your day?” Dick pauses briefly. Not long enough for you to suspect anything, just long enough for him to think and swallow his food.

“Busy,” he answers with a shrug. “Nothing special.” You hummed in acknowledgement. “Busy doing what?”

“Just the usual.” And before you could press further, he's already looking back at you. “How about you?” he asks. “Is that coworker of yours still annoying?”

The conversation shifts effortlessly. So effortless that you don't even realize that you’ve stopped talking about him entirely.

Another thing about Dick Grayson was that he never failed to make it up to you.

Whether it was just a night over your place or an important dinner he missed, he’d always make it up to you.

Missed movie night? The first thing you see the next morning is breakfast—still hot, sitting prettily on the table. Late to a date? A handwritten apology note tucked into your purse when you weren't looking.

Somehow, Dick always knew how to smooth things over. And somehow, you always let him.

Dick had texted you that he wouldn't be able to do dinner tonight. Again. You laugh it off, because the three paragraphs were more than enough, yet he still sent you another bouquet of flowers. Roses, to apparently spice things up while he wasn't there.

The news played in the background, something about Nightwing or whatever. You picked up your phone to call your friend.

“Hey,” she answers, clearly glad to hear from you. “Wanna know what showed up at my apartment today.” There's a pause. “Let me guess,” You glance at the bouquet sitting nicely at your coffee table. “Flowers again?”

You don't laugh instantly this time. Not when you catch the indifference in your friend's voice, like she's seen and heard this countless times before. “Alright,” you chuckle. “In my defense, they're different flowers this time.”

“That does not help your case.” she sighs. “How many times has he even canceled this month?” You start counting jokingly just to play along.

Until everything starts adding up at least. You weren't laughing when you started noticing the patterns.

The flowers.

The paragraphs.

The promises.

The “I'll make it up to you.”

Over and over again.

“He's just busy.” The excuse slips out of your mouth automatically, because it was true. He was busy. “I know,” your friend says gently. “But does it make it hurt any less?”

You glance down at the bouquet, still on the coffee table like a promise. Then, at another bouquet resting in a vase on the kitchen counter. From when he had to miss date night with you.

They were beautiful. They always were.

You try not to dwell on it. You swear you do. Because your friend wasn't wrong, and neither were you. Dick was busy. You knew that. Everyone involved in his life knew that.

So, you push the conversation to the back of your mind.

The next week, your family gathers to celebrate your little brother’s birthday. The house filled with noise, decorations hung from the walls, relatives gossiping, and your little brother had spent the entire time vibrating from excitement.

Not just because it was his special day, but because Dick was coming too.

“Did you tell him about the cake?” That was the fourth time he had asked you that. Yes, you've been keeping count. “Yes.”

“And the new video game?” You nod again.

“And that I beat my high score?” You laugh. “Yes, I told him.” Your brother grins victoriously before running off to bother someone else.

The fondness in your chest hit instantly.

Your family adored Dick. Your parents thought he was a gentleman. Your relatives thought he was a nice and charming young man. And your little brother thought he was the coolest person to walk the planet.

You look down at your phone. No messages, no calls. You aren't worried. Dick promised that he’d be here, that he wouldn't miss it for the world. And Dick always kept his promises, right?

An hour passes, then another. Every so often, your little brother would run to peek out the front door.

“When’s Dick getting here?”

“Soon.”

The first few times, you believe it. The next few times, you're trying to.

By the time the cake is brought out, your stomach began twisting itself into uncomfortable knots. Then, your phone buzzes. An all too familiar sound.

Your heart sinks before you even open it, because you just know. A wall of text greets you. There was another emergency.

He was sorry.

He felt terrible.

He’ll make it up to you and your little brother.

He promises.

You stare at the screen for a moment before locking your phone. Your little brother, ever the observant one, notices immediately. “Is he here?” The excitement in his voice makes something in your chest twist harder.

“I'm sorry, kiddo.” You force a smile. “Something came up.” The anticipation in his grin slowly slips away. “Oh.” Just one word, just a syllable. Yet it conveyed disappointment more than anything else.

Your brother looks away first. “That's okay.” And maybe it was, it should've been. But as everyone gathered around the table to sing, you couldn't stop glancing towards the empty seat that was meant for him.

By the end of the night, people slowly start leaving and saying their goodbyes. Leftover cake and food gets packed away, decorations get taken down. The house slowly settles into silence.

You help clean up. You smile when you're supposed to. You tell your family that something came up and Dick was sorry, all of them were looking forward to seeing him after all.

You help your little brother bring his presents up to his room. You brush your hands together when you bring up the last of the gifts. “Do you think Dick forgot?”

“No.” Your answer was instant. Because you know he didn't. Dick remembers everything.

Birthdays.

Anniversaries.

A tiny detail you mentioned months ago.

Your brother nods before shrugging. Not angry, just disappointed.

Later that night, in your car after you've said your goodbyes. You stare at the message, rereading it for what felt like the fifth time tonight. Something in you tells you that you've read this before.

Not this exact message, but pieces of it.

Your thumb hovers over the screen, and before you know it—you're scrolling upwards.

Weeks, months before. Paragraph after paragraph. Different situations, different dates. But the apologies are starting to blur together.

And for the first time, you don't reply immediately.

The drive home was quietly peaceful. Until you step through your front door, and the first thing you see is yet another bouquet and an intricately wrapped present for your little brother.

You stare at it for a moment, absentmindedly kicking off your shoes. Beautiful flowers, because you always loved the effort and not the item itself. A thoughtful gift, probably something amazing that would make your little brother forget his absence.

A perfect apology. The kind that would've made you smile. Tonight, all it does is make your chest ache. And when you gaze down at the flowers again, you couldn't tell why looking at them only made you feel so tired.

Your phone buzzes in your hand.

Dickie 💙

Did you get home safe? <3

Another buzz.

Dickie 💙

I know tonight wasn't what I promised. You don't have to tell me it's okay.

But at least talk to me, pretty girl

Your thumb hovers over the keyboard, staring at the message. Then at the little blue heart next to his name, then back to the flowers. You type something out, then delete it. Too safe.

You

Yeah, just got home

You hit send, and almost immediately a typing bubble appears. Then disappears, appears, and disappears again.

Dick 💙

Good ❤️

You stare at the message and at the heart at the end of it. At the flowers and present sitting at your table again. Somehow, your apartment felt full and empty at the same time.

You carefully place your phone face down on the counter. The flowers remained exactly where they were. Not in a fancy vase, not even in a glass like where you would usually put them.

For the first time, you went to bed without smelling them.

You weren't even paying attention to the screen anymore. At some point in time, it had stopped being about entertainment. It was just something to do to fill the time. You glance at the time on your phone.

4:47 PM.

A soft exhale escapes you. Just a little longer.

“You're still here.” The sharp voice cuts through your peaceful atmosphere so smoothly that your phone almost drops from your hands. Dang it. With a hand over your chest, you look up slowly and unsurprisingly—it was Damian.

Still dressed in his soccer uniform, looking down at you with an unimpressed look. His gaze moves from you, to the bench you're sat at, then briefly to the time displayed on your phone. “School ended an hour ago.”

“I know.” you say casually, turning off your phone and slipping it into your skirt pocket. For a moment, Damian just stares at you. Like he was trying to figure something out.

“You're aware of that.” He had initially assumed that you just lost track of time. “Yep.” you nod. “Yet you're still here.” He raised a brow. “Also yes.”

Damian studies you again for a second, it's the same expression he has when he's solving an equation. Not because you stare at him during class or anything. “Why?” You blink once.

“Why what?” You furrow your brows at him. “Why are you still here?” he clarifies. “Because I feel like it.” you shrug. “And why not?”

His lips pressed into a thin line. There wasn't anything necessarily wrong about your answer. That was the problem. As far as he knows, most people had somewhere they needed to be after school—home, practice, other extracurricular activities. Maybe even out with friends.

You didn't seem to be doing any of those things. And yet, you were still here.

“Are you waiting for someone?” You shake your head. “Then why stay here?” He couldn't wrap his head around it. Why were you wasting your time lingering here on purpose? “I just like hanging around.”

There it was again. Another response that explained everything and absolutely nothing simultaneously.

“Why do you care?” You couldn't help but notice how weirdly he was acting. “I do not.” he answers instantly. Too quickly for you not to notice. “Then why are you asking me so many questions?”

“Because every answer you give me creates even more questions.” Hm. Well, he wasn't wrong. It was easier to give vague answers than actually giving it some thought. “Are you leaving?”

“Eventually.” Damian's eyes twitched so hard again that it might just pop out of his sockets. “Eventually.” he repeats, closing his eyes briefly. “Yep.”

“That's not an exact time.” He opens his eyes again. “It's close enough for me.” His stare sharpens towards you. You smile back sweetly. For some reason, it only makes it worse. Because every answer told him one thing. You weren't staying here because you enjoyed it. You were staying because you didn't want to be somewhere else.

The realization settles into his mind with an irritating sense of certainty. “Then what are you waiting for?” The smile on your face falters for just a second. “Maybe I just don't feel like going home yet.” The answer comes out lighter than it should. Like you've repeatedly practiced saying it to yourself before.

“Why?” A soft laugh escapes you. “There you go again.” His expression remains completely unchanged. “That's not an answer.” You groan, leaning back into the bench.

“Do you ever stop interrogating people?”

“Only when they actually provide useful information.”

“God, you’d be terrible at making friends.” You try to make it sound like you're joking, because you could feel him picking away at the walls you’ve spent years carefully building.

That wasn't supposed to happen. That wasn't the mission.

“Yet here you are.” His response catches you off guard. Just enough for him to notice the way your eyes widened. Just enough for him to notice you don't have a comeback ready like always.

The silence stretches between the two of you. You hate it. You never let it get silent for this long.

“So,” you clap your hands together, trying to distract him. Or yourself. “This is getting dangerously close to becoming another therapy session.” Damian was quick to catch on. Of course. “You're changing the subject.”

“I am!” you say with that exaggerated fake enthusiasm. “And because?”

“Because I don't want to talk about it.” Your honesty surprises the both of you. Then, you point at him. “See? Growth.”

“How is that growth? You admitted to avoiding the question.” He rolled his eyes. “Exactly. Usually I don't even do that.” The corners of his mouth twitched, not quite a smile. But close enough. “That's concerning. Even for you.”

“Thank you.” You smiled brightly again. “That wasn't a compliment.”

“I'll take it anyways.” You push yourself off of the bench, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “Alright,” you beam, clapping your hands together again. “Therapy session #2 is officially over.”

“We weren't in therapy.” You start walking through the school gates, while Damian follows you closely from behind. It doesn't take long for him to catch up, matching your pace with irritating ease. “Right. Tell that to the invasive questions.”

The two of you continue walking down the sidewalk. “You make it sound like you enjoy being alone.” You kept walking, but Damian doesn't miss the way your expression falters for a split second. “I never said that.”

“You implied it.” His gaze shifts away from you. For a brief moment, something unreadable crosses his expression. Then it's gone. Because being alone and lonely aren't the same thing. He knows the difference far too well. And he's starting to suspect that you don't.

Damian knows he didn't have to keep following you. He could've left, called his ride, or taken the bus stop you just passed a few blocks away. Yet, he keeps walking.

Except, you keep stopping. Not because you dropped something or had your shoelaces untied. Just because. A window display at a clothing store (It was displaying baby clothes??), a street performer, a dog.

The first dog was understandable.

The second dog was questionable.

By the third one even Damian became suspicious. (Damian stopped too.)

When the two of you have stopped for the third time, Damian slowly realizes that you're stretching out the walk. You were purposefully delaying. Again. “You're doing it again.”

“Hm?” You glance up from where you were crouching, enthusiastically cooing at a golden retriever who seemed more interested in a crunch leaf on the ground than either of you. “Delaying.” You blink. The dog sneezes, not in your face thankfully. “Wow. What a bold accusation.”

“You stopped to look at infant clothing.”

“It was pink.”

…

“And it had fuzzy bears on it.”

“You don't even have a child.” A pause. “Not yet.”

Damian closes his eyes for a moment. Was this what he practiced his patience for?

“Please never say that again.” You look amused, mainly because you managed to get Damian to say please. “Why? I'm just responsibly planning for the future.”

“We’re fifteen.” You only nod further. “Exactly. Preparation.” He rolls his eyes. “You're impossible.” Your grin only gets brighter. “Yet here you are.” His glare sharpens. Did you just throw his words back at him? But to your surprise, he doesn't deny anything this time.

You finally check the time again.

5:31 PM.

It was getting late, and you've run out of excuses. (Would Damian mind if you started stopping for each cat instead of dogs now?) Nevermind. Much to your dismay, you should probably start heading home.

“I should probably get going.” you say, actually stopping in your tracks for a reasonable reason this time. You technically should've gotten home hours ago. “Probably.”

“You didn't have to walk this far, y’know.” you smile. And instead of getting the usual annoyed look that you’d grown fond of, Damian simply nodded. “I know.”

taglist: @xxjesshuxx @jaydennicole @insideoutjulie @gglouise23

In other words? I'm breaking up with you and I'm never going to show my face to you ever again.

You’ve been staring at the message lit up on your screen for who knows how long now. A flurry of emotions rush through you: heartbreak, disbelief, and anger.

Did he really not even have the guts to break up face to face? He had to hide behind a contact number and a screen, what a coward!

Your grip tightens on your phone, your thumb hovering over the keyboard before reluctantly tapping away from his message. Hell, he didn't deserve your reply now. You blink, trying to get rid of the way your eyes glossed with tears. He didn't deserve that either.

You sat up straight on your twin bed, letting out a shaky breath. You know the feeling settling down on your chest all too well. It's quiet, sudden, and heavy. Too much for your heart to handle even if it's felt this way many times before.

Almost like it was second nature, your thumb moves until you find a familiar contact. You press call. And the ringing barely lasts two seconds when you hear two voices you could recognize from a mile away.

“Hey, girl!”

“Hey, what's up?”

And just like that, your voice breaks as all of your emotions were let out like a dam.

“He broke up with me..”

For a moment, there was only silence from the two other ends. Like they somehow had expected this already.

“Seriously?! I told you before that I had a bad feeling about him..” one of your friends, Sienna, groaned through the speaker, her irritation mixing with concern.

“Okay, wait—” your other friend, Clara’s voice cuts through, her motherly worry evident even from behind the screen. “Are you okay? What happened?”

A humorless chuckle escapes your lips, you could honestly only shake your head at the situation. “He said he needed to grow emotionally. Whatever that means.” you practically scoff, sinking further into your bed. A part of you honestly wanted for it to swallow you whole at this point.

“Oh my goodness.” Sienna gasped in disbelief. “That’s the most breakup text I’ve ever heard. I bet he would say something cliché like ‘It’s not you, it's me.’ or something stupid like that!”

You let out a sniffle, and a choking sound that was sort of a mix of a sob and laughter. You couldn't say you were surprised, but it still didn't change the fact that it hurt.

“I don't understand.” You rest your head against your cheek, feeling how dampened it was from tears you had no idea were even falling. “We were literally fine yesterday.”

Silence again. Like they had all gotten used to this cycle already: breakup, ice cream and ranting, getting over them.

“Alright.” Clara says in a firm tone, the one she uses to let you know that you aren't getting out of this that easily. “We aren't letting you rot and cry over this for the rest of the week.” You could hear Sienna’s hum of approval from the other end.

“You say that like I have a choice.”

“You do,” she replies. “We're going out this weekend.” You stare at your ceiling light, as if you wanted it to just claim you already. How did your life choices come to this?

“...Absolutely not.”

“Absolutely yes!” Both of them exclaimed in unison.

—

That's how you ended up here. In a party fancier than you had originally anticipated, but at least the ambience was nice and the music was calming. Otherwise you might've just sunk your head into a bowl of wine and drowned yourself right there.

And of course. Your friends brought their boyfriends along with them. Just your luck that you were third wheeling tonight. But on the bright side, you haven't shed a single tear tonight. That was still something.

After a while, you let yourself stray away from the group. It wasn't the hardest thing to do considering they were mostly occupied by their partners. You walk over to a more secluded corner, champagne glass in hand as you plan to simply watch the event unfold from the sidelines.

The wall was cool against your back as you leaned against it slightly. You finally let yourself breathe properly. Everything actually feels peaceful for a moment, like you weren't actively at war with the demons in your mind.

Then, it's warm—the wall is warm. You simply can't have nice things, can't you? You blink in confusion, adjusting your position before you turn around to see what it was. Or who, rather.

You were surprised to see that the wall you had been leaning on wasn't actually a wall at all. It was a person. A very still, expensive looking person who was already looking down at you.

Bruce Wayne.

Oh.

Oh shit.

You've been leaning against Bruce Wayne, like he was the finest piece of architecture here. Your whole career might've been over.

He doesn't move. You don't either, you could barely even breathe because the man in front of you could probably buy your whole existence with the snap of his fingers. The music continues playing anyway.

“I–uh…” you start, already dreading this entire conversation. “I really…did not mean to uhm..I just didn't-I wasn't..” Great. A third grader could construct a better sentence than this.

You quickly step back upon noticing how close you two were. Gosh, he was probably thinking about how personal space was probably a foreign concept to you.

”I am so sorry.” you blurted out, looking so incredibly apologetic. “That…That wasn't on purpose, I didn't mean to do that. I just–uh…thought you were the wall.”

A beat passed, but that beat felt like it was going to determine your fate. Then, a small exhale followed by a controlled chuckle came from Bruce. “It's alright,” he said calmly, and you felt a weight being lifted off your shoulders. “I don’t mind.”

His gaze flickers over you briefly—not judging, just observant. “You look like you need a quiet corner.” Your embarrassment melted into something different when you nodded. “...I did.” you admitted quietly, and he looked like he had expected it.

“Then you're fine,” he says. “Stay.”

You hesitate for a moment.

Stay?

That felt like a generous invitation coming from a man like him. Still, you don't move. “Okay,” you say carefully, as if you were still testing out the waters. “Thank you again.”

He nodded once, and everything was settled.

Neither of you spoke, just basked in each other's silence as the both of you took in the party continuing. Glasses clinking, friends laughing—but every sound from here felt muted and distant.

“You're not used to these, are you?” he asks eventually, not condescending. “Is it that obvious?” You huffed out a quiet laugh, taking a sip from your glass.

“Just a hunch.” You gave him a skeptical look, it couldn't be just that. “...It's the expression.” he replied mildly, scanning your face.

Your eyes shot up slightly, you’d be lying if you said you weren't even just a little bit curious. “Wow, okay. Hm…what does my expression say then?”

His eyes swept over your face for another time, like he was actually considering this and taking the question seriously. “You look like you’d rather be anywhere else,” he says. “But you're trying not to show it.”

That was…uncomfortably accurate.

“...Yeah.” you admit quietly. “Something like that.” You take another pause, as if you were still testing out the waters around him. “You don't seem to be enjoying this either.” You gesture over the party.

“I don't really attend things like this for enjoyment.” That much was obvious, considering how he’s probably been here in the corner for the majority of the party. “Then why do you attend them?”

“Obligation.” he says simply, like there was never another option. “That sounds miserable.” You gave him a sympathetic look, it sounded unbearably boring.

Something unreadable flickers under his expression, before a soft yet tired looking smile appears on his face. “It can be.”

Somehow, the conversation continued after that.

And it also somehow ended up with you and Bruce exchanging each other's phone numbers and planning a dinner date next weekend.

—

You’ve been staring and checking your phone for approximately twelve times in the past fifteen minutes. Your lips twitch slightly despite yourself, and that little reaction doesn't go unnoticed by your friends. Damn them for being so observant.

“Oh my God.” Sienna pauses from across the couch, a knowing smile on her face. “You're smiling. Who are you talking to?”

“I’m not smiling.” you dismiss, trying to feign nonchalance. “And I’m certainly not talking to anyone.” Sienna rolls her eyes, evidently far from believing you.

“Yeah, and we're supposed to believe that?” Clara chuckles, looking up from her drink. “You're definitely talking to someone, babes.”

You knew there was no denying or hiding it from your friends now. Whether or not you’d tell them, they would find out one way or another. They could compete for the title of World's Greatest Detective.

“It's nobody.” You trail off, and Sienna narrows her eyes. “Just someone I met at the party.” The room goes silent, Clara raises a brow while Sienna gasps in disbelief. No wonder, Clara noticed you being gone for a portion of the party.

“Who's the mystery man then?” Clara leaned in closer to you, before being shoved to the side (gently) by Sienna whose eyes were still wide in shock. “Tell us!” Clara glares at her, but Sienna pays no mind to it at all.

You hesitate, just long enough for them to notice but not enough for them to point it out. “...Bruce Wayne.”

Clara blinks. Sienna blinks. They both share a look before looking back at you. “Bruce Wayne?!” They shriek in sync, looking mildly impressed but also horrified.

You wince immediately, but you weren't surprised by their reactions. You just told them you were talking to one of the richest men ever like it was nothing.

“You met Bruce Wayne at a random party?!” Clara looked horrified. “And you're only telling us now?!” Sienna added.

“It's only been a day—”

“Still!” They both said in unison again.

It takes a few minutes to calm the two of them down. Clara didn't fail to threaten Bruce (spiritually) if he ever hurts you, while Sienna collapses back onto the couch, sighing dramatically.

“Do you think he can pay off my student loans?”

“You don't even have any student loans—”

“I do now.”

—

You don't know how long you've been staring at the multiple outfits you've laid out. None of them felt perfect. You were starting to stress and overthink again. It was a miracle that Sienna and Clara were there to help you like the godsent angels they were.

“You can literally wear a trash bag and I’m sure he’d find you stunning.” Sienna raises her hand and swears with her life, promising that her opinion was completely unbiased.

“If you really can't decide, I think that dress looks gorgeous on you.” Clara added in, pointing to the navy blue dress. They both knew very well that you were probably the most indecisive person on this planet. “Yeah, I second that! It really brings out your smile.”

You take a second look at the dress, before nodding. “Thank you, guys. You're literally lifesavers.” They both shoot you a smile before shooing you off so you could change.

After a few minutes, you step out casually, like you weren't practically a walking and living goddess. The pair squeal in unison, gushing over you.

“It's just dinner.” you mutter for the sixth time this whole evening. But Clara and Sienna could literally care less.

“With Bruce Wayne.” Sienna says immediately, emphasizing his name like you got amnesia and couldn't remember who he was.

“You really got to stop saying his full government name like that.” Clara gives Sienna another look, before turning back to you and giving you a reassuring smile and hand to your shoulder.

“We're just one call away, in case you need us.” You nodded, you've always known that the two of them had your back. No matter what.

Then—the doorbell finally rings. And the most awaited moment of the night has started. You wave to the two of them, thanking them again as they encouragingly push you to the front door.

They not so subtly watch you step out of the house, hand in hand with Bruce. Sienna swears she wasn't crying, your…lightbulbs just look really interesting. Might need a change soon.

“We're totally following them, right?” she whispers.

“Oh, definitely.” Clara replies, already grabbing her keys.

—

The drive to the restaurant was quieter than you expected. Not awkward, just calm in a strangely intimate manner. The soft glow of the streetlights passing through the window catches your attention. Gotham feels a lot more peaceful like this, in its own twisted way.

You glance over to him briefly.

He had one hand resting against the steering wheel, his eyes focused on the road ahead. Hm. You did like safety and protection. His expression was relaxed, not in the way you’ve seen on TV. No rehearsed smiles, just him.

“You're staring.” he says suddenly, eyes still fixated on the road. Damn his peripheral vision. Heat reaches the tip of your ears, you instantly look away. “I was not.”

“Right.” He sounded far from convinced. You just slump down on the fancy leather seats, wanting it to swallow you whole if it was possible. The corners of his lips curl up slightly at the sight of you.

And something in your chest flips. Because you recognized this awful and dangerous feeling.

The restaurant slowly comes into view. It was elegant and polished, in a way that didn't make it seem like it was trying too hard. Bruce stepped out of the car first, making his way to the passenger door to guide you out.

“Careful.” He placed a hand on the small of your back, closing the door behind you. The warm lighting and soothing music of the restaurant, usually would've made you feel welcomed. But tonight, it was different. It didn't feel like you belonged.

The waitress straightens almost instantly upon seeing Bruce enter, but he barely reacts to it. It was just another Wednesday evening to him. Plus, his attention was on you.

“Right this way, Mr. Wayne.”

You try to ignore the glances people give you as you walk besides Bruce. Some whispered under their breath to their friends, some didn't look surprised.

Bruce notices immediately, of course he does. This obviously wasn't his first rodeo.

“We can leave if you feel uncomfortable.” The offer surprises you enough that your brows practically shoot up to your hairline and you look up at him.

You were quick to shake your head, you couldn't let the stares ruin your night with him. “No, I'm okay.” you assure him. “Just not…used to all of this.” You gesture to the place.

His expression changes slightly, but he doesn't say anything. Instead, he continues guiding you to the table. Once the two of you are sat down across from each other, a waitress arrives to carefully place menus in front of you both.

“I'll get you two started with some drinks.” she says politely. But before she walks away, her gaze flickers over to you for a moment that you barely see it. A look.

Not impolite. Not judgemental either. More like curiosity hidden under a practiced customer service smile.

And in that moment, it became painfully obvious to you who exactly was sitting across from you. And there's a strange feeling that comes with it.

You grab the menu and quickly lower your gaze, and when you open the selection, it feels like your eyes are being flashed. The prices alone make you want to put the menu down, grab your purse and just walk out of here.

And across from you? Bruce doesn't look phased at all. Unsurprisingly. He was probably in his element here. He looks perfectly at ease, blending in with the environment effortlessly.

“Your expression is telling me something again.” he says after a moment. When your head snaps up from the menu, you find him staring at you. “And what exactly is it saying this time?” you ask carefully, wondering if you even want to know.

“It means,” He places the menu down, folding his hands together. “That you've been looking at the same page for the last two minutes.” Heat creeped up your face instantly.

“I'm just reading it.”

“You haven't turned the page.”

“Oh my God…” you mumble, burying your face in your hands. At this point you were questioning yourself if you even wanted to be seen out here like this.

His gaze softened, the faintest trace of amusement flickering across his expression. “I can promise you,” he says calmly, wanting to soothe your worries. “Nobody cares as much as you think they actually do.”

Slowly, you remove your hands from your face. You study him carefully for a moment after that. You expected someone like him to feel intimidating up close, the kind of intimidating that was too polished, too distant, and intensely aware of the effect they had on people.

Instead, he was just easy to talk to. Dangerously easy.

—

Dinner somehow stretches far longer than you intended it to be.

Between the conversation flowing with ease and food being better than anything you're used to, you end up losing track of time. Like the clock behind you or the watch on his wrist was simply a suggestion.

The tables around you empty one by one. And by the time you've managed to glance around, the restaurant is nearly empty. Still, Bruce and you barely make any effort to leave.

Eventually, reality catches up with you two when a waitress approaches and politely informs the both of you that the restaurant would be closing soon. You blink in surprise, finally taking a look outside.

Darkness has already fully washed over the skies of Gotham, the city lights glittering against the glass like scattered stars. And judging by the look on his face, you weren't the only one surprised by it.

A quiet laugh escapes from your lips as you gather your things and clean as you go, mildly surprised at how easily you lost track of time while talking to him.

Bruce stood from his seat, reaching for his coat before moving to pull your chair out for you. The gesture was simple, yet the effortless way he does it makes your heart stumble anyway.

A few moments later, the two of you step out of the restaurant with your fingers loosely interlaced with his. The cold air instantly hits you right in the face, sending a shudder down your spine.

Bruce, of course, notices. Without a word, he slips his coat over your shoulders to shield you from the cold before gently guiding you towards the passenger door.

The city feels different this late. Quieter. But never asleep, because Gotham never sleeps.

The drive back to your home passes far too quickly. Before you know it, the familiar street you live on slides into view, pulling you back into reality.

Bruce parked smoothly in front of your apartment building, stepping out first and then walking around to open the door for you before you even get the chance to reach it.

“Thank you.” you mutter as you step out carefully. “For dinner?” he asks casually, holding your hand so you wouldn't stumble in your heels. (God knows how people walk in them..)

“For everything, I guess.” Something in his expression after that.

The two of you linger near the entrance for a moment afterward, neither of you ready to say goodbye yet. Then, the weight of his coat around your shoulders served as a reminder.

“I should probably give this back.” you say quietly, starting to slip it off of your shoulders. “No, keep it.” He quickly raises a hand to stop you, putting it back on.

Your breath catches slightly, still holding onto the fabric. “It's a little big on you. But you pull it off anyway.” There it is again. That…awful feeling in your chest. The one that whispered trouble into your ear.

“Text me when you get inside.”

—

One dinner turns into several. Then, text messages turned into late night phone calls that somehow stretched for hours after work. Somewhere along the way, both of your homes were filled with traces of each other. The lingering scent of his expensive cologne lingering in the corners of your apartment, your house slippers sitting at the shoe rack of the manor like it belonged there.

And maybe the part that unsettles you the most, is how natural it all feels.

The line between it being something more than just seeing each other had quietly blurred along the way.

“The gossip pages already think we're dating, y’know.” you joke one morning, scrolling through an article with a photo of you and Bruce being spotted together one evening.

Bruce glances up from his cup of black coffee. (How could he drink that without being disgusted??) “They're late.” he says simply as he takes a sip from his mug, barely sparing a glance at the article.

“What?” you try to hide the surprise in your voice, but he catches on like he always did. Bruce looks at you for a moment before answering. “I was under the impression that we already belonged to each other.”

—

The relationship settles into your life far easier than you expected it to.

Some days are glamorous—expensive candlelit dinners at fancy restaurants, charity galas, cameras flashing.

Others are painfully ordinary, but familiar. Late night takeouts for whenever the two of you were too exhausted to cook, double dates with your friends, resting your head on his shoulder while he responds to e-mails.

And somewhere in between everything, Gotham begins to see the two of you as something permanent. More importantly, so do you.

—

You stop checking the time after the fifth time you've glanced at your phone. No calls, no messages. Nothing.

The food sitting across from you has gone cold in the hands of time. And around you, conversations continued easily. Couples and friends laugh over shared drinks, waitresses slip between tables with practiced ease, carrying fresh meals you don't have the appetite for anymore.

Still, your gaze lingers at the entrance anyways. Still hopeful. Just in case.

Finally, your phone rings. You scramble to get it (gracefully).

Bruce 💕

I'm sorry, dear. I don't think I'll be able to make it tonight.

You stare at the message for a moment, all hope and anticipation in you disappearing as you exhale softly. Forcing yourself to relax into your seat.

You tell yourself it's nothing personal. It's fine. It's Bruce.

And everyone wants a piece of him.

The city. The media. His company. Strangers who think they know him just because they constantly see his face splashed on television and magazine covers.

So when plans get changed or canceled entirely at the last minute, or when his attention starts to drift elsewhere more often than not. You try not to let it bother you.

You keep telling yourself that loving someone like Bruce comes with the cost of sharing him with the rest of the world.

By the time Bruce arrives at your apartment, you had already convinced yourself not to bring up the cancelled dinner last week. It would be unfair to him. You knew he had a lot of things going on.

He looked like absolute hell (affectionate) when he walked in, dark circles sinking beneath his eyes, tension weighing down his shoulders.

So instead, you simply let him pull you into an embrace and pretend that the disappointment wasn't still lingering inside your heart.

“Mhm.”

“Yeah.”

“Right.”

Those were the only words he has said in the past twenty minutes of you talking about your day. He's distracted and on autopilot. And before you could think, you spoke up.

“Are you even listening to me?”

“I'm trying to.”

You decided to whip up some dinner for yourself and Bruce one evening. Nothing fancy—just something warm and homemade that was sure to fill up your stomachs after a long day.

For once, you let yourself feel hopeful again. Especially when your phone lights up with a message from Bruce, telling you he's on his way.

Maybe tonight will be different. Better.

You hear the familiar sound of keys jingling at the door before he enters, looking as exhausted as ever, dark hair that was usually so neat now messy, tie slightly loosened.

Still, something in his eyes softens when he sees you.

Before you could greet him, he was already in front of you, pressing a gentle kiss on your forehead while his hands rested around your waist instinctively.

And just like that, it was like you were never frustrated with him to begin with. “You're late.” you mumble, but your words lack any real bite to them.

“I know,” His voice was quieter now. “I'm sorry.”

The apology sounds sincere enough that you decide not to press further. Not yet, at least.

Instead, you take his hand and gently guide him toward the kitchen. The smell of the home cooked meal filled the apartment, enveloping the two of you in a way that made everything feel comforting and warm.

“You made dinner?” he asks, curiously glancing towards the stove. “I figured one of us should probably eat something that didn't come from a personal chef for once.” you joke lightly, heading to the stove to heat the meal up.

A hum of amusement comes from Bruce as he carefully watches you move around the kitchen like a natural. “You're telling me I can't cook.”

“You burnt toast so badly last time that it looked like ash.” You don't deny it, he was a walking tornado in the kitchen. “That was one time.” Bruce exhales through his nose, making a sound that was dangerously close to a laugh.

For a moment, things feel light again. Normal. Like you were simply dating a man—not the billionaire playboy Bruce Wayne, just him. Like he wasn't something you had to share with the rest of the world.

You hand him a plate before settling beside him, talking absentmindedly about your day while he actually listens quietly and provides occasional short comments and reactions.

It was nice enough that you almost forgot and forgave him for the past week. Almost.

Then, his phone lit up with a buzz against the counter. He glances at it automatically. And even though he doesn't say anything about it, you notice the shift. How his attention shifts, how his gaze grows distant for just a second too long.

Something inside of you sinks before you can stop it.

“You can answer it.” you say, trying to sound more supportive than disappointed. “It's probably not important.” Bruce looked up immediately.

Still, the two of you couldn't exactly ignore the persistent buzzing coming from his phone. The sound felt unbearably loud inside the quiet apartment.

Reluctantly, he reaches for his phone. Just to check. Just to see if everything was alright.

Bruce's eyes scan whatever was on the screen, his expression tightening almost instantly. Not dramatically, just enough for you to notice like you always did. You know that look.

“Is everything okay?” you ask. He doesn't respond immediately. “...Yeah.” It was automatic, something that told you he didn't mean it entirely. And somehow that bothered you even more than if he had simply admitted something was wrong.

He sets his phone back down after, trying to return his attention to what was in front of him. To the conversation, dinner, and you.

He really does try. But you continue to notice it anyway.

The way his gaze unconsciously drifts back towards the phone beside him. The tension returned to his shoulders. The halfhearted replies he gives you.

And suddenly, the apartment doesn't nearly feel as warm as before.

“I don't know how much longer I can keep pretending that this doesn't hurt.” you admit quietly through your clenched jaw, trying to keep your composure.

The already quiet apartment falls silent after your words. Bruce finally gives you his full attention. No distractions, just you. “Do you think I want to hurt you?” Your chest twists immediately. “Bruce, that's not what I said.”

“But it's what you meant.”

“No,” you exhaled shakily, trying to make sense of your thoughts. “I'm trying to say that I miss you all the time and we've been feeling distant, and I don't know if you even notice.”

“I'm doing my best.” he says quietly, not defensively or angrily. And his words scare her even more. If this was his best, what could happen later?

For a while after that, things between the two of you improve. Or maybe the two of you had simply gotten better at pretending that they have.

Bruce starts making more of an effort again. Missed dinners became less frequent, late night phone calls turning into nights actually spent together, remembering little details you mentioned in one of your ramblings.

But some part of you still notices some of the things that haven't changed.

The way he occasionally disappears without any explanation. The mysterious wounds and bruises that he brushes off too casually. (He couldn't have fallen off the stairs a third time in a week.) The phone calls he takes in private.

At first, you try not to think much of it. After all, everyone’s entitled to their privacy, right? Even then, you still catch yourself wondering if you even know Bruce at all. When entire pieces of his life are tucked away from you behind polite smiles and charming deflections.

This wasn't the first time you’d been over to Wayne manor. But this was the first time you’d used the keys Bruce had given you. It feels strangely intimate somehow. A quiet acknowledgment that you belong here now, that you had a place in his life now.

At least that’s what you tell yourself when you click the heavy wooden doors shut.

Alfred had informed you that Bruce was running late. As always. And with nothing else to do, you decide to wander around the manor for a bit.

You spot a pair of boots by the door. They seemed way too small to belong to Bruce, Dick, Jason, or even Tim. You pause for a moment before shrugging it off, it may have been one of their old pairs that Bruce was too sentimental to get rid of.

The manor’s kitchen has always been a lot more welcoming compared to the rest of the estate. Less grand and more lived in. The kind of room that always felt warm no matter the season.

You grab a glass from the cabinet and casually fill it with water. That's when something catches your attention mid-sip.

A textbook sat on the counter, a pencil neatly tucked in between its pages. You pause, then curiously take a look at the cover. Algebra.

Your brows knit together. You knew the boys were nerds in their own ways but you doubt they want to spend their evening reading an Algebra textbook. Despite that, you shrug it off after a moment of staring.

A lot of people come and go in the manor. It's probably nothing.

And if that wasn't enough, when you turn around, your gaze finds a drawing pinned on the fridge. A drawing of Bruce. The pencil strokes are…surprisingly skilled, capturing Bruce’s likeness with unsettling accuracy.

As if on cue, Alfred enters the kitchen. You offer him a smile. “Who drew this?” you ask curiously, staring at the drawing for another moment. Alfred’s posture straightens ever so slightly. You didn't think much of it, Alfred always carried himself with that composure.

“Someone in the family, miss.” You blink, and before you can ask another question, Alfred glances at his watch and excuses himself. Which honestly just left you more confused to begin with.

The drawing, the textbook, the boots. The pieces don't quite fit together. You decide to brush it off again, wanting to keep your peace.

While continuing to wait for Bruce’s arrival, you wander into the library. You let your fingers mindlessly run through the rows of books, trying to pass the time.

That's when something catches your eye again. You stop in your tracks, then you see a photograph tucked in between the books. It was small enough that you normally would've walked past it.

Bruce is in it. Of course. But standing beside him is a boy you don't recognize. It isn't Dick. It isn't Jason. And it certainly wasn't Tim either. And what unsettles you the most is the resemblance the boy has with Bruce.

The same dark hair, the same brows, even the slight almost permanent scowl was there. It was like looking into a younger version of Bruce. You barely notice how your fingers tighten around the frame. Who was this?

“There you are.” You nearly drop the frame. You didn't have any time to put it back or hide it when you saw Bruce standing in front of you.

Neither of you speak for a moment, but you see it. How his gaze moves to you then towards the photograph. Something flickered in his expression. Not shock, not panic, not even anger. Just recognition.

“Who is this?” you ask quietly, your fingers still curled around the wooden frame. The question cuts through the air, and Bruce doesn't answer immediately. The hesitation tells you more than his words ever could.

“Bruce?” You try to ignore the sinking feeling in your stomach, like you were drowning in the ocean while Bruce just stared at you with a life jacket in hand.

You’d seen this look before, the one he had whenever he didn't want to talk about something. Something he wasn't ready to share. “Who is he?” You repeat.

This time, Bruce exhaled slowly through his nose. Like he was weighing his options. His eyes linger on the photograph for another moment before answering. “His name is Damian.” You wait for him to continue, for him to say more about this Damian kid you didn't even know the existence of until now.

But he doesn't. And the silence stretches uncomfortably. “...Okay.” you pause. “And who’s Damian?” His jaw tightens again, and suddenly you already know.

Not the full truth. Not yet. But enough for you to understand his hesitation. Enough to understand why Alfred had to choose his words. Enough to understand the boots, textbook, and drawing from earlier.

“Bruce.” This time, your words were a pleading demand to know the truth. “He's my son.” The room goes completely still. You stare at him and blinked once. Twice.

You waited. You weren't sure what for. Maybe a punchline, maybe even a laugh. But nothing comes after. “Your…son?” The words struggled to come out, as if they were stuck to your throat.

Because this wasn't a nephew, not a cousin, not even another child he took in. It was his son. His biological son. Bruce nodded once.

And somehow that single nod was worse than any explanation he could've given you. Because it was final. A confirmation that it was real.

Your hands loosen against the frame slightly, like your body was struggling to function properly. Your breath catches. “You have a son.” you say slowly, like you were still bracing yourself.

He doesn't correct you, doesn't hesitate or try to soften the blow. Just—”Yes.” You stare at his face, searching for anything that suggests that he understood what you felt in your perspective.

But Bruce just looks steady. Like he was already bracing for impact, like he expected this to happen. That was worse somehow. Your throat tightens, and you look down at the frame again. You weren't even sure why you were still holding onto it.

“Why didn't you tell me?” Your voice sounds smaller than you meant it to be. Less angry, more hurt. You watch him closely, and the brief silence says more than enough.

“I know you keep a lot of parts of your life private, and I respect that.” you try to ignore the slightest shake in your voice. “But this isn't just privacy.” You gesture at the photo faintly.

“This is your child.” You couldn't help the way your voice wavers at the last word. “I didn't–” he started, pausing. “I didn't know how.”

His words land wrong, it lands worse even. And suddenly, all you can think of is how he knew. He simply didn't tell you. Something twists in you immediately. You swallowed the lump in your throat, trying to keep your voice even. “What does that even mean?”

“I didn't plan to keep him from you.” he says quietly. “That's not what I asked, Bruce.” You blink, and he pauses.

“I know.” He looms away for a moment. “...It's complicated.” You couldn't help the short humorless breath you let out. “Of course it is.”

He knew it wasn't a reasonable explanation, knew it wasn't what you deserved. “I kept thinking it wasn't the right time…Then it just kept not being the right time.”

“That's not a reason.” you whisper. He doesn't argue, doesn't deny it. And that might be the worst part of it all. “I know,” he admits, but it doesn't make it any better.

You carefully set the frame back where you took it, like anything sudden might shatter the entire room. “I was here, in the manor. Sleeping in your bed, sitting in your space.” You manage the courage to look at him again. “He was here too, wasn't he?”

He doesn't answer immediately, doesn't have to anymore. The answer was written all over him like a neon sign. “He was here.” you echo. “And you just didn't tell me.”

You take a step back away from him before you even notice it. Like being in the same space as him right now was unbearable. “I need..” your words struggle to catch up with you. “I need a minute.”

You turn slightly, already heading to the door. “Wait–” It was a plea, and despite everything you still pause. Behind you, Bruce doesn't do anything to physically stop you. He doesn't reach out. He doesn't close the distance.

“I should have told you.” You let out a small broken laugh, not turning around. You couldn't face him now. “I didn't mean for it to be like this.” That makes you turn slightly, just to look at him from over your shoulder.

“I kept telling myself that there would be a right moment,” he says. “That I’d explain it to you, that I’d…” “And it never came.” you finish for him, and he doesn't deny or correct you anymore.

And he's looking at you like he wanted to reach out and not let go, but he doesn't. That's the problem. And for once, he doesn't know how to make things right either.

You don't say anything else, he doesn't either. So you leave. Not dramatically, not with a loud door slam or anything. Just a quiet click of the door shutting behind you.

You don't remember the walk back home clearly. Just the feeling of your phone weighing down your hands. Your thumb hovers over your contacts, your friend's names sitting at the top.

The same two people who carried you before when it felt like you were crumbling apart. You exhale shakily, then you press call.

And before either of them could speak. “Can you guys come over?” you try to hide the tremble in your voice. “Please.”

𝓓𝑖𝑐𝑘 𝓖𝑟𝑎𝑦𝑠𝑜𝑛 ᛝ wc:

ꨄ︎𝓢𝑢𝑔𝑎𝑟 𝓣𝑎𝑙𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔:

➤ He loves you—to the moon and back, to the ends of the Earth, and from the bottom of his heart. Dick Grayson is everything you could ever ask for—handsome, kind, attentive, charming.

But when every single heart to heart conversation dissolves into soft touches and sweeter yet empty words, you couldn't help but wonder: is he really being honest with you, or is he only telling you what you want to hear?

𝓙𝑎𝑠𝑜𝑛 𝓣𝑜𝑑𝑑 ᛝ wc:

ꨄ︎𝓦𝑒 𝓐𝑙𝑚𝑜𝑠𝑡 𝓑𝑟𝑜𝑘𝑒 𝓤𝑝 𝓐𝑔𝑎𝑖𝑛 𝓛𝑎𝑠𝑡 𝓝𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡

➤ Surprise! You two broke up for the fifth time this month! It's become a routine that you've mastered at this point—fighting, distance, reconciliation. A cycle you know like the back of your hand. With Jason Todd, you've grown familiar with the walls he's built around him. And sometimes you wonder if you ever had a place behind them all.

But it's not just him. You both pull away when things get too real. You both shout things you don't mean. And no matter how many times you swear it’ll be the last—the two of you never fail to end up in the same bed again.

𝓣𝑖𝑚 𝓓𝑟𝑎𝑘𝑒 ᛝ wc:

ꨄ︎ 𝓖𝑜 𝓖𝑜 𝓙𝑢𝑖𝑐𝑒

➤ When Tim Drake breaks up with you one night, it wasn't explosive and dramatic—just careful, and irritatingly reasonable. It wasn't the type of breakup you could even be angry at, no matter how much it shattered you.

So you do what anyone would do when they lose someone dear to them—drink to your heart's content like every bottle was bottomless.

But one night turns into too many drinks and too many bad decisions. Your fingers hover over your phone, scrolling through your contacts full of people who barely even mattered anymore. Until you land on one that does. Jim, Kim? It doesn't matter.

You press call anyways.

𝓓𝑎𝑚𝑖𝑎𝑛 𝓦𝑎𝑦𝑛𝑒 ᛝ wc:

ꨄ︎𝓜𝑦 𝓜𝑎𝑛 𝓞𝑛 𝓦𝑖𝑙𝑙𝑝𝑜𝑤𝑒𝑟

➤ Damian Wayne always treated you like a queen. He was unexpectedly soft in ways he never let himself be with others. Careful touches, steady loyalty, and a quiet devotion.

Until one night everything goes south.

You were kidnapped and used against him, although you walk away unharmed, something in him doesn't. After that, something in Damian shifts. The warmth fades into measured distance, his affections restrained until you were convinced that he wouldn't even touch you with a twenty-foot pole.

Loving you is a dangerous decision. And no matter how hard you try to reach him, he continued to choose safety and control over loving you. Did he just see you as a weakness he’ll never forgive himself for having?

You

u up?

It takes less than a minute, of course it does.

Dami 👻

It is 7:49 PM.

You

exactly ure awake

stop judging me i can feel it

Dami 👻

State your purpose.

You grin at your screen. At least he wasn't outright rejecting you anymore. That was progress!

You

ok first, i should rlly teach u how to text soon

u sound like a mob boss again

Dami 👻

I’m being direct.

It saves precious time.

You

its weird

Dami 👻

If you have nothing useful to say, I will be ending this conversation.

You sit up slightly, his message awaking you.

You

wait wait don't do that

were going out

The pause was longer this time.

Dami 👻

No.

You blink, seriously?

You

u didn't even ask where!

Dami 👻

It doesn't matter.

You

wow

so open minded of u

Dami 👻

We don't even have a proper itinerary.

There it was. You anticipated this.

You

perfect

Dami 👻

Explain.

You

the 2nd mission, teaching u to be spontaneous

You could feel his skeptical glare from the screen, but that was never enough to shoo you away.

You

no planning, no schedules.

Dami 👻

No.

Dang it, he probably didn't even consider it. You purse your lips together and brows knitted together, focused on convincing him.

You

oh cmon ure no fun

live a little dami

On the other end, Damian rolled his eyes at his phone. Live a little. You say it so easily. He already has. Just…not like this. He's done more than that, probably far more than you ever will.

If only you knew what that meant to him.

You

or r u scared? 🤨

…That does it.

Dami 👻

Send the location.

You couldn't help the smug grin on your face. That was a lot easier than you honestly expected. You quickly send the location to him.

You

don't be late!!

Dami 👻

I’m never late.

You smile to yourself, locking your phone and staring back at your reflection on the dark screen. The quiet creeped back in almost immediately, making you stand up to go grab your jacket.

Anything was better than this.

You spot him in the crowd almost immediately. Which was…a bit concerning honestly.

He stands out, and you weren't entirely sure if it was in a good way. He looks completely out of place, like he should be lurking in the shadows or some fancy gathering.

You don't think twice, you don't have to. You just walked straight towards him.

You blended in easily with the crowd, posture relaxed and smiled casually. And despite that, you barely made it halfway before his eyes landed on you.

Jesus. That was scarily quick.

You lifted your hand and gave him a small wave. And he doesn't wave back. That was awkward. You kept walking, until you stopped in front of him with a cheeky grin like you had just won the lottery.

“Alright,” you clap your hands together once. “Mission 02. Let's get started.” He doesn't get the chance to ask or say anything when you grab his sleeve and start dragging him further into the crowded street.

“Where do you exactly plan on going?” He asks, his voice flat and brows lifting slightly. “I heard there was a stall with really good fruit juice. We should try it!”

He looked at you, then closed his eyes for a moment as if to recollect himself. He was already regretting this.

The stall was louder than he expected. Not literally.

But the type of loud that had bright neon signs, a menu that had slightly crooked cursive, and a line of people that moved slower than the two of you could ever imagine.

“This…is the stall?” he asks flatly. “Yep!” you beam in return, already lining up. His eyes scan over the stall, clearly unimpressed and looking like it had personally offended him.

“It seems questionable.” he mumbles under his breath with a shake in his head. By the time you two reach the counter, he was already assessing everything. Until your voice cuts through his train of thought. “Two fruit juices, please!”

“I didn't-” His eyes shot down to you, only to see you already paying for the drinks and looking way too pleased with yourself. “Too late.” He instantly goes still. For a moment, you could see his mouth part slightly, probably to argue. Then close again.

Because somehow that look on your face was a lot more frustrating than the situation itself.

The vendor moved swiftly, while Damian stood rigidly. He scanned everything, the ingredients, the cleanliness, the preparation. “You're doing that face again.”

“This is just how my face looks.” He frowned deeper. “...That doesn't make it any better.” You shake your head slightly. The vendor calls out your name, sliding the two cups over to you.

You grab one cup first, then push the cup closer to him. He doesn't take it right away. Just stare at it, judgingly. You take a sip of your own juice, he watches your reaction carefully before he grabs his own cup cautiously. Like it had to earn his trust.

For a moment, his expression changes. Barely. Just a tiny raise in his brows that suggested he was a lot more impressed than he’d like to admit. “It is…acceptable.” he hummed, taking another drink as you both walked away from the stall.

“There it is.” You grin instantly. He doesn't respond or react to that, but he doesn't put down the drink either.

The ice in your drinks had already half melted from the heat of your hands when you stepped back into the crowded streets again. You were already searching through the rows of stalls, trying to find any remotely interesting snack.

Damian, on the other hand, was being hyper vigilant of his surroundings. His attention split effortlessly. His ears picking up on the sound of a group of friends laughing uncontrollably behind you, street vendors calling out to get people's attention, bells ringing when bikes passed by.

He doesn't mean to. But places like this—bustling and unpredictable—were ideal for trouble. There were too many blind spots most people wouldn't notice, too many distractions.

If something bad were to happen, it would be quick and easy. And most likely people wouldn't notice until it was too late.

The noise felt like it was surrounding Damian for a second, a caged feeling washing over him. Too many variables pressing in from all sides. His gaze shifts, to the left, right, behind you—shoulders tense and alert as he anticipated.

“Hey.”

Your voice cuts through the noise. He pauses, taking in a breath he had no idea he was holding. You're already a few steps ahead, facing him as you trusted the crowd behind you not to completely swallow you whole. (Which he finds questionable.)

You only needed to take one look at him to know what he was doing. “Relax,” you tell, voice softer this time. “Nothing's going to happen.”

His eyes scan everything around you out of habit. Then went back to you. “That is not a guarantee.” You couldn't help but smile way too fondly. Because everything wasn't a guarantee, hell—waking up in the morning isn't even a guarantee.

“Yeah, but at the moment? It's good enough.” He waits for a moment. Everything was still there. The noise, the people, the unpredictability. But it fades into background noise, not completely. Just..enough for him to actually lower his guard down.

You turn forward like nothing happened and start walking again. “Come on,” you say lightly, expecting him to follow. “I saw some empanadas over there.” He exhaled quietly, and reluctantly followed you.

This stall was quieter, tucked in between brighter and flashier stalls like a hidden gem. Your eyes light up at the sight of the golden pastries. Damian stopped beside you, seeing your delight. “Hm…deep fried.”

You barely give him a glance. “Two, please!” Because you were already ordering. “I did not—” You raise your finger at him and wiggle it in a ‘no’ motion. “Too late.”

A few seconds later, a warm paper bag was pressed into your hands as you handed over the payment again. You wasted no time and pulled one out quickly, softly blowing on it before you bite. “Ow ow ow, oh my gosh—it's delicious.”

Your cheeks puff up each time you attempt to cool down the food in your mouth. “At least wait for it to cool down.” he tells, watching you like you were a fish forming bubbles.

“You need to try this.” You turn to him, already pulling out the second empanada from the paper bag. “I will not.” You pause, as if you were waiting for him to give in. You slowly took another bite of your own empanada, and he ends up watching you chew it in a deliberate manner. “Whatever. You're definitely missing out.”

He looks at you, then at the empanada, then back at you. “Fine.” You freeze mid-chew, your eyes practically saying “Really?” He rolls his eyes and reaches out his hand, waiting for you to offer the pastry to him. “I’m only confirming if you're telling the truth.”

You hand it to him, nodding with an unconvinced but pleased smile on your face. He takes it and takes a moment to look at it carefully. It's mostly cooled down by now when he takes a bite. His expression remains unreadable with each chew. “It's acceptable.”

You end up rolling your eyes, not bothering to make a comment about how boring his compliments were. You would've been better off reading reviews off of Google. You step away from the stall, taking another bite yourself. “Come on, let's find someplace to sit.”

Damian followed beside you, eating his own empanada silently. You glance around the place, trying to look for any spots where you two could sit down and rest.

Bingo! A bench.

It wasn't exactly far away from the crowd, but the distance was enough to dull down the noise, just enough to breathe. “Over there.” You point, already rushing over there because you’d be damned if anyone got there before you.

You drop down on the bench with zero hesitation when you get there, leaning back into the cold wood as you let out a relaxed sigh. Ick. You stick your tongue out when you take a sip of the fruit juice. It did not taste good warm..

Damian sits at the other end, not too far and not too close. The atmosphere was a huge contrast to the busy streets earlier, here—things finally slowed down.

You turn over to him, just scooting an inch closer. “So, do you always go out like this?” He blinks down at you. He thinks about it for a moment. Technically, yes. In fact, he was always out at night—not in places like this though.

“...Occasionally.” He answers, which again—technically wasn't a lie either. He attended galas, and sometimes his brothers dragged him out of the house. Still, you raise a brow.

When silence falls between you two, not uncomfortably, just…natural. It gave him an opportunity to talk this time. “You seem used to this.” He gestured subtly at the crowds of people and the noise drifting in from the street.

You glance towards the street, taking it in. “Yeah, I guess so.” You rest your face against your hand. “It's a lot better than being bored.” You could almost grimace at the thought of spending your night scrolling on your phone and sulking in bed.

You simply weren't that type of person to stop when it felt like your world was crumbling. The world always kept on spinning. It wouldn't pause for some teenage girl just so she could get a breather.

He watches you closely, a bit too closely. “How about when it's quiet?” He could see you pause, only for a split second. Then you smile again, casually. “I just find something to do.” You lean back further, stretching your arms idly.

Then a much cheekier smile appears on your face. “Or someone to bother.” you add, giving him a knowing glance. “Obviously.” He sighed, making you grin wider. He doesn't look away this time.

He's starting to understand that you don't fill in the silence because you enjoy it. You fill it because you can't stand the feeling that comes with it.

“Enough serious talk.” You sat up straighter, taking the final bite out of your empanada. “This is starting to sound like a therapy session.”

He doesn't push, letting the quiet moment slip away.

You hop up from the bench, tossing the paper bag into a nearby trash can. “Alright,” You brush your hands together, ridding of any crumbs. “I believe Mission 02 is a success.” You pull out your phone to check the time. It wasn't too late. Not that it mattered.

A little girl runs past, her childish carefree laughter spilling into your world even as you tried to ignore it by not looking. She darts down the street, a man—her father, chasing her down with a tired smile.

Her laughter fades into the street behind you, leaving a hollow feeling in your chest. And you pretend you don't feel it. A beat passes in the uncomfortable silence.

“We should head back.” You blink once, as if his voice pulled you out of a moment you had no idea you were still stuck in. “Right, yeah..” you agreed with a hum, a softer smile returning to your lips.

“We can walk.” he says, already angling himself towards the street. And this time, you follow him without a word.

No one’s waiting for you.

The words return to his thoughts uninvited, too familiar to ignore. So he kept walking, a bit more aware. Not of the city's danger this time, but of you.

Not when Bruce’s grip on the steering wheel tightened. Not when they had to stop when the traffic light turned red. And not even when the manor that seemed even gloomier than before came into view, gates already open. As if it was waiting.

Except this time, they weren't greeted by your warm open arms.

The large menacing doors of the manor opened easily. What wasn't easy was what they had to face. Damian still, foolishly half expected you to come running over to them, ready to smother him in kisses just to annoy him. But now, only the cold wind from the inside greeted them all.

Nothing was out of place. No signs of trouble, no chaos. Everything looked normal. Too exact. Too still. And that was what made it even more unbearable.

They see it in the ghosts of your everyday routine.

Your sneakers resting on the shoe rack, almost like you’ll slip them on any second to tell Bruce you're going out with your friends he never got to know because he never asked.

Your favorite mug neatly tucked in the cupboards. Almost like you’ll reach for it later because you wanted to have some hot cocoa to battle the cold weather.

Everything simply felt…paused.

Like you weren't gone, just delayed, got into traffic, running a bit late.

Maybe because some part of them still wanted to believe you’d enter the manor any moment now—coming back from school, or maybe a late night out with some friends.

And then, without uttering a single word, Damian turned to the grand staircase and made his way to the East Wing of the manor—where your room rested.

You and Damian had never been particularly close. Well, that's what he says at least whenever someone asks. But it was undeniable that the two of you were closer than either of you admitted.

Through shared blood, the same dark hair, and even the same stern resting face—even though you were, in every possible way, the complete opposite.

The closer Damian got to your door, the heavier the silence weighed down on his shoulders. His hand hovering over the doorknob before his mind betrays him for a brief moment.

You call his name, either for help or just to irritate him. You, laughing way too loudly at a joke he never found funny. And how you always leaned closer to him like you had no concept of personal space.

Although, on some nights, he’d let you rest your head on his shoulder. As long as you made sure not to tell anyone the next day.

His hand finally closed around the doorknob. The coolness of the metal is like a sharp sting against his skin when it reminds him of how cold your hand felt the last time he got to hold it.

The door eased open easily, slow and quiet—like it was trying not to disturb anything.

The curtains were hung exactly how you did them, your bed fixed in that rushed manner. Everything sat where it belonged, untouched and unchanged.

Damian stepped in, not closing the door behind him. It was already too suffocating. He hesitates, because for the first time, he had no idea what he was doing here. His feet simply brought him up here with no clear purpose.

Damian stood still in the doorway. His eyes moved around on their own.

Polaroids of you and your friends taped onto the wall, certificates and awards he never knew about on the shelves. He’d seen them countless times before without truly seeing them.

His eyes shift to your desk. He could almost picture you sitting on it, back hunched like a shrimp as you complained about your back aching.

Looking closer, he spots something laying on the desk. At first, he didn't register it as anything important. Probably just clutter, another ordinary object. And for a moment, a part of him wanted to leave it that way.

As if that meant you were still going to come back to it.

It was a notebook, small and unsuspecting enough to be overlooked, but worn down to suggest that it's been with you for a while. There wasn't anything particularly special about it, yet he couldn't get his eyes off of it.

He approached the desk, and up close that's when he realized it wasn't just some notebook. It was your diary. His expression doesn't change much, because it was just a diary.

People kept diaries all the time, it wasn't anything unusual. Still, there was still something about it he couldn't ignore.

His fingers twitched at his side as he told himself that it was irrelevant. Just words on paper. Nothing more.

And yet, Damian opened the diary.

The pages rustled beneath his hand. For a second, nothing has changed. Just words on a page waiting for someone to read them.

“Damian.”

His eyes snapped to the doorway where Dick stood, the voice stopping him mid-breath. Meanwhile Dick’s gaze instantly drops to the diary in Damian’s hands. “What's that?”

Damian doesn't answer immediately, but his grip on the diary gets noticeably tighter. His eyes don't meet Dick’s, instead fixed onto the page. “It's nothing.”

His words were final, like the decision had already been made. Dick notices the way Damian holds the diary closer to his chest, as if it was an attempt to protect you from the world for the last time.

“It doesn't look like nothing.” Dick slowly steps into the room. Damian doesn't answer, letting the silence stretch. “Damian.” He calls, softer this time. “Let me see.”

Damian didn't move right away. His grip on the diary remained strong, curled tight against the cover as he refused to let go. A pause.

Then he let his hold loosen, only slightly. Just enough for Dick to be able to read the written words. The page settled between them, and there it was. Your neat and familiar handwriting. Too familiar.

September 17

Dear Diary, today was a good day. I just wish I had someone to tell. But everyone was busy, even Alfred. It's fine. I do hope tomorrow is even better.

Neither of them spoke. The silence stretched uncomfortably until they heard faint footsteps echoing from the hallway—gradually getting louder as they got closer.

Tim appeared first, too quickly for them to even bother closing or hiding the diary. His eyes swept over the room instantly, taking everything in. The stillness. How everything in your space looked frozen in time. The tension between Dick and Damian.

Then his gaze drops to the diary.

“You found something.”

He stepped closer, eyes focused on the item Damian was holding. It didn't take long for him to realize it was a diary. Your diary. His expression tightens slightly, but he continues to approach.

And as if on cue, footsteps followed to the doorway. “What's that?” The air shifted when Jason entered, clearly not waiting for an answer.

And just like that, they found themselves gathered around your diary. All of their eyes linger on the first page, and before Damian could flip over to the next one.

“...You think she’d want this?”

Damian didn't look up, as if he couldn't be bothered to. But his hold tightens. “You're free to leave if it bothers you.”

Jason presses his lips together, clearly far from pleased. And yet he couldn't find it in himself to leave.

No one moves. Still, Damian’s fingers hesitate to move to the next page. As if he was letting the weight of your first entry sink in first before whatever came next.

Then footsteps could be heard coming from the hallway again, heavier and full of grief this time. They didn't turn, didn't have to. They knew.

Bruce stood in the doorway, his gaze sweeping over the room. But not analytically like Tim’s, and not sharply like Jason. Just…steadily, taking everything in and remembering.

“Read it.”

Bruce didn't have to look twice to know it was your diary they discovered. He’d seen it before. A couple of years ago when he caught you scribbling on it once like a little schoolgirl that tried to hide their secret crushes from everyone. He remembered letting you be.

He found it endearing. Now though, that memory felt different. A part of him wished he asked about it, and maybe you would have shared it with him.

Damian nodded slightly as his fingers moved to turn to the next page.

September 20

Dear Diary, today was just a little more different than usual.

I had breakfast with Alfred because apparently dad already headed to work early. Anyways, Alfred’s pancakes are always delicious. He’s got to teach me the recipe some time!

He's like a grandpa to me, but he's got a whole manor to run. Still, he tries to make time for me and I try to make time for him too.

And I never really liked my dark hair, I’ve always wanted to dye it. Probably blonde. I think that’d bring out my eyes. But Alfred always tells me that my hair is like Gotham’s sky, mysterious and beautiful in its own way. So I guess I should keep it.

And when I got home dad was there surprisingly. He asked me about my day and I told him that it went nicely, though I don't think he really heard what I said.

It's okay though. He’s busy and has a whole company to run. Not to mention the nightly activities, but he doesn't know that I know. So it should be our little secret.

October 2

Dear Diary, today was normal.

It was a weekend, but I had a buttload of homework. :( And Tim was around so I figured, why not do some work together? It's like efficient family bonding.

I slipped into Tim’s room with all my stuff when he didn't respond to the first three knocks I gave. He was working on another case, no surprise there. I got into the space next to him and he said “Hey.” to me. I think that was acknowledgement.

We worked for a while in silence, not the bad kind. The usual.

I actually managed to do most of my work, so yay me!

October 14

Dear Diary, today was sorta weird…

Jason was home today. He was in the kitchen, having some tea while reading a book. That was good, I liked books. We could talk about that!

I said “Hi.” first though, before sitting across from him. But he just looked at me and nodded, and that may have been a smile on his face. I'm not too sure.

It was quiet for a while. The noise was mostly just me trying to talk about books accompanied with Jason’s grunts of acknowledgment. That's fine, at least he was listening. I mean, I hope he was. I don't know.

At some point I don't remember, I just stopped talking. He left a little after that, but I noticed that he looked tenser than before.

I don't think I said or did anything wrong, but it felt like I did.

October 29

Dear Diary, today was really nice! :D

This time, Dick was home! And I ended up hanging out with him in the living room. We decided to watch a movie together like old times and he even let me pick!

I ended up choosing one of our old favorite movies, just to reminisce. It was nice. Dick kept making jokes that made me laugh.

It feels easy being around Dick. It's been lonely ever since he moved out, and after that it's felt like he keeps me at an arms length.

Anyways, I hope we do this again sometime.

The pages stilled under Damian’s hands. The more they read the smaller the room felt, the more suffocating.

No one moved or said anything for a moment. Jason only lets out a quiet breath as the brothers share a look. They didn't know. “I thought she was okay.” Dick says under his breath, practically a whisper.

And no one responds to him, because they thought the same.

November 3

Dear Diary, today was nice.

It was just me and Damian today.

I saw him doodling something in the library alone, so I decided to keep him some company! I sat near him and before I could even mutter out a word he told me to be quiet.

…Rude. (Affectionate) I silently watched him sketch for a few minutes, and whenever I leaned to close he told me something about personal space. But he never moves away himself.

So I stayed.

I think he's gotten used to my presence, maybe even fond of it…Hopefully. And sometimes, he lets me rest my head on his shoulder. He never mentions anything about it after. So neither do I.

I think that's just our sibling thing.

November 17

Dear Diary, today could've been better honestly.

I mean, nothing really happened. I just wanted to hang out with somebody, but it was just my luck that everyone was busy. I understand though, and I tried keeping myself entertained but nothing has really stuck.

I think I just need a change of scenery. So I'm going out tonight by myself. :) #Independent

Just for a walk, I won't go too far. I know it's late, and it could be dangerous. But it's fine, I’m not helpless.

Oh—and I also made sure to give Damian a goodbye kiss on the forehead before I left even if he says he hates it. He'll probably complain about it later.

Damian's thumb hovered over the page, as if he was waiting for something. Then he turns it, again, again, and again. All blank, of course they were. What did he expect?

You never came back after that.

The city had taken you in the quietest, most ordinary way. All it took was one moment.

Slipping off your school shoes and dropping your bag by the couch was routine. You set your keys on the kitchen counter.

The only proof of life was a sticky note from your mom and dad telling you not to wait up for them and that there was dinner in the fridge. You don't bother reading it twice, you never do.

“I’m home.” You mutter quietly out of habit. You've heard your dad say it countless times back when you were younger and he wasn't always busy. You remember how you’d run up to him and wrap yourself around his legs, like you were trying to stop him from leaving again.

The moment lingers longer than you would have liked honestly.

Then your phone buzzes.

Unknown Number

Good evening. State the objectives of the project.

Ah. You didn't have to check twice to know it was definitely Damian contacting you. You do wonder how he got your number, but you suppose the Wayne's always have their ways.

You

Heyyy Damiii

👆this is how u should greet someone. u sounded like a mob boss.

Dami 👻

I was simply being precise.

And do not call me that.

You

awhh, we’re not on nickname basis yet?

Your fingers pause and hover over the screen for a moment, it was almost like you could feel his judging eyes piercing you through the screen.

Yikes. That just gave you a creepy sensation. It doesn't help that you're home alone. In Gotham.

You

ok im making a gc with our other classmates

Biology Survival

Dami 👻

This is the worst possible chat name you could've chosen.

You

It's engaging.

Classmate 1

hii!! ^^

Classmate 2

oh there's a gc already!

so..what’s the project again?

Before you could finish typing out your answer, Damian had already replied. Hm. Maybe it was efficient. Considering the only reason you were slowed down was because you were trying to find a certain emoji.

Dami 👻

Group presentation. It's due next week, on Monday.

Classmate 2

what first? should we meet up?

Classmate 1

i’m free this Saturday!

You think about it, checking your own calendar. Sure enough, you were free. No plans with friends, and unsurprisingly no plans with your family.

You

how about the café near school? it's easier to focus there.

Dami 👻

Acceptable. What time?

The group argues for a bit before settling on the time. Two o’ clock was completely reasonable. But according to Damian 14:00 PM was a better way to refer to it. Maybe he really was a soldier ready for battle.

Classmate 1

oh wait! what abt our roles??

Dami 👻

I will handle the research and present it myself.

I suppose the rest of you could do the presentation.

You

nope! 🩷

we’ve talked abt this. we're giving everyone a chance to contribute properly.

Damian only reacts to your message with a thumbs up. How cold of him. Usually you would have been dramatic about it, but you could just hear his reluctant sigh coming from the screen.

Eventually everyone decides on the distribution of the roles. One of them presents, the other makes the presentation. And you and Damian do the research. Of course you were left with him.

Saturday comes faster when the house is radio silent. When you came down stumbling into the kitchen though, you were pleased to see that your parents made and left you some pancakes. Chocolate chips too.

The café was already pretty crowded when you arrived. The scent of coffee hits you the moment you enter, and after the door chime rings which practically announces your arrival.

You hear the hum of all the overlapping conversations, cups clinking together, soft calming music. It all fills in the space nicely in a warm, busy, alive way that does feel just a tad bit too loud after the quiet of your home.

Amidst the chaotic yet soothing atmosphere, you spot him almost immediately. It wasn't exactly difficult when his posture is so straight it looks like his spine might snap and was observing everything in the room instead of simply being in it.

Has he ever heard of being in the moment?

You walk over and slip in the seat next to him, setting your things. “You're early.” You note, glancing around the place and at the empty seats. No signs of your other classmates.

“I arrived at the agreed time.” he replies evenly. “I’m just punctual. Would you have preferred I be late?” You pause for a second. Right..

“That's…reasonable.” You sigh, much to your dismay. After a few minutes, your other groupmates arrive one by one, filling the area with chatter and noise.

And just like that, the project begins.

It starts off smoothly enough. As smooth as a bunch of high school students could be at least. Everyone does their part, brainstorming together and contributing ideas.

The two of you end up leaning over the same laptop, occasionally bumping heads over something silly as wording. He corrects you more than necessary. And you annoy him more than necessary.

But despite everything that's happening. Actual progress is made. You glance at the screen, then at him for a moment. Not only on the project. But on the operation as well.

He continues to correct everyone, mostly you. Because that was just…him. But now, he lets you finish your sentences, lets everyone contribute their ideas while he listens with a skeptical look he can't quite seem to get rid of.

It's not much. But progress is still progress at the end of the day.

Damian would be lying if he said he hadn't been observing you. It was difficult not to when you were constantly at his side, being a pain in his neck.

At first, he assumes you're simply distracting. Unfocused, hyper, and talkative. But that doesn't explain how you fill silence way too quickly, how you deflect questions with practiced ease. You consistently kept everything light, like anything remotely heavy would weigh down on your heart greatly.

It's not normal careless behavior, it was controlled. You knew what you were doing, and you assumed no one would notice. And to be fair, no one did. Until Damian came along. His fingers are still over the keyboard for a moment. Interesting..

“I think that's enough for today.” One of your classmates says, stretching in their seat slightly. “We got mostly everything done.”

Everyone murmured in agreement, it was getting late anyway. And getting kicked out for loitering wasn't exactly ideal. The chairs shift, bags get packed, goodbyes are said.

And just like that, it was only you and Damian left.

“Well? First mission success?” You ask while slipping your bag over your shoulder, no rush or urgency.

“Partially.” He replies, finishing packing his own things with the same precise movement. You let out a quiet laugh, you supposed ‘partially’ was enough for you. “I’ll take it.”

“You're not in a hurry.” It wasn't a question, just an observation. You shrug like it was nothing. “Eh. Not really.” A beat passes, almost as if he was finding the right words to say.

“No one’s waiting for you?” With the way you glance at him briefly then look away like you couldn't handle eye contact, it was clear that you didn't expect his question.

“No.” You reply casually. For a moment, he stayed silent while subtly studying you. Your words held no disappointment, no frustration. Just acceptance.

He had been alone once before. But not like that, and things had changed. People expected him back now. And he isn't sure why the thought lingers in his mind.

And just like that, the mission becomes much more complicated. Because it stops being just about him.