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You frowned a little, glancing at her reflection in the mirror. “Wait—won’t I get in trouble if they find out I’m lying?”

She rolled her eyes. “Only if you get caught. Besides, she’s done it before. She professionally pretends to be people’s old bosses. It’s, like, her thing.”

You didn’t know if that made you feel better or worse. You were just… stuck. School was over, and everyone else seemed to have a plan. College felt like a waste of money when you already knew you’d probably drop out. You’d hated every single day of high school — what was four more years of it supposed to fix?

Still, the idea of a steady paycheck sounded like something. Something *different.* So you scribbled the number down on a sticky note and tucked it beside your phone before heading to bed, already rehearsing what you’d say.

Tomorrow at four. Easy enough.

The next day came too quickly. You’d spent most of it pacing around your room, waiting for the clock to hit four. The minutes dragged like hours. Every tick felt louder than the last.

You circled the room again, restless, your fingers curling into fists before loosening with three quick squeezes — your new trick for calming down. *In, out, breathe.* It didn’t really help, but it gave your nerves something to do.

When the clock struck four, you didn’t hesitate. You snatched your phone, tapped the number, and pressed call.

One ring. Two.

By the fourth, your pulse was racing. By the sixth, you were sure no one would answer.

Then — a click.

“What?” The voice was sharp, low, and heavy with an accent you couldn’t quite place — Arabic, maybe.

You froze. “Um—hi! I’m calling about the job interview? For the assistant position?” The words tripped over each other as they left your mouth.

There was a pause. You could hear faint static on the other end, and for a moment, you swore you’d called the wrong person.

Then the voice returned, clipped and suspicious.

“I think you have the wrong number.”

“N–no, this is, um… DecorRM, right?” you stammered. “My friend gave me this number to call about the assistant position — she said you were looking for one, and I really, really need the job.”

You could hear how desperate you sounded, and panic started bubbling in your chest. You rushed to get your words out before he could hang up. “I promise this isn’t a prank or anything. My friend—”

“Like I said,” the man interrupted, his voice low and clipped, “wrong number. I think your friend duped you.”

That stung.

Something about the bored tone — the casual dismissal — made your stomach twist. You didn’t even know this man, but the way he insulted your friend, so matter-of-factly, made heat rush to your face.

“You can’t just say that!” you snapped, voice pitching higher than you intended. “You don’t even know her! She probably just— just got mixed up, okay? So don’t say that.”

A pause. Then, flatly:

“Okay?”

You gasped. “No, not ‘okay.’ Take it back.”

“Excuse me?”

“I said take it back! You were mean!” you huffed, crossing your arms even though he couldn’t see you. It was the principle of it — if you were going to humiliate yourself on a phone call, you might as well go all in.

There was silence on the line — then, a short, surprised chuckle.

“I said nothing that was wrong,” he replied, clearly amused now. “Good day.”

And before you could sputter out another word, the call ended.

You stared at your phone in disbelief.

He hadn’t even said goodbye.

“How rude,” you muttered, tossing your phone onto the bed.

After the bogus phone call, you’d immediately rung up your friend — half panicked, half furious — cursing her name and her “brilliant” idea.

“I told you it was a bad idea!” you hissed into the receiver. “He was so rude! He didn’t even say goodbye!”

Your friend’s laughter on the other end only made it worse. She swore she hadn’t meant to give you the wrong number, that it must’ve been a typo — but you weren’t convinced.

Now, hours later, you sat curled up on your bed, knees tucked to your chest, your favorite blanket wrapped around you like armor. The glow of your laptop lit the room in soft colors as your comfort anime played in the background — though you were barely paying attention.

You kept replaying the call in your head, that dry “Okay?” echoing like a taunt.

Ugh. So rude.

____________________________________

The next day, you couldn’t get that voice out of your head — low, sharp, and annoyingly calm. It was ridiculous. He’d been rude. Dismissive. You shouldn’t care.

And yet… you found yourself staring at your phone again around four p.m., fingers drumming on the table.

A breeze slipped through the open window, carrying out the stale air and your better judgment. Each second the phone rang, your nerves tightened. You didn’t even know why you were calling him again — maybe it was pride, maybe insanity. But hell, you were getting the last word.

“ماذا تريد الآن؟”

The voice on the other end was groggy, thick with fatigue and irritation. You could hear faint panting in the background, the kind that made your brow furrow — was he running? Or... doing something else?

The thought sent heat rushing to your cheeks.

“I just thought it was rude how you hung up on me yesterday,” you blurted out, “and how you assumed my friend was lying.”

Even as you said it, part of you cringed. Who does this? Who calls back to scold a stranger? Maybe the joblessness was starting to fry your brain.

“هل أنت جاد، سخيف—Who are—!”

Click.

You hung up before he could finish, the sound of the disconnect ringing like victory.

Pure bliss.

You let out a laugh — a real, unfiltered, slightly deranged laugh — clutching your stomach as you doubled over. Maybe you were petty. Maybe you were completely unreasonable. But damn, it felt good.

You tossed your phone onto the couch and strutted toward the kitchen for a victory snack, picturing him wherever he was — probably gripping his phone in sheer disbelief.

_________________________<(-.-(< _____

The last few days had been—if nothing else—frustrating.

First, there was you: the random woman who’d somehow found his number and wasted five whole minutes of his life. Then there was the dog, who had rolled in something unspeakable and now needed a full bath.

He pressed a kiss to the dog’s damp forehead afterward, muttering under his breath. It should’ve been an ordinary week after that, but of course it wasn’t.

Condiment Man, D Class Villain had decided the main highway needed two tons of mayonnaise and mustard. By the end of the chase, he’d been slip-sliding through yellow sludge, the stench of vinegar and oil clinging to his uniform. Even three showers hadn’t washed it out completely.

And still—somewhere between scrubbing armor and filing reports—he kept thinking about that ridiculous phone call. About the way you’d huffed, “take it back.”

So tonight, at two in the morning, he sat on the edge of his bed, phone in hand, the glow of the screen lighting the dark room. He scrolled to the unfamiliar number, thumb hovering.

He really shouldn’t.

He did anyway.

The line rang once… twice…

“Nmngh hello?” Your voice was thick with sleep, soft and disoriented. Perfect. A slow, wicked smile tugged at his mouth.

“I found you to be quite rude,” he said smoothly, accent curling around every word, “and I did not appreciate you calling me while I was busy—then hanging up on me.”

A beat of silence. Then a muffled yawn. “Oh. I’m sorry.”

You sounded half-awake, the kind of apology mumbled into a pillow. He could almost picture you—curled under a blanket, phone resting somewhere near your face, eyes already sliding shut again.

“You’re sorry?” He tilted his head, amused.

“Mmh-hm. Sorry. How was your day?” you asked, voice barely a whisper, trying to move the conversation along so you could drift back to sleep.

“Are you drunk?” he asked, chuckling quietly. The sound surprised even him—low, warm, real. “That would explain so much.”

“No, just…sleep. So please, okay?” you murmured.

Something in your tone—soft, unguarded—caught him off guard. The irritation that had built over the week eased out of his chest.

“I thought you wanted an apology,” he said, half-teasing.

But the only answer was a faint, uneven sound: your breathing slowing into snores.

He stared at the phone, the corners of his mouth twitching. Outside, rain pattered gently against the window, and somehow your snores—monstrous as they were—fit perfectly with it.

He should’ve hung up immediately. Instead, he listened for a few quiet seconds longer.

Then he ended the call.

________________________>)-.-)>_______

A few days later, it happened again—another accidental call.

You were halfway through the seafood aisle when you heard a soft, tentative:

“Hello? …Hello?”

You froze. Pulled out your phone. “Uh—hello?”

There was a pause, then that voice. That deep, unmistakable voice with its smooth Arabic lilt.

“It’s you.”

You rolled your eyes, switching the phone to your other ear as you stared down a package of tilapia.

“Don’t you have better things to do than call me?”

“I could ask you the same,” he said. “You butt-dialed me. I’ve been listening to you debate for the last hour—tilapia or catfish, hmm?”

You could practically hear the smirk in his voice.

“So you’ve just been listening instead of hanging up?” you shot back.

Silence. Then, a quiet exhale.

“…What are you making?”

You blinked, surprised by the sudden softness in his tone. “I don’t know. I just want some fish. Why?”

“Forget the tilapia and the catfish. Get the cod. You can make a lemon-garlic baked cod with fattoush sa—”

You burst out laughing. “You really think my cooking skills are that advanced?”

He chuckled, unbothered. “I’ll talk you through it.”

That line—the way he said it—did something strange to your stomach. It was slow, deliberate… almost teasing. You swallowed hard.

“Wh-what?”

“I’ll tell you what to get,” he continued, voice dipping lower, “and I’ll tell you how to make it. In fact… I’ll make it with you.”

“You just happen to have all the ingredients on hand?” you teased, trying to hide how flustered you were.

“Yes,” he said smoothly, “I just happen to have everything I need. Now follow my instructions, and someone like you might just get a taste of perfection.”

You could practically hear his grin. Cocky. Infuriating. Way too charming.

That night, you cooked together—his voice guiding you through the steps, sometimes laughing when you messed up, sometimes going quiet just to listen to you hum. The cod turned out delicious, and somehow the conversation drifted to movies.

“You’ve never seen Kill Bill?” you gasped.

He laughed. “No. Should I?”

“You have to. It’s a classic. I mean, you listened to my cooking disasters; the least you can do is watch a good movie.”

There was a pause. Then, softly:

“…I’ll watch it with you.”

You smiled before you could stop yourself.

“I’ll talk you through it,” you added, voice low and playful.

______________________________^(-.-)^_

The next time you called him, it was early morning. You wanted to ask how to make crepes—since, according to him, he was a “master chef.”

He’d mentioned he was getting ready for work, and you’d joked, “What, like an office job? Sitting behind a desk, sipping coffee, typing away all serious?”

That made him laugh—a deep, unexpected sound that lingered in your ear long after.

By then, you’d learned a few things about him. His name was Damian, and he had a dog named Titus, who apparently loved the sound of your voice. Sometimes, while you talked, you could hear the faint rustle of fur or a bark in the background, followed by Damian’s amused sigh.

He’d even sent you pictures once—Titus caught mid-roll, tongue out, or sleeping in an impossibly awkward position that made you grin until your cheeks hurt.

“Alright,” Damian finally said, voice lighter than you’d ever heard it. “I’ve got to get to my ‘office job,’~” he teased, mimicking your tone from earlier.

You laughed softly, pretending you didn’t notice the warmth that had settled between you.

When the call ended, Damian found himself smiling at his phone—an involuntary, almost foolish grin. Maybe today would be a good day.

And though he couldn’t quite place why… he had a feeling it had something to do with you.

__________________<(-.-(>_____________

Damian had started catching slack from his family—mostly from his brother.

Dick had noticed how often he’d been glued to his phone lately.

“You’ve been smiling at your screen like a teenager,” Dick said, leaning against the doorway with his arms crossed. “You should run a background check on whoever this girl is. For all you know, she could be dangerous.”

Damian scoffed, scrolling absently through his messages. “You’re paranoid.”

“I’m right,” Dick countered, half-grinning. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you when she turns out to be a supervillain.”

Damian muttered, which only made his brother laugh as he walked off.

He wouldn’t admit it out loud, but lately—those late-night calls, the laughter, the random conversations about nothing—had been the only thing that made the world feel a little lighter.

Across town, your best friend had noticed the change in you, too.

“Strange how a few phone calls can turn someone’s whole vibe around,” she said, curling your hair around her finger as you both lounged on the couch. “You’re actually…happy. Like, glowing. I’m jealous—a random stranger gets the credit instead of your fine-ass best friend?”

You snorted. “Shut up.”

“I’m serious!” she said, grinning but softening as she looked at you. “I haven’t seen you this happy since we were kids.”

____________________>(-.-)<___________

“Damian,” you said his name with a tender softness that earned an even softer response.

The way it rolled off your tongue was… majestic — enough to make your stomach twist and bloom with nervous warmth.

And when he said your name — the low rumble of it, the way his voice lingered over each vowel — it made something inside you unfurl.

Every time you said his name, Damian closed his eyes and savored it.

He needed it.

He needed you to say his name, to bless the telephone with the sound of it.

“Damian.”

He hummed in response, a sound so deep it vibrated through the receiver.

“Have you seen that new Mongolian stir-fry place opening downtown?” you asked, trying to sound casual even though your heart was a drumbeat in your throat.

“I get my first paycheck tomorrow, and I wanna go—”

He cut you off.

“Are you asking me on a date?”

There was a playful lilt in his voice, but underneath it, something hopeful.

You scoffed, hiding a smile.

“I was just telling you my plans.”

A pause.

“I mean, you could join me. Assuming you’re not some crazy villain or serial killer. And it’s a public place, so you can’t exactly kidnap me.”

You dragged out your next word, teasing him:

“Buuuut… if you’re that desperate to hang out with me, I guess you can come.”

You sounded confident — but your hands were shaking.

There was a quiet laugh on the other end, then his voice dropped lower.

“Okay.”

You blinked, unsure if you heard right.

“Okay?”

“Tomorrow. Twelve?”

You smiled before you could stop yourself.

“Yeah… tomorrow. Twelve. I’ll see you.”

The line went silent with a soft click.

And suddenly you were clutching your chest, staring at your phone like it had betrayed you.

What if he was… some old guy?

Or a catfish?

Or, worse, an organ harvester?

You pressed your face into your pillow and groaned.

You’d find out tomorrow.

Woorth it!

__________________[>]-.-]______________

The morning felt impossibly long. Butterflies churned in your stomach as you got ready, your hands shaking slightly as you brushed your hair and adjusted your outfit for the hundredth time. You found yourself sneaking glances at your phone, half-expecting him to call, half-wishing he wouldn’t—either way, you couldn’t resist.

You arrived at the restaurant early, fidgeting as you waited. Your eyes kept scanning the entrance, each passing second stretching longer than the last. You took a deep breath, trying to calm the nervous flutter in your chest, but it did nothing. You were a bundle of anticipation and awkward excitement.

And then you heard it.

**“Hello?”**

Your pulse skipped. That unmistakable voice—warm, smooth, teasing—right behind you. Slowly, you turned.

There he was. Damian.

Tall, impossibly well-built without looking like he was trying. Shaggy curls tumbled just above his eyes, brushing against his brow, giving him a casual, effortless charm. His outfit was simple but striking—a fitted green shirt layered under a sleek black jacket, paired with dark jeans. It somehow managed to look both relaxed and classy. The cut of his jacket, the breadth of his shoulders, the tone of his muscular arms—it was enough to make your cheeks heat up.

“Hello,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, heart hammering in your chest.

He smiled immediately, eyes lighting up. The sight of you—adorable in the most effortless way, cute but with a hint of quiet confidence—made him pause for just a second.

**“It’s…nice to hear you say hello in person,”** he said, voice low and warm, just like you imagined it—but somehow better.

Your stomach did a backflip. Everything about this moment—the butterflies, the sunlight catching in his hair, the smell of the restaurant mingling with the faint scent of him—was overwhelming in the best possible way.

You smiled, unsure whether to giggle, blush, or just freeze in place. He leaned just slightly closer, and the world felt impossibly small.

______________<[-.-[<]________________

The meal passed in a blur of laughter, teasing, and quiet moments that made your heart hammer in your chest.

Damian had a way of leaning just close enough to brush your arm while reaching for a menu, his fingers grazing yours accidentally—or maybe not so accidentally. Every time his hand lingered a second longer than necessary, a shiver ran up your spine. His smile was devastating: crooked, confident, and effortless, as if he knew exactly how much it affected you.

He laughed at everything you said, even your small jokes, like you were the only person in the world worth paying attention to. He complimented you in ways that made you blush without ever seeming obvious: a brush of your hair out of your face, an appreciative glance when you smiled, the soft tilt of his head when he studied you across the table. Every glance, every movement was magnetic.

By the time the dessert menu arrived, he insisted on paying, a teasing comment on how he was “already invested in hearing you ramble about chocolate or vanilla.” You tried to protest, but he only shook his head, his dark eyes twinkling, and you found yourself laughing instead of arguing.

Outside, the brisk evening air wrapped around you as he walked you home. You shivered, and instinctively reached out your pinky.

His hand found yours immediately, large, warm, and grounding against the cold. He entwined his fingers with yours, the heat of his grip sending sparks straight through you. Your face burned hot, and you felt the silence between you stretch in a delicious, heavy way as he guided you step by step.

At your building, the moment lingered longer than necessary. The streetlights painted golden streaks across the sidewalk, and he stopped, turning to you slowly.

“Hey,” he said softly, his hand still holding yours, thumb brushing against the back of your fingers. “I… I like this. Us. Right now.”

You could barely speak, the weight of his presence pressing against your chest. His eyes held yours—dark, sincere, mesmerizing—and your stomach fluttered uncontrollably.

Then he leaned in, brushing his lips gently against yours. Tender. Careful. The brush of his hand on your cheek sent a jolt of warmth through your body. He pulled back just enough to search your eyes, and the world seemed to narrow to the two of you, standing in the cold, the street fading away.

“I love you,” he whispered, voice low, almost reverent.

Your heart stuttered, chest tightening. The words felt impossibly right, tumbling from your lips before you could think twice.

“I love you.”

He smiled, a soft, triumphant curve of lips, and pulled you into a gentle, enveloping hug. Your cheek rested against his chest, his heartbeat steady and grounding, and for a moment, everything else—cold air, streetlights, fears, doubts—simply disappeared.

So the day of his birthday, the day he tried to lock himself into his office without any retort on how he chose to spend the day but was instead dragged to a family dinner in his honor. He begrudgingly accepted the book bestowed upon him by his elder brother.

He had a stupid smug look on his face almost as if he did something grand and inventive. “Prey tell brother, what am I to do with a dead man's childish visions of a disillusioned world?” His face contorted into an unsatisfied frown.

“Did you just so happen to forget the date of a surprise party you planned, walk into a random store and pick up the first thing you saw and high tailed it back here to a meal Alfred prepared yet you took credit for the entire event?” The sheepish grin on his brother's face told him everything he needed to know. “ I had important things to do today and I would have rather not been here. I could have been finishing off weeks worth of paperwork and complaints but where am I? here, listening to the empty thoughts of a fool and his wishful thinking.” His foot tapped impatiently as he waited for Dick to back away from his car, if he left now he could finish a few documents up at home.

He could even hunker down and grab an hour of sleep before the streets of Gotham needed him. “Come on little D!” The man exclaimed while standing on his tippy toes pushing his head into the car. “ I didn't grab the first thing I saw” , his stupid growing wider by the second.

“ I grabbed the third thing I saw” Damian rolled his eyes and snorted. “Wow how Thoughtful Grayson, truly you must be a saint.” Damian tapped his finger on the steering wheel, the feeling of Dicks hot breath brushing across his cheek agitated him enough to forcibly grab his brother's face and push him out the window.

“If I take the stupid book will you let me leave in peace?” Once again he gave into the grown man's foolish demands. “ Yes “ Dick smiled now feeling satisfied because, well he'd feel guilty if he didn't give his baby brother a gift for his birthday. “Yes I will”

Damian took a moment, he really thought about his actions and the choices he could make in the next few seconds. Damian thought about it for three seconds and he snatched the book from his brother's hands and booked it home before the circus dweller could speak another word.

When he got home he tossed the book on his couch and left it there for a week.

Once again he found the book in his way. He had been trying clip Titus toenails but found his bottom disturbed by the hard cover of - Alice in fucking wonderlands.

That's how the book ended up on his bottom shelf for the next year. That's where it should have remained until he eventually moved from this place and tossed it after no longer feeling guilty about it and forgetting where he even got the book in the first place.

____________________________________

Things never seemed to turn out the way Damian Wayne wanted them to. The formidable master of mixed martial arts, skilled swordsman, and occasional wielder of mystic energy thanks to a shaman in Tibet -- was no stranger to danger. He’d faced assassins, monsters, and men twice his size without flinching.

And yet, he didn’t break his arm doing any of those things.

No, Damian fractured his arm while chasing Debora, an elderly woman with dementia who had decided she was eight years old again and wanted to play tag. The hospital staff, especially Damian, did not want to play tag. Unfortunately, the universe had other plans. One misplaced ice cube, a crash cart coming around the corner, and a very undignified fall later, Damian Wayne found himself benched for the next two months.

Even Titus had started to become agitated by the man's presence, the over consumption of the dog's previous favorite pastime: fetch. It was now a dull , boring and tedious task used to distract the poor man. One which led to the rediscovery of Alice in wonderland tucked away in a small cover of his bookshelf gathered months of dust. “What the hell, might as well read it” he looked down at his dog for moral support but the poor thing had run away in hopes of getting a break.

He read one paragraph and had already had enough. With a quiet huff, Damian snapped the book shut. Boring.

He sat there for a while, trying to think of something else to do, maybe eat, maybe handle some paperwork. Somehow, that ended with him doing his taxes. When even that failed to hold his attention, he stared at the book again.

With nothing better to do, he opened it.

He found himself lingering on the description of the girl Alice. Blonde hair, curious eyes, a tendency to wander into trouble. The image reminded him of Stephanie: bright, well-meaning, often dismissed.

Damian tried to read more of the book but with each passing moment he was doodling on the sides of the book mapping out each character as described. He needed a placement for everything before his mind could settle on reading the rest. He had nearly broken through the first chapter before receiving a call from his brother checking up on his well-being to which he put the book A side, yet he was never able to shake the thought from the back of his mind.

The book terrorized him and his thoughts for weeks on end. Even as he was getting his cast cut off of his hand he thought about that damned book, and today after Tammy decided to give a patient medication they said they were allergic to but of course she knew better because “ she's an RN” and “She knows best” Damian needed something to dense his thoughts. The remainder of the first chapter and the next chapter was broken down that night, his body broken down from exhaustion gave out before he could start the next.

The book was forgotten until the man found himself in the middle of another mini life crisis. He needed something — his signature brand of brain rot — to quiet the noise in his head.

So, he went to the park. Sitting beneath a tree, he opened Alice in Wonderland again, pen in hand, and began to doodle in the margins. Sometimes it was nonsense — shapes, faces, a bird passing overhead. Other times, he sketched fragments of the world around him: a woman reading on a bench, a dog chasing leaves, the pattern of sunlight through the branches.

As he read and drew, a strange calm settled over him. The tension in his shoulders eased; the weight in his chest lightened. By the time his lunch break was nearly over, Damian felt... better.

____________________________________

Things had been going surprisingly well for Damian. Whenever stress hit — a brother annoying him, a father arguing, or even the weather itself raining on his parade — he would pop open his book. He savored every line, every indentation, every doodle, like it was a finite soup made from freshly grown ingredients in the Garden of Eden. For the past few weeks, it had worked: less anger, more steady focus.

Even so, he found himself agreeing to attend one of his father’s charity events: Books for the Needy. Damian didn’t understand why homeless people would even want books while struggling to survive — he chalked it up to another idiotic idea pushed by the team of yes-men constantly swaddling his father. To save face, he went along.

Expecting something stupid to happen, Damian brought his book with him, just in case he needed a breather. He had only two chapters left — maybe tonight, finally, he could finish it.

But he did not. His father had whisked him over to meet some young lady Alisa, apparently the governor’s daughter for some baffling reason about “making connections.” Damian had nodded at the appropriate moments, smiled faintly, and filed away every meaningless word his father droned on. Every syllable bounced off him like water on glass.

Alisa, for her part, was growing impatient. She tapped her fingers on the table, eyes flicking to him as if he were a puzzle she couldn’t solve. Damian stared back at her briefly, then slowly shifted his gaze to the book lying abandoned beside him. A faint impulse whispered that it was still there — a fragment of sanity in this endless parade of pointless chatter.

When she huffed and leaned forward again, Damian rose smoothly, murmuring something about needing the restroom. The book remained. He could almost feel its spine silently encouraging him, waiting. The corridor smelled faintly of antiseptic and perfume. He splashed his face with cold water, letting it sting enough to remind him that the world could still be sharp, real.

Returning, he caught her searching for him again. Her expression was impatient, expectant. And for a moment, something in him cracked. Not out of malice, but exhaustion. He slipped toward the nearest exit, keeping his movements calm, deliberate, a shadow weaving through the crowd.

He slipped out the back door before anyone could notice. The night air hit him with the sharp, bracing chill of freedom. For a moment, the world felt quiet, simple, tolerable. He carried nothing with him but the memory of the book lying there, open, waiting.

Once inside his apartment, Damian peeled off his coat and let it drop to the floor. The weight of the day, the tedious smiles, the forced civility, all seemed to press down on him. He needed a shower — not just to wash off sweat and city grime, but to scrub away the lingering smell of the encounter, the faint perfume of her hair and impatience that somehow clung to him. He let the hot water run over him, letting it sting, soak, and rinse away everything except the one nagging thought that refused to be washed clean: the book.

Sleep offered a brief reprieve, though Damian knew it wouldn’t last. Morning brought it back in full force. Panic gripped him before he even opened his eyes: the book was gone.

He called his father, voice tight with barely restrained frustration. The answer made his chest constrict. The book had been given away by accident. Every carefully doodled margin, every fleeting sketch of life and imagination, gone — as if someone had plucked a piece of his calm right from the world.

An apology followed, weak and pitiful, accompanied by the offer of a replacement book. Damian’s jaw tightened. He didn’t want a replacement. He wanted that one. That book had become a lifeline, a ritual, a tiny corner of control in a world that constantly demanded more than he could give.

And as the days stretched on, each one bringing new annoyances, failures, and inconveniences, the loss gnawed at him. Every minor irritation seemed magnified, every frustration sharper. He began to wonder, with a bitter twist of regret, if he should ever have picked up that stupid book at all.

____________________________________

You, on the other hand, were having the best week of your life—or at least, as good as your life could get. Right now, you were living in the storage closet of the bakery where you worked. The owners didn’t know you stayed after closing, hiding among sacks of flour and the sweet, heavy smell of sugar and yeast. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was warm, and more importantly, it was yours. You didn’t have anywhere else to go, and you refused to be another burden on your friend.

Aged out of the foster system, you’d been handed freedom with no idea what to do with it. No one teaches you life skills when they’re too busy teaching you how to survive. Baking and cleaning were the only things you were good at, so that’s what you stuck to. You worked hard, lived off leftover pastries and scraps from the kitchen—meals that filled your stomach but not your spirit. It wasn’t long before the carbs caught up to you: soft edges where there used to be angles, a few stubborn acne scars you tried not to notice in the mirror.

But even with all that, you were pretty. Beautiful, even. You just didn’t believe it.

You’d always felt like an outcast, like an alien forced to live among people who spoke a language you’d never quite learn. Conversations never flowed; they stumbled and died, leaving behind that look you hated—the one that said you’re weird, the one that made your skin crawl. That look made you feel small and exposed, like you were something to be tolerated, not understood.

When you were fourteen, they told you it was autism. When you were seventeen, they added ADHD to the list. You thought things would change after that — that someone would hand you a magical pill to fix whatever was wrong inside you. You thought maybe you wouldn’t feel so *weird* anymore.

But nothing really changed. You just kept existing, trapped inside your own skin, regretting everything you were and everything you weren’t. You tried to ignore it, to shove it all down, but the pressure only built until the nights came where you’d bury your face in your pillow and cry until your chest hurt.

You were exhausted — not just tired, but soul-deep worn out. There were nights you wanted to stop trying altogether.

Then your friend invited you to a book giveaway.

“I have a phone,” you’d laughed. “I can read all the fanfiction I want!” The thought of walking two miles after an already brutal shift made your feet ache just thinking about it. Still, you went. Maybe out of boredom, maybe because a small part of you still hoped for something — anything — new.

That’s when you found it. A single book, abandoned and nearly forgotten, sitting in a small pile of battered, broken ones. The corners were worn, but it was still in better shape than the rest. When you opened it, you saw why no one had taken it — doodles scrawled along the margins, tiny notes between paragraphs, little sketches and words from whoever had owned it before.

But it felt alive. So you took it.

That night, back in your makeshift room — the rolled-out sleeping bag, the soft hum of the bakery fridge through the wall — you clicked on your flashlight and let its beam fall across the shiny, cracked cover. The moment you started reading, something shifted.

The story itself was okay, but the drawings — the messy, detailed sketches, the stray thoughts scribbled in the corners — they *lit up* the pages. You could feel the person behind them, their humor, their impatience, their wonder. It felt like the book was talking directly to you, like you weren’t alone for once.

Every night that week, you read. And for the first time in a long time, life didn’t feel so heavy.

____________________________________

“What-where’s the rest of the doodles?” you muttered, flipping through the pages in confusion. The last two chapters were bare blank, untouched.

You stared at the emptiness, waiting for something to spark, for the connection to come back, but it didn’t. When you tried to keep reading, your mind just… stopped. Numbness filled the space where curiosity should’ve been. You flipped back, rereading old pages, tracing the lines of little sketches and half-finished words, but it didn’t scratch that itch in your brain.

When a customer ordered a blueberry tart, all you could think of was the Red Queen. When you saw a stack of cards, you pictured the doodle of the queen’s guards falling in a heap. Everything reminded you that the story wasn’t finished, that the person who made those doodles, who poured their thoughts into the margins of a children’s story, was probably long gone. You hated that thought.

Soon enough the noise and chaos of work had crushed your spirit, and you couldn’t take it anymore. Your lunch break couldn’t come soon enough. The moment the clock hit twelve, you bolted out the door and crossed the street to the park, desperate to breathe.

Your head pounded. The world felt too loud, too bright, too *much*. And worst of all, your one source of relief: the book was unfinished. It gnawed at you, clawed at the back of your mind, until the frustration built up so high you could feel tears threatening to spill. You were on the verge of a full meltdown… over something so simple.

That’s when you noticed it.

The sharp tick tock of the park’s old clock tower cut through the haze. You blinked, staring up at it the chipped paint, the crooked hands, the faint hum of the gears inside. It looked… familiar. So very familiar.

Then your eyes darted to a woman walking her dog, to the faded blue bench, to the street beyond the park gates. Everything felt like déjà vu.

This was all in the book.

Your fingers scrambled through the worn pages, flipping faster and faster, your breath catching as you recognized every doodle, every little scene. The clock tower. The park. The bakery display case. The sketch of a blueberry tart topped with whipped cream tart. The tiny jukebox from the Indian restaurant across the street. Even the front door of the old movie theater where you often snuck in.

You felt dizzy. Whoever had drawn these… they’d been *here*. You’d probably even seen them, maybe handed them their food.

This person existed. They came here. They saw the same things you did. Maybe they could tell you why they stopped drawing, why they left the story unfinished, why they’d left you hanging on the edge like this.

Not that they did it on purpose, of course.

But still you've found your person, well not yet but you could find them

____________________________________

Over the past week you made a quiet observation while watching the customers. You see it all started with the blueberry tart, an image repeated in the book three times. Each image is accompanied by a large dollop of whip cream on top of the tart.

This clueless a big lead in your investigation, not many people ordered the blueberry tart in the first place and when they did they took it to go and when they took it to go they order it with out whipped cream because the cream would melt and create a nasty slug of wet warm milk juice and no one wanted that shit!

The young generation of today barely had time to sit down and relax; they were always on the go so no one ever actually sat in and used the dining area. Everyone used Gothameats or g00ndash to get their food. This was a su-

“Blueberry tart with whipped cream.”

Your eyes flicked up from the napkin you’d been scribbling notes on — your “evidence,” as you liked to call it — and for a split second, irritation flared. You were in the middle of a very important deduction, and whoever interrupted you had just—

Oh.

Standing in front of you was possibly the most beautiful man you’d ever seen.

Tall, olive skin with a faint golden undertone that caught the light, dark curls pinned loosely into a low bun, a few strands falling around his face like he’d styled them by accident. His eyes green, sharp, and restless were haloed by faint circles of exhaustion. A scar cut through his eyebrow, adding just enough imperfection to make him unfairly perfect.

Not symmetrical, not polished just… *real.* Perfect in the way storms are perfect.

“Hello?” His voice was deep, smooth, threaded with a thick accent that wrapped around the words like silk. “Blueberry tart. Whipped cream. Please.”

There it was that tone. Snappy. Impatient. Like he was only tolerating the act of speaking. He sighed, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling, and your brain short-circuited.

“Have you ever read *Alice in Wonderland?!*”

The words exploded out of you before your mind caught up. Your palms slammed down on the counter, jolting the tray napkins went flying, fluttering like startled birds before smacking right into his face.

For a second, the entire bakery froze.

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just stood there, napkins sliding off his shoulder, staring at you with a glare so sharp it could’ve cut through marble.

Oh, this was bad.

Really bad.

But also he didn't say no yet.

Damian just wanted his blueberry tart. That was it. One tart, maybe with whipped cream if they hadn’t run out again, and five minutes of peace.

But instead, there you were.

“I just want my tart, can I—” he exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’ve had a long day, I don’t care about—why are you asking me about Alice in Wonderland?”

She didn’t flinch. Her hands rested lightly on the book, curling over the edges. “Because,” she said evenly, sliding it toward him, “this was found in the donation bin at the library.”

Damian blinked, eyes flicking between the doodles and her calm, persistent stare. He could smell the warm blueberry tart through the glass. Just one bite, and maybe he could forget her entirely. Maybe.

“Do I… know you? Am I supposed to?” he muttered, his tone clipped.

“Do you recognize this?” she asked, opening the page so the sketches were visible. “Did you… draw in it?”

His fingers itched to grab the fork again. His tart, still warm and perfectly plated, called to him. But then his eyes lingered on the tiny doodles — careful lines and notes scrawled in the margins, the same style he knew by heart. With a begrudging sigh, he muttered, “Blueberry tart… blueberry tart… fine. Yes. It’s mine. I drew in it. Happy now?”

She didn’t flinch at his glare. She tilted her head, studied him for a moment, then let her hands slide lightly across the counter, steadying herself. She spoke slowly, choosing words carefully, but with quiet insistence. Each syllable was measured, patient, unhurried, as if giving him space to react while still holding her ground.

Your eyes brightened. “So it *is* yours.”

He wanted nothing more than that tart. Warm, flaky, perfect. The whipped cream was still slightly melted on top, the way he liked it. And yet, here she was, insisting on dragging his attention away from it. His fingers twitched toward the fork. One bite, and maybe he could forget this interruption. Maybe.

“Wonderful observation,” he said dryly, finally taking his tart. “Now, can I ask how you got a job here? Or are you the reason this place is empty every other day?”

“I’m not the reason—they get customers, they just don’t dine in.”

You followed him to his seat, the scrape of your shoes against the tile loud in the quiet bakery. A pout tugged at your lips, but you didn’t stop. He let out an annoyed sigh and leaned back in his chair, keeping the distance he seemed to demand.

“Aren’t you supposed to be at the counter?” he muttered, eyes on the tart in front of him. “Away from me.” He dug into it, steam curling up toward his face.

“There’s no one here,” you said softly, glancing around. Your words barely registered as irritation; the bakery really was empty. Then your voice pitched slightly, tinged with urgency: “Why didn’t you finish drawing in the book?”

Damian’s eyes narrowed. She stared at him sometimes, but quickly looked away whenever he tried to hold her gaze. She twisted a loose strand of hair around her finger, fidgeting, and yet… she didn’t leave. If she was so nervous, why was she actively hunting him down like this?

“I didn’t stop the book,” he said finally, voice tight, almost a growl. He jabbed the fork into the tart with more force than necessary. “It… accidentally got sent to a charity event, thanks to my idiot father.”

He studied you for a moment, eyes narrowing as though weighing the danger of your persistence. Then, he leaned over and grabbed the book. “I’ll take it,” he said, voice clipped but quieter now, “but I promise… I’ll bring it back when I’m finished.”

Your shoulders slumped with relief. That was all you needed. You didn’t argue, didn’t insist. He needed his space. He needed his tart. And somehow, that simple agreement—him taking the book, promising to return it—was enough.

You watched as he sank into the chair, carefully cutting into his tart, steam curling into the air, eyes flicking occasionally toward the margins of the book he held. You stayed on the edge of the counter, silent, letting him eat, letting him breathe.

Minutes passed. The bakery is quiet around you. He focused, he ate, he read. And you? You simply waited. Didn’t rush, didn’t pester. Just… waited.

When he finally stood to leave, the book tucked carefully under his arm, he gave a faint, almost imperceptible nod in your direction. You smiled, a wave of warmth spreading across your chest.

You waved back, bright and small.

A week had passed. Damian returned, the same tart in mind, but this time, you were ready. You carried it carefully in a small package, setting it down in front of him as he slid into a chair at the quiet corner table.

He didn’t say much, didn’t ask questions—just focused on the tart, slicing it with methodical precision. You, meanwhile, opened the book and began tracing the outlines of his doodles with your finger, giggling softly at the little notes he’d scribbled in the margins. Each tiny quip, every whimsical swirl, made him shift in his seat, an unfamiliar blush creeping over his cheeks. He looked away quickly, trying to hide it.

He had actually tried to make the notes interesting, knowing you’d read them. And over the last week, the thought of you—excited, strange, persistent—had settled heavily in his mind. That way your cheeks puffed out when you smiled, the flutter in your voice when you got excited… it was annoying and distracting, and yet… he found he didn’t have anything better to do than think about it.

“Thanks for finishing the book with me,” you said, leaning forward, passing him the package. “I got Alice Through the Looking-Glass for you to read, and we can start that one next week. Well—I’m not much of a drawer, but you know…” Your cheeks warmed, and you trailed off, embarrassed.

Damian held a hand up before you could finish. “We aren’t starting some book club because of this little incident, and I don’t intend to waste my precious time on you.”

You froze, bottom lip quivering. “O-oh, that’s okay,” you murmured. But Damian’s eyes softened slightly, catching the hesitation, the earnest excitement behind it. He groaned, pretending annoyance, but agreed internally.

“Good,” you said, grinning, “we can alternate each week. We’ll read two chapters each, then talk about it.” You clutched your own book, practically vibrating with excitement. “I have to lock up now.”

Damian followed, standing by the door as you slipped out ahead of him. The night air was crisp, the streets quiet. He didn’t move away.

You faltered, hands brushing over the straps of your bag as your cheeks flushed hot. “Y-you’re… you’re waiting?” you asked, voice uneven. “To, uh… walk me home?”

He didn’t answer right away, simply tilting his head, watching. There was a quiet patience there, an unspoken warning—because he knew walking alone could be dangerous.

Your stomach flipped. You weren’t used to letting anyone know where you lived. And now, with him standing there, waiting, it was all too real. You fumbled, looking away, fingers twisting nervously.

“Are you…walking me home ?” you blurted, voice barely above a whisper. Your mind raced, hoping he wouldn’t push further, that he wouldn’t realize the truth. “ because I can walk myself home!”

Damian’s lips twitched, almost amused, but he stayed silent, giving you a moment. The silence stretched, but it wasn’t oppressive—it was careful, measured, patient. You swallowed hard, cheeks burning, and took a tentative step forward.

“I… I just…” You trailed off, cheeks heating even more. The thought of him knowing your little secret, of your sanctuary—the bakery, your world—was terrifying and thrilling at the same time. You avoided his gaze, fumbling with the tart bag, wishing your brain would stop screaming.

Damian finally spoke, low and calm, the kind of voice that made the edges of your panic soften. “I’m not suspicious, i'm not going to murder you” he said simply. “I’m waiting because it’s safer. That’s all.”

You blinked, the thought of him wanting to wall you home to keep you home was sweet. The heat in your cheeks didn’t fade, but the panic ebbed slightly. You gave him a small, awkward smile and began walking, the package held tight, every step measured, heart thudding as he followed just a pace behind.

After twenty minutes of wandering in lazy, aimless circles, you finally stopped, hands twisting the strap of your bag, your chest heaving. Damian, silent the entire time, finally broke the quiet, voice sharp but low:

“Do you know where you live or not? You do know I’m not going to kill you, right?”

The words hit harder than you expected. Panic bubbled up, guilt gnawing at your chest. You couldn’t lie anymore. Not to him. Not after this week, after the way he’d patiently—or annoyingly—waited, the way he’d let you be yourself.

“I—I can’t…” Your voice broke. Your words tumbled out like spilled sugar: “I live in the storage room of the bakery I work at. If my boss ever found out… I’d get fired. I don’t have anywhere else to go. Please… please don’t tell anyone.”

Tears slid down your cheeks, hot and relentless. You couldn’t stop sobbing. Damian froze, hands half-raised, caught between wanting to comfort you and processing what you’d just confessed. Then, instinctively, he clapped a hand over your mouth.

The gesture… made everything worse. Your muffled cries turned into wracked sobs. Your hands clawed at his arm in panic, flailing as you tried to push him away. “Mmmph! Mmph! Why would—why would you think that—” you choked out, but it came out as noise, unintelligible and raw.

Nearby, a few pedestrians had noticed the struggle. Footsteps approached, curious eyes flicking toward you. Your panic spiked further, and your muffled wails grew louder.

The next thing you knew, the scene had shifted entirely. You were in his apartment. Somehow, with Damian’s swift, precise movements, you’d been escorted—or carried—inside.

You sank onto the couch, still sniffling, your cheeks damp. The large Doberman-hound mix, Titus, leaned onto the couch beside you, sniffing your ear. Little snuffles tickled you, and you couldn’t help but let out a small, startled giggle.

“Titus, down, boy,” Damian said, rolling his eyes as he perched on the opposite couch, watching you cautiously. His hand hovered near his face, unsure how to react—whether to let you cry it out or to try and soothe you.

You swallowed, still shaking. “I make… I make a thousand dollars a month. Rent is two thousand on the low end for even a studio apartment. I can’t… I don’t have the funds.” Your voice trembled, but you tried to keep it together.

Damian stared at you, completely unprepared for your honesty. He opened his mouth, then closed it, as if testing which words to use. “You… you don’t have any relatives to stay with? Or… does your job not pay enough?”

You shook your head. “No. I’m an orphan. I told you that before.” Another hiccup of sobs escaped, and Titus nudged your shoulder with his nose, making you let out a small, almost helpless laugh.

Your eyes wandered, finally taking in the apartment. It was immaculate—modern, expensive, pristine. The furniture gleamed, light reflected off polished surfaces. Plush rugs covered the floors, carefully chosen art decorated the walls. Everything smelled faintly of fresh linen and leather, a quiet, understated luxury. Your breath caught—you’d never been somewhere like this before.

Damian noticed the glance and raised a brow. “Impressed?” he asked dryly, leaning back, arms crossed. “Do you have a problem with it?”

You looked down at your trembling hands, cheeks still hot, embarrassed. “N-no… it’s just… I’ve never… been somewhere like this. It’s… nice. Too nice.”

He snorted, though a faint softness lingered in his expression. “Hmm. I see. You’re not used to order, to comfort, to… space that doesn’t suffocate you.”

You shifted on the couch, still unsure, still flustered by the sudden privacy, the way he simply allowed you to be there. The dog pawed at your arm, nudging your sleeve, and you let out a small laugh, sniffling as you wiped your cheeks.

Damian stared at you, uncomfortably aware of how vulnerable you looked, how much you’d trusted him with a truth you didn’t tell anyone. And despite his protests, his carefully constructed barriers, he felt…

____________________________________

A few weeks later, you were no longer sneaking around the bakery after hours. Damian, in his usual stern-but-pragmatic way, had insisted you stay somewhere safer than a closet surrounded by sugar and flour. Now, you had a proper room in his apartment, small but cozy, a bed neatly tucked into the corner, shelves filled with a few personal items you’d managed to bring.

The first mornings were awkward. You’d rise before him, slipping into the kitchen to prepare lunches—sandwiches, little containers of fruit, maybe something more elaborate when you felt ambitious. Damian rarely acknowledged it. The first week, he didn’t eat any of it, claiming he preferred the cafeteria at Wayne Pharmaceuticals, his precise tone suggesting the choice was deliberate.

Yet over time… he started. At first, it was cautious—a nibble, a quiet bite while pretending to check emails. Then, eventually, he’d look up, eyes flicking toward you, and mutter a simple, “It’s… acceptable.” The words weren’t much, but they were enough. Enough to make your heart do a little jump every time.

It was during one of those evenings that you both decided, on a whim, to watch *Alice in Wonderland* by Tim Burton. You carried a tray of snacks, neatly arranged with popcorn, a small tart, and cups of tea. Damian’s usual glare softened ever so slightly when you placed it on the coffee table.

You sat on opposite ends of the couch at first, a polite distance, eyes half on the screen, half on each other.

“Notice how different the Red Queen is from the book?” you asked, nudging the tart toward yourself.

Damian’s brow furrowed. “Indeed. Less subtle, far more… theatrical. And the dialogue—exaggerated. Unrealistic.”

“Exactly! And the way she shrieks constantly. In the book, she’s terrifying, but this… cartoonish,” you giggled softly.

He tilted his head, eyes watching your lips move, your expression bright in the soft glow of the TV. “You notice such details.”

“I do. I read carefully,” you replied, a faint blush warming your cheeks.

For a while, the commentary was your shared focus. You didn’t notice that your knees were inching closer, or that the subtle warmth of his arm brushing the couch beside you made your stomach tighten.

Damian eventually stood to get some more snacks from the kitchen. When he returned, something had shifted. He slid back onto the couch, somehow a little closer than before, his long leg stretching toward yours. You stiffened slightly but didn’t move away.

“The caterpillar’s voice is… off,” you muttered, shifting so your shoulder just lightly brushed his.

He glanced at you, green eyes sharp but unreadable. “It… irritates me. Yet, I admit, you notice things others do not.”

You laughed softly, and this time, your elbow nudged him accidentally. Instead of pulling away, he didn’t move. Not quite. The distance between you shrank, subtle but undeniable.

A faint warmth crept along your arm where it touched him. You were acutely aware of the soft rise and fall of his chest, the faint scent of his cologne mingled with the faint metallic tang of the apartment—clean, expensive, yet lived-in.

As the film continued, your commentary slowed. Your shoulders leaned closer to his, small shared observations about the movie threading between you. Damian made no move to shift away; instead, he seemed to relax in your proximity.

“You’re… entertaining company,” he said quietly, his voice low, almost shy in a way you’d never heard before.

You blinked, cheeks warm. “I could say the same about you,” you whispered, voice barely audible over the movie’s score.

For the first time, Damian didn’t retort. He simply let the corner of his mouth twitch upward, subtle, controlled. And when the movie ended, he didn’t move to the other side of the couch.

You realized, slowly, that neither of you wanted to.

By the time the Red Queen shrieked her famous *“Off with her head!”*, the space between you and Damian had quietly disappeared. Your legs were tucked beneath you, shoulder brushing his arm every time you laughed or pointed something out on the screen. You didn’t even realize when the cushion dividing you vanished — when he’d shifted closer after returning with the snacks, the air between you charged and soft all at once.

He handed you a bowl of popcorn, fingers brushing yours. It was brief, but enough to make your breath catch. You looked up, only to find him watching you instead of the movie, his expression unreadable but his eyes unusually soft.

“What?” you asked, cheeks warming under that gaze.

He shook his head faintly, a hint of a smile at the corner of his lips. “Nothing. You just—” he paused, searching for the right word. “You seem… calmer here. Happier, maybe.”

You huffed out a small laugh, looking away before he could see how much that comment affected you. “Hard *not* to be, when there’s actual heating and no powdered sugar in my hair.”

That earned a quiet laugh from him — the kind you didn’t think he was capable of at first. It made your chest feel funny.

As the movie rolled on, your commentary grew quieter, the silences between you becoming comfortable. At some point, your head tilted, leaning against his shoulder without thinking. You expected him to move away, to stiffen up like he always did when caught off guard.

But he didn’t.

Instead, you felt his hand twitch — then slowly settle on the couch behind you, not touching but close enough that you could feel the heat of it against your back.

When the credits began to roll, neither of you moved.

“You really like happy endings, don’t you?” he murmured.

“Of course,” you said softly. “Doesn’t everyone?”

“Not everyone gets one,” he replied. But his voice wasn’t cynical. If anything, it sounded… wistful.

You tilted your head up, meeting his eyes again. “Then maybe they just haven’t reached the end yet.”

For a second, it looked like he might say something — something important. But then Titus barked from the other room, startling you both. The spell broke, and Damian exhaled, rising from the couch.

“Come on,” he said, voice lower than before. “You should get some sleep.”

“Right,” you murmured, standing too.

But as you headed for the hallway, you could still feel his gaze on you — that same unreadable, careful kind of stare — and for the first time, you didn’t want to run from it.

____________________________________

Perfect —

The smell of coffee filled the kitchen the next morning — rich, dark, and far too pleasant for how early it was. You were standing at the stove in one of his spare shirts, sleeves rolled up and hair messily tied back, humming under your breath as you flipped an omelet. The guest room had been quiet enough to sleep in, but your nerves hadn’t let you rest much. So instead of tossing and turning, you decided to make breakfast.

You’d just plated the food when Damian’s footsteps echoed down the hall. He paused in the doorway, still in his black dress shirt, cufflinks undone and collar slightly open — the picture of effortless authority even at dawn.

He blinked, clearly not expecting to find *you* there, barefoot in his kitchen. “You’re up early.”

You smiled nervously, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d make breakfast… you know, as a thank-you. For letting me stay.”

He leaned against the counter, arms crossed. His gaze flicked from the stove to the neatly arranged plates — toast, eggs, fruit, and two cups of coffee. “You didn’t have to.”

“I know,” you said quietly. “But I wanted to.”

He hesitated, then stepped closer. “You’ll spoil me if you keep this up.”

That earned him a smirk. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

He didn’t reply right away — just looked at you, really *looked* at you. The same way he had last night. Like he was still trying to figure out what you were doing in his home, and why it didn’t bother him anymore.

You broke the silence first, sliding a plate toward him. “Eat before it gets cold, Mr. Wayne.”

The corner of his mouth lifted. “You’re the only one who calls me that.”

“Well, technically, you *are* my landlord now,” you teased.

He chuckled softly and took a seat at the counter. “I’m not charging rent.”

“Not yet,” you quipped, earning another rare laugh from him.

For a while, you ate in quiet harmony — forks clinking softly against plates, sunlight spilling through the wide kitchen windows. You tried to ignore the way his sleeve brushed your arm when he reached for the salt, or the way his cologne still lingered in the air from the night before.

When he finally stood to leave, jacket draped over one arm, he paused beside you. “I’ll be back late,” he said. “You don’t have to wait up.”

You nodded. “I probably will anyway.”

He hesitated — then, in an uncharacteristic moment of softness, brushed his hand gently over your shoulder. Barely a touch. Enough to make you freeze.

“Thank you,” he murmured.

And just like that, he was gone, the sound of his footsteps fading down the hall and the quiet closing in again.

You stood there for a moment, staring at the empty doorway, your heart thudding far too hard for something so small.

Titus nudged your leg with his nose, tail wagging.

You sighed, smiling faintly. “Yeah,” you whispered to the dog, “I’m in trouble, huh?”

___________________________________

You were half-asleep on the couch when you heard the front door unlock. The clock on the wall read a little past midnight, and the movie you’d put on hours ago had long since ended.

Titus lifted his head first, ears twitching as the door opened. Damian stumbled in — not ungracefully, but certainly not his usual measured self. His tie was loosened, his hair slightly mussed, and the faint scent of whiskey followed him like a cloud.

He squinted toward you, blinking slowly. “You’re still awake?”

You sat up, pulling the blanket tighter around your legs. “I was waiting to make sure you got home safe.”

He closed the door behind him with a soft click, then toed off his shoes. “I went out with Dick. He insisted.” His tone carried a rare warmth. “Apparently I’m ‘too uptight for my own good.’”

You smiled, watching as he dropped his jacket onto the armchair. “And did he loosen you up?”

“Depends on your definition of *loosened*,” he muttered, trying to straighten his tie before giving up entirely.

You giggled — and that sound alone made something flicker in his chest. He walked toward the couch, slow and deliberate, until he stood right in front of you.

For a long moment, he just looked at you. The kind of look that made your skin warm and your throat dry.

“Do you know what he said?” Damian finally asked, voice low.

“What?”

“He said…” He exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “He said I’ve been acting strange lately. Distracted. More human, even.” His mouth quirked into a faint, self-deprecating smile. “And I didn’t disagree.”

You tilted your head, curiosity softening your features. “That’s… good, isn’t it?”

He gave a quiet, breathy laugh. “It’s *unnerving*. I don’t get distracted.”

When he met your eyes again, there was no trace of humor left. “Except when it comes to you.”

The words hung between you like static. Your breath caught — unsure if it was the whiskey talking or the truth spilling out after being held too long.

Damian leaned closer, bracing one hand on the back of the couch beside your shoulder. “You remind me of that damn book,” he murmured, eyes tracing the curve of your face.

You blinked. “Alice in Wonderland?”

He nodded slowly. “Yes. You keep tumbling into places you don’t belong… breaking every rule I’ve set for myself. And the worst part—” He swallowed hard, his voice dropping to a whisper. “—is that I stopped wanting to climb out.”

Your heart was beating so fast you were sure he could hear it. “Damian…”

He closed the distance before you could finish, his lips finding yours in a kiss that was soft, hesitant — the kind of kiss that spoke of all the times he’d *almost* said something and didn’t.

His other hand hovered uncertainly near your cheek, then settled there, thumb brushing against your skin as though to make sure you were real. You felt the faint tremor in his touch, the unsteady rhythm of someone not used to vulnerability.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. “You’ve completely ruined me, you know that?”

You let out a shaky laugh, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. “That’s a little dramatic, even for you.”

He smiled — really smiled, the kind that reached his eyes. “Then maybe I’ve fallen further down the rabbit hole than I thought.”

The room was quiet except for the soft hum of the city outside. He leaned in again, brushing another kiss to your lips — slower this time, deliberate — before murmuring against your skin: