mc

“—and that brings us to the Q3 deliverables,” your boss continued, oblivious.

You forced a nod, trying to keep your face neutral while Dick slowly lowered himself into a full split on the floor, then rolled into a smooth back handspring. He landed silently, shot you a cheeky wink, and immediately launched into a series of pushups on your kitchen counter.

Your cheeks burned. You muted your microphone for a second and hissed under your breath, “Dick, I swear—”

He blew you a kiss, walked over to the door of the room, and did a one-armed pull-up on the doorframe, shirtless back muscles rippling. The audacity.

You unmuted just in time to answer a question about timelines. Your voice was steady, but your leg was bouncing under the desk. Dick noticed and grinned wider. He dropped down and started doing slow, deliberate push-ups right in your line of sight, counting them out silently while maintaining eye contact with you.

One… two… three…

You were going to kill him.

After the meeting dragged on for another fifteen agonising minutes, you finally closed your laptop with a sigh of relief. The second the camera turned off, you spun in your chair.

“Dick Grayson, I am going to murder you.”

He was mid-handstand again, grinning upside down. “But you looked so cute trying to stay professional. I couldn’t help it.”

You stood up, crossing the room. He flipped down gracefully and caught you around the waist before you could swat him.

“You’re impossible,” you grumbled, but you were smiling despite yourself. His skin was warm from the exercise, and he smelled like citrus soap and that faint scent of sweat that always made your brain a little fuzzy.

“I was lonely,” he said, nuzzling into your neck. “You’ve been in meetings all morning. I missed my favourite coworker.”

“You’re not my coworker,” you laughed, letting him pull you closer. His hands slid under your work blouse, palms warm against your bare back. “You’re my very distracting boyfriend who almost made me blush on camera.”

Dick’s grin turned mischievous. “Almost? Damn. I’ll have to try harder next time.”

You swatted his chest, but he just laughed and lifted you effortlessly, spinning you once before setting you on the kitchen counter. He stepped between your legs, hands resting on your thighs.

“I’m serious,” you said, poking his chest. “I have another meeting in thirty minutes. Behave.”

He leaned in, lips brushing your ear. “Thirty minutes is plenty of time for me to behave… or misbehave. Your choice.”

You shivered at the low tone in his voice. His hands slid higher on your thighs, thumbs stroking the sensitive skin just under the hem of your skirt. The touch was teasing, affectionate, full of promise.

“You’re going to be the death of my productivity,” you murmured, but you were already tilting your head to give him better access to your neck.

He kissed the spot just below your ear, soft and lingering. “Worth it.”

For the next twenty minutes, Dick was the perfect distraction — sweet kisses, gentle touches, whispered compliments that made your cheeks warm. He never pushed too far, always checking in with soft eyes and a playful smile. When your next meeting reminder pinged, he groaned dramatically but stepped back, hands raised in surrender.

“Fine, fine. Go be responsible. I’ll be here, waiting patiently.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Patiently?”

He grinned. “Mostly patiently.”

You kissed him one last time — quick and sweet — and returned to your desk. The rest of the day passed in a blur of meetings, but every so often you’d catch Dick doing something ridiculous in the background just to make you smile: juggling oranges, balancing on one hand while reading a book, or doing slow, dramatic somersaults across the living room.

By the time you finally closed your laptop for the day, you were exhausted but happy. Dick was waiting on the couch, arms open.

“Come here,” he said softly.

You crawled into his lap, letting him wrap you up in a warm hug. He kissed the top of your head, then your temple, then your lips — slow and sweet, like he’d been saving it all day.

“I love you,” he murmured against your mouth. “Even when you have to work and I have to be patient.”

You smiled, nuzzling into his neck. “I love you too. My very distracting, very acrobatic boyfriend.”

He chuckled, hands stroking your back. “I’ll take that title.”

The two of you stayed like that for a long time — tangled together on the couch, the city humming far below, the afternoon light turning golden through the windows.

Dick Grayson might be the golden boy of the Titans team, the charming Wayne boy, the hero who saved everyone else.

But with you, he was just Dick — the man who did handstands in the living room to make you laugh, who waited patiently when you had to work, and who loved you with a bright, unwavering joy that never dimmed.

And you?

You were exactly where you wanted to be.

With your favorite distraction.

The bright camera flashes shuttered rhythmically. Pop, pop, flash. The blinding bursts of light bounced off the polished marble floors of the Wayne Foundation Gala, a constant reminder that in Gotham, privacy was a luxury even the grandest fortunes couldn't entirely buy. It was something you and Dick Grayson had been dealing with since you were both children.

As the eldest adopted son of Bruce Wayne, Dick was Gotham’s golden boy—blessed with a devastating smile, effortless charm, and the kind of liquid-gold wealth that made high society look normal. You were his mirror image under a different family crest. Born into old Gotham money, wrapped in silk, and taught how to navigate the complex social hierarchies of a charity gala before you were old enough to speak, you were the city’s darling.

It was an unspoken law of the universe that two children raised under the suffocating weight of such massive legacies would either become bitter rivals, competing for the scraps of the spotlight, or inseparable confidants. You both chose the latter. You had traded stolen hors d'oeuvres under grand banquet tables at eight, shared a mutual, silent loathing for classical piano lessons at twelve, and protected each other's deepest vulnerabilities as the years grew heavier and the city outside grew darker.

Tonight, you stood near the edge of the sprawling ballroom, where the heavy velvet drapes offered a modicum of shade from the oppressive glare of the chandeliers. A crystal flute of champagne rested loosely between your fingers, the amber bubbles rising and popping unnoticed while you politely nodded along to whatever Mayor Hill’s wife was saying. Your family’s name carried just as much weight in this metropolis as the Waynes', which meant your entire life had been a carefully curated series of choreographed public appearances, impeccably tailored outfits, and the suffocating expectation of absolute perfection. One wrong look, one slouch of the shoulders, and the tabloids would dissect it by morning.

"Oh, look at you. You know, you and Richard would look so good together if you two finally made it official,” Mrs. Hill sighed, her eyes darting past your shoulder with a knowing, matchmaking gleam that every high-society matron seemed to weaponize. She tapped her manicured fingers against her fan, leaning in closer. "Speak of the devil. You two truly are the crown jewels of this city's youth. It is simply a matter of time."

Before you could even begin to turn, a warm hand settled on the small of your back, the heat of his palm cutting straight through the fine fabric of your evening wear. The familiar, comforting scent of sandalwood and expensive cologne washed over you, instantly lowering your guard. Dick effortlessly slid into the empty space beside you, his broad shoulder brushing yours in a familiar, comforting gesture. He looked maddeningly handsome in his tailored midnight-blue tuxedo, a single, stray lock of dark hair falling perfectly across his forehead in a way that looked entirely accidental but was devastatingly effective.

"Mrs. Hill, you're looking lovely as always," Dick Grayson’s voice was smooth, dripping with that trademark Romani charm that Gotham couldn't get enough of. It was a cadence that could disarm a room in seconds, a perfect blend of high-society polish and genuine warmth. "Mind if I steal my favourite dance partner? I promise to return them in one piece, though I might try to hoard them for the rest of the evening."

"Oh, Richard, go right ahead!" Mrs. Hill gushed, waving her hand dismissively as a sly smile broke across her face. "We were just saying how absolutely darling you two look together. Honestly, it’s a crime you haven’t made it official yet. The press would have a field day, and quite frankly, you would make the most beautiful couple this city has seen in a generation."

You offered a practiced, polite smile, the kind you had perfected in front of bedroom mirrors by the age of twelve— pleasant but utterly vacant of your true thoughts. "You're too kind, Mrs. Hill, but Dick and I are just—"

"The best of friends," Dick finished smoothly, cutting in with a flawless sense of timing that kept the conversation light. He flashed his trademark smile, the one that usually left even the toughest political reporters completely tongue-tied, and wrapped a casual arm around your waist. With a subtle pressure, he drew you just a fraction closer against his side, letting your hip rest against his. "I’d hate to ruin a good thing by forcing her to put up with me full-time. I'm afraid my charm wears off after the third hour."

Mrs. Hill let out a delighted, tittering laugh, completely enchanted by the display. "Oh, nonsense! True love always starts as friendship. Mark my words, children, it's inevitable. You can't fight a match written in the stars." With a final, knowing wink that suggested she knew far more than she was letting on, she drifted back into the swirling sea of silk and diamonds on the ballroom floor.

The moment her cloying perfume faded from the air and she was safely out of earshot, the polite, rigid posture you both held melted away. You let out a small, dramatic groan, letting your head drop against the steady expanse of Dick's shoulder for a brief second.

“If I have to hear one more socialite tell us we'd make 'the most beautiful babies’ for one more second, I'm going to fake a medical emergency,” you muttered into the fabric of his lapel, your voice a hushed, exasperated whisper. “I mean it, Dick. I’ll fake an allergy to the caviar and demand an ambulance.”

Dick let out a low laugh, a rich sound that vibrated right through his chest and against your side. His hand remained comfortably resting on the small of your back, his long fingers splaying over your waist as he began to guide you away from the crowded center of the room and toward a quieter area of the Gala.

"Oh, come on. Mrs. Hill means well," he teased, his eyes crinkling at the corners with a wicked, playful glint as he looked down at you. "She’s just obsessed with the idea of a grand Gotham dynasty. It’s the ultimate high-society sport." He paused, a slow, roguish grin spreading across his lips as he leaned down slightly. "And to be fair... we would make beautiful babies," Dick murmured, his voice dropping into a low, smooth purr right against the shell of your ear, sending a sudden shiver straight down your spine.

You froze in your tracks, your heart giving a violent, erratic thump against your ribs before you recovered and playfully shoved his chest. “Shut up, Grayson!" you laughed, though you could feel heat rushing to your cheeks, something that had very little to do with the stuffiness of the crowded ballroom. "Don't let the media hear you say that, or the Gotham Gazette will have our wedding registry published by tomorrow morning. They’ll have us married off at Wayne Manor before the weekend."

Dick didn't even stumble from the shove. He just absorbed the hit with that effortless, athletic grace of his, a soft, amused chuckle echoing in his throat. His hand slid seamlessly from your waist down to your hand, his long, calloused fingers lacing through yours with practiced ease. He squeezed your hand gently, a reassuring, familiar gesture that instantly relaxed you, as he led you toward the ornate, glass terrace doors.

"Let them print it," Dick murmured, his voice softening as he pulled you into the shadowed alcove near the exit. His thumb did a slow swipe across the back of your knuckles, his touch entirely too warm. "Think of the perks, Y/N. We’d get a great discount on a blender, and Bruce would probably finally buy us that ridiculously overpriced espresso machine we've been eyeing for the penthouse. We could spin it into a charitable tax write-off."

"You're entirely ridiculous," you sighed, letting out a soft breath as the cool night air began to bleed through the cracks of the terrace doors.

Yet, despite the exasperated words, the smile pulling at your lips was entirely genuine now. The stiff, suffocating mask you had been forced to wear all evening had completely evaporated the moment he stepped into your space. It always did. No matter how bright the camera flashes were, or how heavy the expectations of your families became, Dick was the only person who could make you feel like yourself in a room full of strangers.

"It’s part of my charm," he replied smoothly, pulling open the heavy glass door and guiding you out onto the sprawling stone terrace.

The transition from the stifling, perfume-heavy air of the ballroom to the crisp, cool Gotham night was instantaneous. The distant hum of the city’s traffic and the faint lapping of the river below replaced the classical orchestra with a peaceful sort of quiet. Out here, the paparazzi's flashes were nothing but a faint, ambient glow behind the tinted glass.

You walked over to the balustrade, resting your hands against the cool stone. You closed your eyes for a brief second, letting the breeze wash over your face and soothe the burning heat on your cheeks his comment had left behind.

Dick leaned against the balustrade next to you, mirroring your posture but keeping his body turned slightly in your direction, his shoulder brushing against yours. He reached up, his fingers working to loosen the silk bowtie at his collar. He unbuttoned the top two buttons of his dress shirt, taking a deep, unhurried breath of the cool air.

For over a decade, you had been each other’s safe harbour in a city built on quicksand. When his world had shattered as a boy, you were one of the few who didn't look at him with pitiful charity or morbid curiosity. When your own family's scandals had threatened to crush you under the weight of public scrutiny, Dick had been the one to drag you out of your house in the dead of night, forcing you to eat greasy diner food in your finest clothes until you laughed so hard your ribs ached.

"Seriously, though," Dick said, his voice dropping into a softer, more grounded register. The playful billionaire facade he put on for the likes of Mrs. Hill faded completely. He stepped up beside you, leaning his forearms against the stone railing and looking out over the manicured lawns of Wayne Manor and looming city ahead. "They're not entirely wrong, you know," he said quietly, his gaze shifting from the distant city skyline back to your face.

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden drop in his tone. "About what? Mrs. Hill's terrifying obsession with our future lineage?" You tried to keep your voice light, but your heart was still racing against your ribs.

"About us," Dick murmured as he shifted, his body completely blocking out the glowing warmth of the ballroom doors behind him, creating a small, intensely private corner just for the two of you on the dark terrace. He reached out, his hand wrapping around yours where it rested on the cool stone. His fingers laced through yours, his thumb tracing a slow circle over the back of your knuckles.

"We've been playing this game since we were teenagers," Dick continued, his brilliant blue eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made the cool night air feel suddenly very warm. "Every time someone says we'd make a good couple, we laugh it off. We tell them we’re just friends, or like family. But..." He paused, his grip tightening as he gathered the courage to finally say what he’d always wanted to say to you. "Every time they say it, I find myself wishing I didn't have to lie about it."

Your breath hitched in your throat. The ambient noise of the gala—the live orchestra, the clinking of glasses, the low roar of conversation—all of it faded into static. "Dick..."

"I'm serious," he said, taking half-step closer until the faint, clean scent of his cologne enveloped you completely. "I know everything about you, and you know the worst parts of me. You've been my anchor in this city for as long as I can remember. I don't want to be just your childhood friend anymore. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life pretending that’s all we are."

The sheer honesty in his voice was staggering. Dick Grayson, the man who could charm the entire world with a flash of his teeth, was standing before you entirely stripped of his armour. There was no playboy performance left in his eyes. Only the raw, terrifying honesty of the boy who had once promised you, in a diner booth at three in the morning, that he would never let this city swallow you whole. 

"Dick," you whispered, your voice trembling slightly as your eyes darted down to his lips, then back to his eyes. "Do you have any idea what you're saying? If we cross that line..."

"I don't want to keep pretending anymore," he interrupted gently. He took another step closer, his chest nearly brushing against yours, effectively trapping you between his broad frame and the cold stone of the balustrade. The warmth radiating from him was a sharp contrast to the biting breeze. Slowly, Dick lifted his free hand, his long, calloused fingers brushing a stray lock of hair away from your face. His fingertips lingered on your jawline, his knuckles lightly brushing against your cheekbone in an agonizingly tender gesture.

"I’ve spent half my life pretending to be exactly who people want me to be," Dick murmured, his gaze dropping to your lips for a fraction of a second before snapping back to lock with yours. "I put on the tuxedo, I smile for the cameras, I play the charming, carefree son. But the one lie I’m utterly exhausted of telling is the one where I pretend I don’t look at you and see my entire world. Every time someone looks at us and says we belong together, I don't see a society joke anymore. I just see what I want. I see you."

A breathy, stunned laugh escaped your lips, your hands instinctively rising to rest against his chest, clutching the fine fabric of his tuxedo jacket just to keep yourself anchored. "You're insane, Grayson. You choose a Wayne Enterprises gala, surrounded by three hundred of the nosiest people in the tri-state area, to tell me this?"

"Hey, I've always had a flair for the dramatic," he teased softly, though the smile pulling at the corners of his mouth was entirely tender, a private expression reserved only for you when the rest of the world was locked outside. His thumb traced a slow, soothing path along your cheekbone. "But I mean it. I’m done waiting for the 'right time.' There is no right time in a city like this. There’s just us. Right here, right now."

"So, what do you say?" Dick whispered, his eyes gleaming with a mixture of hope and his signature, playful charm. "Want to give Gotham society something real to talk about?"

Looking at him—the golden boy who had always held your hand through the madness of your worlds—the answer was suddenly the easiest thing in the world. Your hands tightened their grip on the lapels of his tuxedo, holding him close.

"You're sure about this?" you asked, giving him one last chance to take back his words. "There's no going back from this, Grayson."

"I don't want to go back," he murmured, his face tilting down toward yours as you squeezed his hand back. "I've been moving toward you my entire life."

When his lips finally met yours, it was slow and gentle, a dam breaking after years of carefully maintained boundaries. He tasted like champagne and mint, his hands shifting from your jaw to wrap securely around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest. 

When he finally pulled back, just an inch, his forehead rested against yours. His breath was shallow, but a brilliant, genuine smile lit up his face in the moonlight as he stared down at you.

"You're going to ruin my reputation," you whispered, another breathless laugh breaking through your shock.

"I think I'm improving it," Dick countered, his voice dropping into a low, affectionate purr.

He leaned down and kissed you again. This time, it was deep, possessive, and filled with the fierce intensity of years of unspoken longing. His arms tightened securely around your waist to pull you flush against his chest, lifting you slightly until your toes barely brushed the marble floor. Your hands slid up his chest, tangling in the soft, dark hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer as the last of your defences completely dissolved. Every shared glance across a crowded ballroom and every midnight escape to a greasy-spoon diner converged into the rhythm of his lips against yours.

When he finally allowed you to breathe, his eyes crinkled at the corners with that signature, devastating charm. "Well," he whispered, his chest heaving slightly against yours. "The paparazzi are definitely going to notice we've been gone for twenty minutes."

You let out a soft laugh, wrapping your arms securely around his neck and feeling lighter than you had in years. "Let them notice. For once, let's give them exactly what they want to talk about."

The prospect of you being around more often makes him giddy but you meeting his family makes him a little nervous. 

They are going to love you, he knows because Dick loves you. The problem was that he would most likely never have alone time with you ever again. 

"I will let them know about us while you are gone so they can be eased into it." Dick decides aloud. 

You give him a smile that makes him feel like he just won the lottery, "I am excited to meet them and the other Lanterns probably want to give you a shovel talk, especially Guy and Hal."

Dick can't help but roll his eyes at that, "They can't scare me, I'm not even scared of Batman."

"Maybe but they feel the need to so don't laugh at them too hard." You laugh and kiss his cheek.

Once you have left with the rest of the lanterns, and Hal and Guy have threatened him sufficiently, he decides to begin the process of telling his family. 

Dick tells Bruce first, knowing his mentor would appreciate not being kept in the dark. He stays behind one night after patrol when everyone else is gone. Bruce calls him out on his constant fidgiting and Dick tells him the truth.

He gets a hum in response. Usually it would be a grunt of acknowledgement or something like that but instead he gets a hum that sounds extremely skeptical. 

Dick narrows his eyes at him and doesn't call him out on it, just files it away for later.

One by one he pulls his family aside to tell them about you and each time he is either looked at with confusion or, in Jason's case, laughed at hysterically for ten minutes. 

He doesn't know what is going on. Are they collectively pranking him? Have they all gone insane? Has he gone insane? 

You are still off world so he feels particularly down as he stands on a rooftop over looking Gotham. He feels terribly like Bruce as he broods while the city moves below him. 

"Nightwing." Bruce greets as he lands on the rooftop, followed by Jason and Damian.

Jason gives him a two fingered salute while Damian nods in his direction. 

"Batman, Red Hood, Robin." Dick greets. "What do you need from me?"

"We need your help on a case-" Bruce starts and Dick immediately crosses over to their side of the roof, ready to help.

Bruce goes to continue talking but a bright streak of pink light illuminates the night sky. 

Dick is almost knocked over by how fast you hug him, it knocks some of the air out of his lungs. As soon as he registers what is happening he hugs you back.

"Baby!" You float a little off the ground as you hold him. "I missed you so much!"

"I missed you to." Dick says with a soft smile.

You release him and he remembers that Bruce, Damian and Jason are still there. 

Dick's smile turns to a self satisfied smirk. 

"This is my partner." He looks smug as they all are in various states of shock.

"Hi!" You wave cheerfully at them, unaware of his uphill battle of getting his family to believe him.

"I thought you made it up Richard," Damian regains his ability to speak first. "She is very out of your league."

Dick groans in frustration while you hold back laughter. 

He wishes he never told his family about you.

"They despise each other." Tim reminds for the fifth time.

"I am aware.” Dick mutters, thumb scrolling through his contacts list. "What did I say about hacking my contacts list, Best Robin?"

"You didn't say anything about that specifically." Tim's foot taps impatiently against the tiles. “And why'd you think that contact name was meant for the demon spawn—never mind, that's besides the point right now. She's clearly disoriented.”

“I just have a gut feeling.” Pressing the phone against his ear, Dick runs a habitual tug over his locks whenever another situation pops up that he has to solve. Being in this line of work is bound to give him early greys.

"A gut feeling." Tim huffs, shaking his head in disagreement. “We better hope this doesn’t start another scuffle. Wouldn't want to toss another bone to the press. 'Blood son of Bruce Wayne attacks hospital patient'. I can already smell the print.”

Dick's frown sticks as he eyes you through the open door frame, laying in a hospital bed—unconscious ever since your first waking. The dots aren't connecting, not when the soot from the explosion still singes the edges of his jacket and his mind is all fuzzed up from a lack of sleep and endless documents. Still, the world had a knack for surprising him whenever he least expects it.

The ringing on the other side stops after two seconds.

"Damian." Dick addresses, re-running his fingers habitually through his hair. "There's been a situation at the hospital..."

Here's the thing, Dick knows Damian. He understands the trait of impatience passed along their family, which is why he's already summarised the facts down to twenty seconds. The call abruptly ends at ten.

"Huh." Dick mutters, brows pressed together as he looks back to Tim. "He hung up."

Dick had barely made it beyond the mention of your name and their current location. Your voice echoes in reminder as he stares at his screen, the duration of the call staring back at him. It's him you have to worry about.

Damian's anything but subtle. Of his frigid attitude—his blatant dislike towards you. Putting the two of you in the same room, it was guaranteed disaster. Yet, Damian was the first name out of your mouth.

"Told you it doesn't make sense." Tim shrugs. "Logically, he's the last person we should've called."

"We'll see." Dick answers, head leaning back to rest against the wall. "He's surprised us both plenty of times."

"Yeah, by attempting murder on us both. Your point being?"

Dick restrains a much-needed sigh.

Barely fifteen minutes later, Dick stirs at a loud commotion beyond the walls of the waiting room. His neck is cramping from this unergonomic chair, and his feet are nerved with pins-and-needles. Tim's ears are plugged in with wired earphones, jammed high with Green Day as he concentrates on his tablet, opting to work through his insomnia instead.

There’s a slamming of doors, rapid footsteps thundering against the tiles, coming closer and closer. Dick barely has time to nudge Tim’s shoulder before the hallway door slams open.

Damian comes through like a storm, movements overly controlled in the way a person would seize up before a fight. As if he's expected the worst, and is prepared to battle whatever he might encounter—in a hospital.

“Where is she?” Damian commands, voice echoing off the tiles.

Staring back at Dick are frantic, darkened eyes pinpointed on locked targets—searching for his answer. It's so abruptly intense, almost inhuman, that his mind stutters in regaining its grasp on reality. He hasn't seen that look in a long time, not since their first meeting where one wrong answer would make Damian your enemy.

“She’s asleep.” Tim answers for him, one side of his earphones still plugged in throughout this entire mess. “She needs the rest.”

Damian disregards his words, brushing past him. “I have to see her.”

Dick must’ve subconsciously shifted his glance to your room, towards the shine of the metal carvings of 78 placed in the centre. Damian's gaze follows, and he doesn’t spare a second of hesitation in heading towards the door.

Dick catches Damian's forearm right before he enters, and the glare he receives? Murderous. As if everything in his way of getting to you has become mere obstacles he has to overcome.

"Grayson." Damian's voice is all wrong, shortened and taut, syllables used to convey only what was needed. "Unhand. Me."

"Dames." Dick tries to make sense of this adverse reaction, but nothing from that brief phone call provided him any clues. "She's still unconscious, and I don't think it's a good idea for you to be in there—in this state."

Damian's chest heaves once, but the storm in his gaze has only darkened. "She called for me, didn't she?"

Dick blinks once. "Well, yes but—"

"Then I will be there for her."

Damian disarms his grip with an alarming quickness, and Dick doesn't even have time to recalibrate his mistake before he's slipped through.

Dick's palm splays onto the door right before it closes, pushing it fully open with a warning ready on his lips to not disturb your recovery, only to find that—Damian hadn’t moved from his spot since he entered. Dick feels Tim pressing into his side, curious eyes flickering at the situation, but Dick is too busy watching to care about how they're practically hanging onto the doorframe.

When Damian catches sight of you, his entire frame freezes into place. He's watching you, and Dick's watching him—and he sees it then, and realises what an idiot he's been.

Damian's entire expression immediately shifts. Loosening in relief at the sight of you mostly unharmed, at the sound of a calm beeping from the heart monitor. It's frighteningly out of place, the tenderness softening his wrath-like panic mere seconds ago. He moves almost mindlessly towards your side, forgetting the presence of his two brothers gawking at him from outside the doorframe, peering into what must be a fever dream.

"Idiot." Damian mutters, but it sounds more like a prayer answered.

"We've got it all wrong, didn't we?" Tim mutters, staring at the sight in awe.

"Told you." Dick whispers, his lips tilting upwards into a smile. "Gut feeling."

You stir not long after Damian’s arrival, as if your body is already attuned to his presence. Lids peering half-open, you squint at the shadow towering over you. For a moment, there was nothing but held breaths and a long pause as you familiarise yourself with forest green.

Then, the most miraculous thing happens. You smile, completely unaware of the turmoil and confusion you've caused.

“Dami.”

Dick decides today is an absolute possibility for the world to end.

“You're an idiot.” Damian hurls the practiced insult out like he’s been running it off in his mind for the past couple of minutes, but his weakened voice holds no bite in comparison to his overwhelming relief.

Under the sheets, Dick swears he sees his brother’s fingers intertwining with yours.

“I told them to tell you not to rush.” You mutter hazily, still readjusting to reality. “At least—I think I did.”

Damian sucks in a breath, low, undistinguishable mutters whispered. Your lip twitches up slightly, which could only mean another insult you're brushing off.

“Yet, you’re still here.” You tease. “Fretting.”

The thin line of his lips creases deeper. “I do not fret.”

“Arguing with the patient?” Your body shifts, tilting closer to Damian.

“I prefer arguing with you unharmed.” Damian mocks lowly. Dick sees the stiffness bleed out of Damian’s expression the longer his gaze is locked onto you, as if materialising your talkative state in his mind.

"I am unharmed."

"A mild concussion, a hospital bed." Damian's frown deepens. "At least attempt at a reasonable lie."

Damian’s body tilts just slightly, lowering to match yours, and the light catches your features once more. Your lips tilt downward for a single second, the sting of the fluorescent lights irritating your vision.

In a sudden movement without words exchanged, Damian adjusts. His shoulders block the light over your face once more, covering you with his shadow.

You can't help the grin that escapes. "That is what I was thinking about, before I passed out again."

Damian's expression contorts, as if his mind can't decide on hyper-focusing on the details of you falling unconscious again or on what you were imagining about him. You decide for him.

"The lights were all in my face and—" You suck in a breath. "I kept trying to remember your name. I tried so hard to find it, this person who knows that I hate hospital lights without me needing to say it. Then, your name just slipped out."

“Oh.” Tim murmurs from afar.

“Oh.” Dick agrees.

“Don’t do that again.” Damian mutters in the quiet buzzing of the machines.

“Save people?” You tease.

“Put yourself in harm’s way.” Damian pushes back.

"Hey, what about the two of us?" Tim calls out, and Dick's quick to shove his elbow into the idiot's stomach. "Ow—what? We never got this treatment and all the fretting."

Damian's gaze shifts at the disruption, the softness creased into the corners of his eyes fading into annoyance. "Leave us."

"Woah." Tim holds a hand to his abdomen, still feigning hurt. "That's just cold."

Damian's eyes narrow further, and Dick's reminded instantly of how the press is probably waiting outside the hospital for any hints of a scuffle. It's already news enough for not two, but three members now of the Wayne family rushing to the emergency ward. Grabbing Tim by his hoodie, Dick tugs roughly. "We'll leave you two be to—catch up. No attempted murders, if the reminder's still needed."

It had slipped out so easily, the old warning, but it feels strangely out of place with this tender atmosphere. Dick's most definitely intruding on something he's not meant to see, but questions can be reserved for later.

Eyeing Damian one last time, he sees the way his brother's vision is trained on you—and he knows his job is done here.

You snort, a sheepish expression caught between your teeth, watching for confirmation as the door shuts with a click. When you have a shred of confidence that they're at least out of hearing range, you turn your attention back to Damian, unable to hide your grin.

“You know they’re probably freaking out right now?” You mutter conspiratorially. "They'll never buy into us hating each other anymore."

“That is not my concern.” Damian frowns. “You are.”

“That might be the sweetest thing you've ever told me.” You coo. "I matter enough for you to deal with family dinner interrogations now."

Damian's stare remains unimpressed. “I will smother you with pillows.”

“That’s unhygienic—and cruel.”

His tongue clicks softly as his hand comes up behind the pillow, instinctively propping them up higher as you adjust your neck, an action completely unrelated to his threat. “Only you would be concerned of bacteria before attempted murder.”

“Yeah, I’m a piece of work." You murmur distractedly, choosing to gaze intently at him instead. His hair's fallen into different directions, all un-Damian-like. "That’s why you rushed all the way here, didn’t you?”

He stiffens, hand shifting away from the pillow, but still hovering near you. He's been holding back from the moment he's entered this damned institution, and his mind is ticking, battling between his habit to be the steady one, and the crushing need to hold you.

After a moment, the inner workings of his mind switching between his logic and his emotions must've finally faltered, as his fingers delicately cup the back of your head. He doesn't move you towards him, choosing to come over to you instead, his body hovering halfway over yours before finally letting his weight topple gently over you.

His arms wrap around you gently as his comforting weight falls over you, and the first thing you feel is how quickly his heart is racing. He needs this, you realise, as he settles with his arms wrapped protectively around you. To be physically present as your shield, even when there is no danger present.

Damian is affected. More than he seems from his tightly concealed expressions, obvious now that you can physically feel the effects on his body. Slight twitches of his fingers that appear when he's still afraid, waiting for the noise in his head to calm down.

“I didn't want you to worry.” You mumble into his embrace.

“Impossible.” Damian huffs softly, tracing his other hand over your wrist, feeling the soft thudding of your pulse. “You're my problem to handle."

You feel a soft, imperceptible kiss pressed onto your temple, and your eyes flutter shut. This is the side of Damian only you get to have, the proof of its existence ghosting your skin. You have to force your eyes open, the lure of sleep already trying to dig its claws into you—and that's something you absolutely refuse. You don't want to miss this rare side to Damian, all soft and disarmed.

"You scared me." Damian admits after a long pause, barely audible.

You blink, surprised. "You're never scared."

"For you, I am." Damian confesses, his grip tightening slightly. "You tend to render me painfully exposed to weakness."

"Weakness, huh? Still haven't got rid of me though." You hum lightly.

"No." His tone is decisive, stern. "If I haven't decided that I've had enough of you, the world doesn't get to."

"I'm starting to think threats are your love language, Dami." Your hand lifts, struggling twice before you manage to run your fingers through his hair, resting its weight over the nape of his neck.

His body shudders slightly, and his nose buries itself deeper into the crook of your neck. If anyone were to look into hospital room 78, they'll encounter the strange sight of Damian Wayne embracing you as if you were his lifeline. No one would believe them, but the truth remains.

He was yours. Completely yours.

He was also definitely sentenced to a long interrogation the moment he steps out of this room.

"Who was the perpetrator?" He mutters after a moment.

"Damian." You're stuck deciding between a snort and a sigh. "It was an accident."

"You don't know that." He huffs. "I sincerely doubt in your ability to detect an attempted murder while you're unconscious."

Your grip tugs at his hair playfully, a pretty effective way of shutting him up. "Argue with me later."

You feel his lashes flutter against your skin, processing. "...Fine."

He breathes you in, his heart rate finally starting to calm the longer he hears your voice so close to his eardrums, your touch grounding his senses.

"It was torture." His voice is too still, stating the facts without the emotion that's driven behind them. "The drive here. I kept envisioning the worst, that you had called out for me—and if I didn't make it in time—"

His grip tightens with his words, and you're pressed into his chest, feeling what his words refuse to convey, starting to thud again below his ribcage.

"Damian." Your hand traces reassuringly over his neck. "I'm right here."

He listens, his rampant thoughts slowing in pace at the reminder. "I had never been so terrified." His voice remains level, his attempt at reinforcing his reality over his fears. "To receive a call from Grayson, hearing your name—I couldn't let myself think of anything else other than finding you."

"You did." You mutter reassuringly. "You found me. I'm safe."

He lets out a low breath, a slow exhale at the sound of those two words he'd been needing to hear. "Sometimes, I think you've ruined me." He murmurs in truth.

You think he's unused to this. Letting down his walls, experiencing the blatant terror for another person's life that is completely out of his control—that he's left with nothing but pieces to readjust, to compromise. By letting you into his life and allowing you to be his person, he has abandoned his need to preserve himself, to be above fear.

"You're not escaping the argument." He notes down distractedly, trying to regain his ground despite being wrapped into you. "I still have my reservations."

"Anything you need, Dami." You reassure softly.

"Anything?" He murmurs, head shifting out of the crook of your neck to face you fully.

His green eyes are narrowed with intent now, gazing at you with unhidden intensity.

You swallow, nodding slightly.

When he leans in, the palm of his hand slips from the back of your head to over your jaw. His thumb traces over your lips softly as he leans in, replacing the ghost of his touch with his own mouth. It's tender, a separate language to convey the emotions he hasn't learnt to spell out, on what you do to him. Yet, with the way he's handling you, nose brushing against yours, in a way so precious it makes your heart ache—you think that impending argument's worth it.

likes, reblogs, and comments are highly appreciated! <333

dc masterlist -> damian + other dc works

because yukimiya isn’t just good-looking – he’s aware of it. not in an arrogant way, not in that loud, look-at-me kind of confidence. it’s quieter than that. controlled. like he knows exactly what he looks like from every angle and has already made peace with it. 

you, on the other hand, are actively trying not to look at your own reflection in the spoon. 

“your turn,” he says, sliding his phone slightly toward you. 

you laugh immediately, shaking your head. “no thank you.” 

he raises a brow, amused. “not even one?” 

“i’ll take one of you,” you offer quickly, already reaching for your own phone like a defense mechanism. “that’s the deal.” 

his smile widens – he knows you’re deflecting – but he lets you. 

and of course, when you point the camera at him, he doesn’t even need a second. 

his elbow rests casually on the table, fingers brushing against his cheek. his gaze shifts – not directly at the lens, but slightly off, like he’s caught in a candid moment. soft, distant, perfect. 

you squint at your screen. “that’s so unfair…” you mutter, snapping the picture anyway. 

“what is?” he asks. 

“you didn’t even try.” 

“i did,” he says lightly. “you just didn’t see it.” 

you huff, lowering your phone and glancing at the photo again. it looks like something straight out of a magazine. lighting, angles, expression – everything just works. 

you glance back up at him, then down at your own reflection in the black screen of your phone. 

“... i wish i was photogenic like that.” 

it slips out before you can stop it. 

there’s a pause. 

not an awkward one. just… a quiet shift in the air. 

yukimiya tilts his head slightly, studying you in a way that feels a little too focused. too intentional. 

“it’s a mindset thing,” he says. 

and that’s it. no elaboration. no explanation. just that. 

you blink at him. “what does that even mean…?” 

he just smiles again, like he’s keeping something to himself. “you’ll figure it out.” 

you narrow your eyes at him, unconvinced. “that’s not helpful.” 

“mm,” he hums, taking a sip of his drink. “i think it is.” 

you decide he’s being annoying on purpose. 

the rest of the date unfolds the way it always does with him – easy, warm, full of small moments that don’t feel small at all. 

you walk through little shops, pointing out things that catch your eye. you drag him into places he definitely wouldn’t have entered on his own, and he follows without complaint, hands tucked in his pockets, watching you more than anything else. 

you don’t notice when he pulls out his phone again. 

or the way he angles it slightly– 

click. 

you’re standing in front of a display, head tilted as you examine something. your expression is thoughtful, a little scrunched, completely unaware. 

in the photo, you look… soft. real. beautiful in a way that isn’t trying to be. 

yukimiya stares at the screen for a second longer than necessary. his thumb hovers, then taps the screen gently, like he’s committing the moment to memory twice. 

later, you’re outside, sunlight catching in your hair as you laugh at something he says. you lean forward slightly, hand covering your mouth, eyes crinkling at the corners. 

click. 

this one hits him a little harder. 

because it’s not just how you look – it’s how you feel. 

how easy you are. how warm. how, somehow, every expression you make feels like something he wants to keep forever. 

he exhales quietly, locking his phone before you can notice. 

“wait,” you say suddenly, stopping in the middle of the sidewalk. “stand there.” 

he glances back at you, already amused. “another one?” 

“obviously.” 

you gesture vaguely. “the lighting is good. don’t waste it.” 

he chuckles, but he listens. 

then he shifts slightly, letting the sunlight hit just right, his shadow falling at the perfect angle. one hand slips into his pocket, the other brushing through his hair. 

you take the picture. 

and yeah. it’s perfect. again. 

you stare at it for a second, then groan softly. “this is actually ridiculous.” 

“what is?” 

“you,” you say, pointing at your phone. “how do you do that?” 

he steps closer, glancing at the photo. “do what?” 

“exist like a pinterest board,” you deadpan. 

he laughs, low and soft. “that’s a new one.” 

you hesitate for a second before adding, quieter this time, “i just… don’t look like that in pictures.” 

there’s that shift again. 

this time, he doesn’t brush it off. 

he looks at you, really looks at you, and for a moment, there’s something almost serious in his expression. 

“you don’t see yourself the way you actually are,” he says. 

you frown slightly. “and how is that?” 

he doesn’t answer right away. 

instead, his gaze flickers – just briefly – to your face. the way the sunlight hits your skin. the way your hair moves with the breeze. the way your expression holds a mix of curiosity and doubt. 

things he’s been noticing all day. things he’s been saving. 

“like someone who needs to try,” he says finally. “when you don’t.” 

you blink, caught off guard. 

“you think being photogenic is about angles and lighting,” he continues, voice calm, steady. “but it’s not. it’s about being comfortable existing as you are.” 

you look away slightly, your fingers tightening around your phone. “… that’s easier said than done.” 

“yeah,” he agrees easily. “it is.” 

and then, softer– 

“but you’re already doing it.” 

you glance back up at him. “i am?” 

he nods. 

and there’s something about the way he says it – so certain, so sure – that makes your chest feel a little tight. 

you don’t fully understand what he means. not yet. 

that night, after he walks you home, after the soft goodbyes and lingering glances, after you finally collapse onto your bed with your phone in hand, your messages buzz. 

yukimiya. 

you open it. and freeze. 

it’s a photo. not of him. of you. 

you’re mid-laugh, head tilted back slightly, eyes closed, sunlight wrapping around you like it belongs there. 

you don’t remember him taking it. 

before you can process that, another one comes in. 

you, standing in the flower shop. focused. soft. 

another. 

you, walking ahead of him, hair catching the light. 

another. 

you, looking at him. 

that one makes your breath hitch a little. 

because the way you’re looking at him in the photo, it’s gentle. it’s fond. it’s… something you didn’t realize was so obvious. 

your fingers hover over the screen. then his message comes through. 

“still think you’re not photogenic?” 

you stare at the photos again. really stare this time. not picking yourself apart. not searching for flaws. just… looking. 

and slowly, something shifts. because these don’t look like the versions of you you see in mirrors or front cameras or rushed selfies. they look like… moments. real ones. unfiltered. 

and somehow, in all of them – you don’t look like someone who needs to change. 

you look like someone who’s already enough. 

your chest feels warm. a little overwhelming. you type back, hesitating. 

“you’re biased.” 

his reply is immediate. 

“i’m in love with you. of course i am.” 

your heart stutters. 

before you can even recover– 

“but that doesn’t make me wrong.” 

you press your lips together, staring at the screen, then back at the photos. at yourself. at the version of you he sees so clearly. 

and for the first time, you don’t immediately look away. 

maybe… maybe it really is a mindset thing. 

and maybe, just maybe, you’re allowed to start seeing yourself the way someone who loves you already does. 

•───────•°•[¯◉°]•°•───────•

“Damian come here.”

You watch as he pops his head out of the door frame from your shared bedroom. The use of his full name spurs him into an immediate reaction.

He was wearing grey sweatpants and a loose black long sleeve. You had about thirty minutes left with him before he leaves for the cave. Tonight, he had some training with Tim before they all went on patrol.

When he sees you trying, and failing miserably, to hide the smirk on your face, he raises an eyebrow.

“What are you up to my love?”

A hum comes from your lips, as you prop up your phone on the kitchen aid mixer. Noticing that the camera is open and facing in your direction, his arms stiffen at his sides.

This had not been the first time he had fallen victim to your shenanigans.

Realizing that he’s suddenly as stiff as a tree, a laugh escapes you. It’s a harmony to his ears when he’s blessed with the sound. The sight of your smile, causes a slight twitch of his lips. If you hadn’t been looking for it, you would’ve missed it.

“Can you do something for me?”

“Anything you ask beloved.” His answer was immediate, it always was when you asked him for something.

Damian would have burned the world to the ground if it meant you would smile at him like that every morning. There weren’t enough words in any language that could properly capture how he felt about you. It was more than love, more than devotion, it was something he was convinced only existed in the way you chose each other.

“Lift your arms in the air, straight up.” When he does, your palms rest on his bicep with a feather light touch. There’s a small amount of force in you pushing them together, so they’re parallel next to his head. “Okay perfect, make sure to keep them there.”

The eyebrow is back to being raised. The other one joins it’s partner when your arms wrap around his neck.

There’s a subtle flush dusting the beautiful tan skin of his face when you’re centimeters apart. There’s a subtle glint of mischief in his eye that he is too used to when your lips meet his.

He wasn’t sure what the test was, but he would retake it every night if it meant your lips never left his.

This was his favorite part of the day. When it was just the both of you in the intimacy of the night, sharing kisses stolen from his dreams.

He kept his arms in the air, a proper soldier following his orders. There was no wish he wanted to be granted more than for you to allow him to drop his arms. He yearned to hold you against him, the woman he dedicated himself too.

This was torture.

After a few more seconds, you slowly pull away. His swollen lips go to chase yours, for another kiss before he has to abandon you for some hours of the night.

When his eyes flutter open, he sees the small ounce of disappointment behind your eyes and his heart sinks.

Without hesitation, he goes against the only orders you gave him and his arms drop. The warmth of your lower back is more comforting than he’ll ever allow himself to admit out loud.

“What have I done qalbi?” His eyebrows furrow together.

At the term of endearment you shake your head with a small smile. His only response is to hold you tighter. It was common for you two to have conversations with little words, spoken in actions and longing glances. Damian had never been one for many words, but with you, he tried.

“It’s nothing.” When he pulls you tighter, you knew then that he wasn’t going to let it go. “It’s a stupid trend, basically you test your partner to see if they drop their arms and melt into the kiss.”

Understanding flashes across his face with a singular nod. His eyes catch the time on the oven clock and then glances back at you, in his arms.

“My love, I only kept my arms up because you instructed me too. Believe me, if I knew this was the test, I would’ve failed it immediately, or passed. I’m not sure which result is which.”

A laugh passes in between you. Something small and breathless, enough to make him debate on telling his father he cannot attend the patrol tonight.

“We have twenty seven minutes until I leave for patrol.”

A beat. Then,

“Okay…”

“What would you like me to do, to make it up to you?”

“Damian-”

“Please,” he rarely pleads. Even with you, he has never allowed himself to end up in a position where he has to beg for forgiveness or anything similar to it. “Allow me to make it up to you.”

“Well if you insist…” There’s a cheeky smile that appears on your face. “If you would like to cook up a quick dinner for your lovely amazing girlfriend who hates to cook, she would be very happy!”

And for the first time that evening, he laughs. Your hatred for cooking came in handy most days. Richard had told him once “happy wife, happy life.” While Todd advised him the way to anyone’s heart was through their stomach.

He took both of the recommendations to heart. They had worked so far for him, but he would never let them know that.

He drops a kiss to your forehead, holding you tighter. “Anything you desire.”

•───────•°•[¯◉°]•°•───────•

Damian had been in the cave for a little over forty five minutes. He had wrapped up his training and now they were waiting for him his father to join them in the cave.

Bruce had been on a date with Selina, but they should be back any moment now. Everyone was here for patrol and Selina was going to be joining them tonight.

“Wha….”

Stephanie’s voice echoes through the cave as she sits up in the chair she had been previously lounging in. Timothy, being as nosy as ever, looks over at her phone. His jaw drops and a sputtering noise comes out of him.

They now had the attention of all the occupiers in the cave, including even Alfred.

Tim and Stephanie look at each other, then his heat skips a beat as they both look to stare at him. Betraying no emotion, he merely moves his head the slightest bit, a motion to get them to explain their sudden hysteria.

“Damian, what the fuck is this?”

The use of foul language confuses him. He hadn’t done anything particularly out of the ordinary recently. Stepping closer to the odd pair he bends down to look closer at Stephanie’s phone.

Ah.

It was the video from the trend you had asked him to participate in earlier. When you asked him if it would be okay to post, he assured you that he wouldn’t mind.

He did however not factor in the possibility of his family finding out. A rather stupid thing to forget.

“From what I am told.” His throat bobs while he swallows, attempting to keep his cool. “That is a Tik Tok Trend.”

“Well no shit.” Timothy remarks. “Who’s she?”

At that, Damian cannot do much to hide the way his face could pass for a rose bush.

Richard, seeing the reaction, throws his arm around Damian’s shoulder with a wicked grin. “If I didn’t know any better I’d say our little Dami has a girlfriend.”

Todd snorts. “We gotta take the girl to Arkham and run a test on her. She’s gotta be messed up to go out with Demon spawn.”

“You will do no such thing.” Damian’s head snaps in the Frankenstein wannabe’s direction. “If I found out you even lay a hand on her, I will personally-”

“What’s going on?” Father steps off the elevator with Selina on his arm. Both of their eyebrows are about to fly off their face when they take in the scene.

“Damian’s got a girlfriend.” Cassandra says from her new place behind Stephanie.

“Oh, that sweet girl that works at the record store off Broadway and Seventeenth?” Selina asks with a faux innocent tone.

Damian’s eyes narrow in their direction. It was foolish of him to think that his father and Selina were not aware. He did however not enjoy that they had spied on her without his permission.

“Yes,” he swallows. “Her.”

Father nods with a small twitch of his lip. “She’s a nice girl, you should invite her to dinner.”

“I…” Damian pauses. “I will consider it.”

Father accepts the answer and directs Selina to the changing room. While they both change into the suit, Pennyworth approaches the young master Wayne and asks in a low voice,

“I assume, I should not mention that I have already met the young miss?”

•───────•°•[¯◉°]•°•───────•

A/N: Yes this is me projecting my hatred for cooking. Also say thank you to my bsf who sent me a video so I could write this bc I don’t have tik tok LOL (I was going to include duke in this no i didn't forget about him but i wasn't sure if it'd fit bc he patrols through the day im sorry )

Jason appeared in the hallway, hair dripping, but already wearing sweatpants. “You started it without me? I told ya I wanted to watch the opening too—”

He stopped mid-sentence, falling silent, his mouth parting in shock—maybe at the scene? At your calmness with the intruder? Or at the intruder’s sheer audacity?

“Just what I needed,” Jason growled, voice sharp with irritation. “Why the hell are you in my apartment?”

Damian didn’t answer immediately. Instead, chewing calmly. He simply shrugged—after all, how was he supposed to explain that he had only come to check if he was still alive? It had been a whole month since he last saw him. But he wasn’t worried!

“That’s mine—Damian, you should be at home. Your home.” Jason sighed, running a hand down his face. “Get off my couch. And stop eating my food.”

Damian ignored him completely. He leaned further back into the cushions, posture relaxed in a way that made Jason’s eye twitch. Then his gaze shifted slowly toward Jason.

“You look… fuller. Softer,” the younger one commented, his gaze drifting briefly toward you, who watched the argument in silence, before quickly returning to his brother.

Damian tilted his head to the side, as if evaluating a painting.

“Have you reduced your training frequency,” he continued, his voice strangely neutral, not teasing, just observational, “or simply increased your intake of nutritionally void food?”

“Did you just call me fat?”

“…No,” he replied, but then paused to think for a few seconds. “Did I? I merely commented on your body fat—“

Jason crossed his arms, raising an eyebrow.

“…Whatever,” he continued, tone quieter now, more thoughtful than before. “You no longer smell like cheap takeout grease and smoke. That is an improvement.”

“…That would be because he finally eats real food now,” you cut in, smiling, proud of your contribution to your boyfriend’s health.

Jason shot you a look over his shoulder, a little wounded that you had indirectly agreed with the little demon.

Damian reached out to grab more popcorn, but Jason slapped his hand away.

“Stop. Eating. My. Food. Okay. Great. Family bonding moment over.” Jason clapped his hands once, sharp and final. “You’ve seen me. Now out. Door. Window. Vent. I don’t care. Pick one.”

Damian’s attention snapped back to you, still ignoring his brother. He straightened slightly where he sat, gaze narrowing with renewed interest.

“You prepare the food?” he asked.

You nodded once. “Most of it.” You smiled. “Do you want to try the dessert?”

“…Dessert?” he repeated.

“I made chocolate cake,” you added casually. “With ganache.”

Damian’s eyes narrowed again. “…Homemade?” he asked.

“Yes.”

You disappeared into the kitchen before your boyfriend could protest.

Jason took a deep breath and dropped onto the couch, far too tired to argue any further. When the younger one opened his mouth to speak, he cut him off immediately.

“Not one more question,” Jason muttered. “Eat in silence.”

him ♡