YOU, THE READER, FROM REAL LIFE

The Waxing Incident

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You'd faced down assassins, defused bombs, and survived family dinners with the entire Bat-family. But nothing—*nothing*—could have prepared you for this moment.

"Absolutely not."

"Damian, please—"

"I said *no*."

You stood in the doorway of the manor's bathroom, holding a wax warming kit like it was a weapon of mass destruction. Which, given Damian's expression, it might as well have been.

"It's just your back!" you protested, trying not to laugh at the sheer horror on your boyfriend's face. "You said you had that mission next week where you need to go undercover at the beach, and you complained about—"

"I did not *complain*." Damian's eyes narrowed dangerously. "I merely stated an observation."

"You literally said, and I quote, 'this excessive body hair is tactically disadvantageous.'"

"That was a private conversation."

"Babe, you said it in front of Alfred."

A strategic mistake. Damian's jaw clenched. You both knew that Alfred had immediately sided with you, commenting that "Master Damian would benefit from proper grooming" in that dry, unflappable way of his.

That's how you'd ended up here, with Damian shirtless and scowling, perched on the edge of the bathtub like a particularly angry gargoyle.

"If you tell *anyone* about this—"

"I won't!" You crossed your heart. "I promise. Now just... sit still."

You'd watched exactly one YouTube tutorial. How hard could it be?

The wax had reached the perfect temperature—you'd tested it on your wrist and everything. You applied the first strip to Damian's shoulder blade with what you thought was professional efficiency.

"This is undignified," he muttered.

"You literally wore a traffic light costume for years."

"That was a *tactical uniform*—"

You ripped.

The sound that came out of Damian Wayne's mouth could only be described as a squeak. A high-pitched, utterly un-Robin-like *squeak*.

"WHAT IN THE NAME OF—"

"Shh! Do you want the whole manor to hear?"

Too late.

"MASTER DAMIAN?" Alfred's voice drifted up from downstairs, concerned. "Is everything quite alright?"

"FINE!" Damian shouted back, his voice cracking slightly. He whipped around to glare at you, his eyes promising retribution. "You said it wouldn't hurt!"

"I said it would hurt *less* than laser removal!"

"That is NOT—" He stopped mid-rant as you held up the strip, now covered in dark hair. His eyes widened. "Is that... is that all *mine*?"

"Yep! Look how smooth!" You ran your finger over the newly bare patch of skin. "Like a baby's bottom."

"I will end you."

But he turned back around.

You got through three more strips before Tim walked past the bathroom, did a double-take, and immediately pulled out his phone.

"Don't you *dare*," Damian snarled.

"I'm not doing anything," Tim said innocently, definitely taking a video. "Just admiring the... bonding experience."

"Drake, I swear on Father's cowl—"

"You know what? I think I hear Dick calling me. From the other side of the city. Bye!" Tim disappeared in a blur of laughter.

You bit your lip to keep from smiling. "Okay, this next part might be a little more sensitive—"

"They're all sensitive!"

"—because it's closer to your spine."

Damian took a deep breath, his shoulders rigid with tension. "Fine. Just... make it quick."

You applied the strip. Counted to three. And pulled.

This time, Damian shot straight up off the bathtub, whirled around, and you found yourself suddenly pressed against the wall, his hands on either side of your head. His face was flushed, whether from pain or embarrassment, you couldn't tell.

"You," he said, his voice low and dangerous, "are *enjoying* this."

You couldn't help it. You grinned. "Maybe a little."

His eyes narrowed, but you saw the corner of his mouth twitch. "Tt. You're lucky I love you."

Your heart did a little flip. He didn't say it often.

"Lucky enough for you to let me finish?"

Damian stared at you for a long moment, then sighed with the weight of a thousand tactical disadvantages. "Fine. But if Todd finds out about this—"

"He won't!"

He did.