𝝑𝑒 ⏜ ︵ his way of loving , damian wayne 𓈒
A long exhale leaves your lips as you drape yourself over your boyfriend — head lying on his shoulder and cheek smeared against his neck, breathing in deeply.
Damian doesn't say anything, doesn't break the silence and doesn't move an inch. He stays seated in the bed, back still leaning against the headrest while his eyes follow the lines alongside the book.
His expression remains solemn, almost cold in a sense that makes you shudder. "I love you." you murmur, so quietly as if you were afraid of something. You wrap your arms tighter around his neck, already lying halfway across his body.
Silence settles — unsettling and uncomfortable for you. The night was breathing, the curtains fluttered, the soft thud of his book closing. The silence comes back, this time louder.
"I must use the restroom." he whispers back.
His poise feels sharp. But his silence to your affection lays somewhere deeper, unanswered and uncertain that makes your skin itch.
As if he cared enough to open your soul yet leaves it untouched. And before you realise, you are already sitting on the edge of the bed — the door closing behind him as he vanishes into the bathroom.
The frown tugs deeper on your face, corner of your lips weighing heavier than any burden. "You are supposed to say I love you too." you whisper under your breath, "am I being too needy?"
Your gaze drifts towards his desk. The fine details of a clean and composed order, everything in place and boring. You rise from the mattress and make your way to the table.
"I shouldn't..." you trail off, hands hovering above the papers. You still do — fingers brushing against the book to let it fall open in front of you, bare for your eyes only, “woops…”
But you halt at the very page already, gaze glued to the lines stretched across the paper — the contour and the shape so perfect that it steals your breath. The shading seems impeccable, the contrast perfect.
You continue flipping through the papers, fingers grazing the edges softly, eyes attentively drifting to every curve and every line. You suck in a sharp breath, too intrigued to stop.
Until you reach the very last page. This time, a painting. With expressive colours and beautiful lighting. It makes you glow. As if he has memorised every single detail of you.
"Oh." you let out, seeing his signature etched into the fabrics and your name right beside his as if it belonged.
Every drawing and painting — it's perfect. It's beautiful. But for him, you are. The very definition of perfect.
The heat crawls up to your head. Embarrassment fused with fluster. He loves you in his own way.
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