ᴅᴀᴍɪᴀɴ ᴡᴀʏɴᴇ

You’re Immortal. He Isn’t.

Author’s Note:

I kept delaying this upload because rereading it makes me ugly cry. Anyway—here you go.

The mirror in the bedroom has become his enemy.

He stands in front of it some nights when he thinks you’re asleep, tracing the new lines at the corners of his eyes, the silver threading through the black at his temples. Forty-three looks good on him—sharp, distinguished, the kind of dangerous handsome that makes people forget he could kill them with a teaspoon—but he doesn’t see handsome. He sees subtraction.

You watch from the doorway, silent as always. You’ve watched him do this ritual for years now. First it was one gray hair he laughed about and plucked out. Then five. Then he stopped plucking.

Tonight he catches your reflection behind his.

“You’re staring,” he says without turning.

“You’re beautiful,” you answer. Simple. True.

He snorts. A tired, bitter sound. “Don’t lie to me. Not tonight.”

“I never have.”

He finally turns. The bedroom light is low; it carves shadows under his cheekbones, makes the scar that runs from his left temple to jaw look silver instead of pink. He’s still the most lethal thing you’ve ever touched. Still the only thing that can make your heart stutter after two centuries of steady rhythm.

“I used to think I’d outlive my father,” he says quietly. “That I’d be the one who had to bury him. I was ready for that. I prepared for it.”

You step closer. “Damian.”

“I never prepared to be the one left behind.” His voice cracks on the last word like thin ice. “I never prepared to watch you stay exactly the same while I… decay.”

You reach for him. He lets you. His hands settle on your waist—still strong, still warm, still trembling just enough to betray him.

“I’m not jealous of anyone else,” he murmurs against your hair. “Not the men who look at you like you’re a miracle they’ll never deserve. Not the immortals you knew before me. I’m jealous of time. I’m jealous of every second I get that you won’t miss. I’m jealous of the mornings you’ll have after my heart stops.”

Your fingers slide into his hair. There’s more salt than pepper now. You love every strand.

“You think I’ll forget you?” you whisper.

“I think you’ll remember me perfectly.” He pulls back to look at you. Green eyes wet. “And that’s worse. You’ll remember the way I kissed you at twenty, at thirty, at forty… and then one day there won’t be a forty-five. Or fifty. You’ll keep counting years alone, and I’ll just be… a very long, very detailed memory.”

You cup his face. Thumbs brush the hollows beneath his eyes.

“Then make more memories,” you say. “Right now. Tonight. Tomorrow. Every day you’re still breathing, give me something new to carry.”

He laughs—small, broken, but real. “You make it sound simple.”

“It isn’t.” You press your forehead to his. “But it’s all we have.”

He exhales against your mouth. Shaky. “I hate that I’ll leave you.”

“I hate that too.”

“But I love—” His voice fractures. He tries again. “I love that I got to be the one who aged beside you. Even if it’s only for a little while.”

You kiss him then. Slow. Deep. The way you kissed him when he was twenty and reckless and thought forever was something you could fight for. The way you’ll kiss him when he’s fifty and slower and still thinks you hung the moon. The same way you’ll remember kissing him when he’s gone.

When you pull back, he’s crying. Quietly. The way soldiers cry when no one’s watching.

“I want to grow old with you,” he whispers. “I want gray hair and bad knees and arguments about the thermostat. I want to complain about my back while you stay infuriatingly perfect. I want… more time.”

You hold him tighter.

“Then take it,” you say. “Take every second. Be greedy. Be selfish. Steal every year you can from the universe and give it to us.”

He buries his face in your neck. Shoulders shaking.

“I’m trying,” he says, muffled. “God, I’m trying so hard.”

You stroke his back. Feel the heartbeat that will one day stop. Feel the warmth that will one day cool.

When he finally lifts his head, his eyes are red but steady.

“Will you still love me,” he asks, “when I can’t keep up with you anymore? When I’m slow and fragile and you’re still… you?”

You smile. Small. Certain.

“I loved you when you were a knife-edged boy who thought affection was weakness. I loved you when you were twenty-five and furious at the world. I loved you at thirty when you learned how to laugh without looking over your shoulder. I’ll love you at eighty when your hands shake and you forget where you put your reading glasses. I’ll love you when you’re dust and I’m still here holding the shape of you in my memory.”

His breath hitches.

“Then stay,” he says. Like a plea. Like a vow. “Stay until the end of me. And then… stay longer. For both of us.”

You kiss his temple. His jaw. The corner of his mouth.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you promise.

And for tonight—for all the nights you have left—he lets himself believe it.

He lets himself be held by someone who will never stop counting the years he gave you.

Even after the counting stops.

Your breaths came in shallow, ragged gasps. Each one weaker than the last.

"Stay with me," he ordered, voice low and fierce, the way he commanded enemies or trained with his father. But this wasn't an enemy. This was you—his partner, his equal, the one person who could make the corners of his mouth twitch upward when no one else was looking. "I forbid you from dying. Do you hear me? Help is almost here. The League's medics are en route. Father is coming. You will not leave me like this."

Your hand, trembling, found his cheek. His skin was cold under the smears of your blood, but you felt the faint tremor in his jaw—the crack in the unbreakable armor he wore every day.

"Damian..." Your voice was barely a whisper, fragile as glass. You tried to smile, but it came out more like a grimace. "Always so... bossy."

He leaned closer, forehead pressing to yours, green eyes wide and frantic in a way you'd never seen before. Not even in the worst battles. "Stop talking. Save your strength."

But you couldn't. The darkness was creeping in at the edges of your vision, pulling you under like the tide. You had to say it—before it was too late.

"I wish..." You swallowed, tasting copper. "I wish we had more time... for all the things we never said."

His grip tightened, almost painfully. "Don't—"

"I love you," you breathed, the words finally free after months of almosts and maybes. "I should've said it sooner. Every day. I should've—"

A wet, broken sound escaped him—something between a growl and a sob that he would deny to his dying day. "You will say it again. Tomorrow. And the day after. You are not done."

Your fingers slipped from his cheek, strength fading. The sirens were louder now, but still not close enough.

"Damian..."

Your eyes fluttered shut.

He shook you—gently at first, then harder. "No. No. Open your eyes. That's an order. You do not get to leave me with regrets. I forbid it."

But the rise and fall of your chest had stilled.

For the first time in his life, Damian Wayne felt something inside him shatter completely.

He held you tighter against his chest, burying his face in your hair, rocking slightly as if that could somehow turn back time. The words you'd never hear echoed in his mind—the ones he'd never said aloud until this moment, too late.

"I love you too," he whispered into the silence, voice cracking on every syllable. "I should have said it every damn day. I should have..."

The sirens finally arrived, red and blue lights flooding the alley.

But you were already gone.

(The First Coffee)

7:02 a.m.

The place on 5th is already buzzing — morning commuters, the hiss of the espresso machine, that one barista who always draws hearts in the foam whether you ask for it or not.

You’re at the corner table by the window, nursing a black coffee that’s gone lukewarm because you’ve been staring at the door like it personally offended you.

He walks in at 7:04.

Not late enough to call him out. Just late enough to make you smirk.

He’s in civilian mode again: dark green jacket, black hoodie underneath, hair still damp from the shower (or maybe the drizzle outside — Gotham never quite dries). He spots you immediately. Of course he does.

He doesn’t smile.

But his shoulders drop half an inch, like seeing you is the only thing that’s made breathing easier all morning.

He orders at the counter — your oat milk latte (extra shot, no foam, the way you like it even though you told him months ago you were “trying to cut back on caffeine”). He also gets a plain black for himself and — because he listened — a small paper bag of those overpriced salmon treats for the bookstore cat.

When he slides into the seat across from you, he sets the latte down first. Carefully. Like it’s evidence.

“You’re late,” you say, mostly to have something to say.

“Traffic,” he mutters. Then, quieter: “I walked. Twice around the block. Trying to… time it right.”

You almost laugh. Almost.

Instead you take the latte. Sip. It’s perfect. Bastard.

Silence settles. Not the bad kind. The kind where both of you are remembering how to exist in the same space without bleeding.

He breaks it first.

“I brought the treats.” He nudges the bag toward you. “For your judgmental feline.”

“She’s not judgmental. She just has standards.”

A tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth. Victory.

You look at him — really look.

The shadows under his eyes are darker than last time. His knuckles are scabbed over like he punched something (or someone) recently. But he’s here. Not on a rooftop. Not in the shadows. Just… here.

“So,” you say. “This is you crawling?”

He meets your gaze. Steady.

“Yes.”

You lean back, arms crossed. “Talk, then. Tell me why I shouldn’t walk out that door right now.”

He exhales through his nose. Classic Damian bracing himself.

“Because I spent three months trying to convince myself I was right. That you were safer. Happier. That I could go back to the way things were before you.” He pauses. Voice drops. “I couldn’t. Everything felt… gray. Sharper. Like I was waiting for the next hit and there was no one left to come home to.”

You swallow. Hard.

“I kept your hoodie,” he continues. “The one you stole. It still smells like you. I sleep with it sometimes. Like a child. It’s pathetic.”

Your heart does something stupid — squeezes, twists, aches.

“I don’t want forgiveness on credit,” he says. “I want to earn it. Every single day. If that means coffee at 7 a.m. every morning for the next year, I’ll be here. If it means listening to you yell at me, I’ll listen. If it means watching you date other people until you’re ready to look at me again…” His jaw tightens. “I’ll watch. And I’ll wait.”

You stare at him.

The boy who used to think vulnerability was a tactical error is sitting here gutting himself open in a coffee shop.

You reach across the table. Slowly.

Your fingers brush the back of his hand — the one with the fresh scabs.

He freezes.

Doesn’t pull away.

“I’m not promising anything,” you remind him again. Voice softer this time.

“I know.”

“But…” You let your fingers stay there. Just for a second. “I’m not walking out yet.”

His eyes flick to where you’re touching him. Then back to your face. Something raw and hopeful flickers there — gone so fast you almost miss it.

You pull your hand back. Pick up your latte.

“Same time tomorrow?” you ask.

He nods once. Firm.

“Same time.”

You stand. Grab your bag. Pause at his shoulder.

“And Damian?”

He looks up.

“Next time… don’t walk around the block twice. Just come in. I’ll be here.”

You leave before he can answer.

But you feel his eyes on your back the whole way out.

Outside, the rain has stopped.

For once, Gotham feels a little less heavy.

(The Slow Thaw)

Two weeks of 7 a.m. coffees.

Same corner table.

Same oat milk latte waiting when you arrive.

Same quiet, careful Damian who’s learning — painfully, awkwardly — how to be around you without trying to fix everything in one conversation.

He doesn’t push.

Doesn’t flirt.

Doesn’t even sit too close.

Just… shows up. Every. Single. Day.

Today though, something’s different.

You slide into your seat and notice the small paper bag beside your cup. Not the cat treats this time.

You raise an eyebrow. “What’s this?”

He shrugs. One shoulder. Casual. But his ears are faintly pink.

“Open it.”

Inside: a tiny sketchbook. Black leather cover. The exact size you always complained was perfect for carrying in your bag without it feeling like a brick. Tucked between the first two pages is a single pressed flower — night-blooming jasmine. The kind that only opens after dark. The kind he used to leave on your windowsill when he came back from patrol late and didn’t want to wake you.

You stare at it. Throat tight.

“You kept pressing them,” you say quietly. Not a question.

“I never stopped.” His voice is rough. “Even after… everything. I just didn’t know where to put them anymore.”

You flip through the blank pages. Then you see it — on the inside back cover, in his precise, sharp handwriting:

For when words fail.

Draw. Rage. Cry on the paper.

I’ll still be here reading between the lines.

You close the book. Set it down carefully like it might break.

“Damian…”

“I’m not asking for forgiveness today,” he cuts in quickly. “Or tomorrow. I just—” He exhales. “I want you to have something that’s yours again. Not borrowed from before. Not tainted by me walking away.”

You look at him. Really look.

He’s got a fresh cut above his eyebrow — barely scabbed. Probably from last night’s patrol. He hasn’t bothered hiding it. No more pretending he’s invincible when he’s sitting across from you.

You reach out. Slowly.

Your fingertips brush the edge of the cut.

He doesn’t flinch.

Doesn’t breathe.

“Does it hurt?” you whisper.

“Only when I’m stupid enough to think about how close I came to losing you permanently.”

Your hand stays there. Warm against his skin.

Then — because you’re tired of pretending you’re not thawing too — you let your palm cup the side of his face. Just for a second.

His eyes close. Like he’s afraid it’s a dream and opening them will end it.

When he opens them again, they’re glassy.

“I miss touching you,” he admits. Voice cracked open. “Not the sex. Not the rush. Just… this. Knowing you’re real. That I’m allowed to feel you here.”

You swallow the lump in your throat.

“I’m not ready to come home yet,” you tell him. Honest. “Not to the manor. Not to your bed. Not even to holding hands in public like nothing happened.”

“I know.”

“But…” You let your thumb trace the line of his jaw. “I’m ready to try touching you again. Here. In this stupid coffee shop. Where it’s safe.”

He nods. Once. Small.

You slide your hand down to his.

Palm to palm. Fingers threading together.

It’s clumsy. A little awkward. Your hands don’t quite remember the rhythm yet.

But they’re trying.

He stares at your joined hands like they’re a miracle.

Then — so quiet you almost miss it:

“Thank you.”

You squeeze once.

“Don’t thank me yet, Wayne. You’ve still got months of groveling ahead.”

The tiniest, most wrecked smile tugs at his mouth.

“I’m counting on it.”

Outside, Gotham wakes up slowly.

Sirens in the distance.

Gray sky threatening rain again.

Inside the coffee shop, two broken people sit holding hands for the first time in months.

It’s not fixed.

Not even close.

But it’s a start.

Author's note:

(The First Crack)

It’s been twenty-three days of coffee mornings.

Twenty-three days of small touches that linger longer each time: fingers brushing when you pass the sugar, knees knocking under the table, once — just once — his thumb tracing the inside of your wrist like he was checking your pulse to make sure you were still real.

You thought the thaw was steady.

Safe.

Predictable.

Then tonight happens.

You’re at a quiet gallery opening — one of those pretentious Gotham events you usually avoid, but your friend dragged you out. Black dress. Simple. The kind that makes you feel powerful instead of exposed.

You’re halfway through a glass of cheap champagne when you feel it: that prickle on the back of your neck.

The same one you used to get when he watched you from rooftops.

You turn.

He’s across the room, in a charcoal suit that fits like it was made to ruin your composure.

Talking to some art collector.

Looking bored.

Until his eyes find you.

The room shrinks.

He excuses himself mid-sentence.

Crosses the space like gravity pulled him.

You don’t move.

He stops just outside your personal space — close enough you can smell cedar and rain, far enough that it still hurts.

“You look…” He swallows. “Dangerous.”

You arch a brow. “That’s the goal.”

A beat.

Then he says, very low: “There’s a man by the bar. Blond. Expensive watch. He’s been staring at you for the last ten minutes like he thinks he has a chance.”

You glance over.

Yeah. He’s cute. Smiling too wide. Already walking your way.

You turn back to Damian.

“And?”

His jaw ticks. “And I’m trying very hard not to break his wrist for looking at you like that.”

The honesty hits like a slap.

You step closer. Voice soft but steel-edged.

“You don’t get to be jealous, Damian. Not after you were the one who walked away. Not after you told me I deserved better. You don’t get to play territorial now.”

His eyes darken.

“I know.”

“Then why are your fists clenched?”

“Because I’m human.” The words come out rough. “And I hate that someone else might touch what used to be mine. What should still be mine. What I threw away like it meant nothing.”

Your breath catches.

The blond guy reaches you.

“Hey, I was wondering if—”

Damian doesn’t even look at him.

Just keeps his eyes on yours.

Voice deadly calm:

“She’s not interested.”

The guy blinks. Looks between you.

Senses the tension like a live wire.

Mutters something about “sorry, my mistake” and backs off fast.

Silence.

You stare at Damian. Heart hammering.

“You had no right,” you whisper.

“I know.” He steps closer anyway. Voice drops to something raw. “But I’m done pretending I’m okay with this. With you moving on. With the idea of someone else learning how you like your coffee, or how you hum when you’re thinking, or how your breath hitches when I kiss the spot behind your ear. I’m not okay with it. I’ll never be okay with it.”

Tears prick your eyes. Angry ones.

“Then why did you leave?” Your voice cracks. “If it hurts this much, why did you do it?”

“Because I was terrified.” He finally closes the distance. Forehead almost touching yours. “Terrified that one day you’d look at me the way everyone else does — like I’m a weapon first, a person second. Terrified I’d ruin you. So I ruined us instead. Thinking it would hurt less.”

You laugh — bitter, broken.

“It didn’t.”

“I know.” His hand lifts. Hesitates. Then cups your cheek anyway. Thumb brushing away the tear that escaped. “I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”

You don’t pull away.

The gallery noise fades.

Just you. Him. The press of his palm. The way his breathing matches yours.

“I’m not ready to come back,” you say again. Weaker this time.

“I know.”

“But I’m also not ready to let anyone else in.”

His eyes search yours. Hope and fear in equal measure.

“Then let me stay in the doorway,” he murmurs. “Just… let me stand there. Until you’re ready to open it wider.”

You close your eyes. Lean into his touch.

“One more thing,” you whisper.

“Anything.”

“Next time you feel jealous… don’t threaten to break anyone’s wrist.”

A pause.

Then, softer: “Just tell me you still want me.

That’s enough.”

He exhales like he’s been holding the breath for months.

“I still want you,” he says. Voice wrecked. “Every single day. Every version of you. Even the angry one. Especially the angry one.”

You open your eyes.

Meet his.

Then — because you’re tired of fighting the pull — you rise on your toes and kiss him.

Soft.

Slow.

A question more than a promise.

He kisses you back like he’s drowning and you’re air.

When you pull away, foreheads pressed together:

“Tomorrow,” you breathe. “7 a.m. Don’t be late.”

“I won’t.”

You step back.

Turn toward the exit.

But before you leave, you look over your shoulder.

“And Damian?”

He’s still standing there, lips kiss-swollen, eyes bright.

“Bring the sketchbook.

I might want to draw you angry tonight.”

The smallest, realest smile you’ve seen in months curves his mouth.

“Yes, ma’am.”

You walk out into the Gotham night.

Rain starting again.

But this time it feels like cleansing.

Like beginning.

(The Last Piece)

(The night everything finally comes home)

It’s raining again—because Gotham can’t help itself.

The kind of steady, soft rain that makes the city lights blur into watercolor streaks on your window.

You’re in your apartment.

Lights low.

A single lamp in the corner.

The same cedar candle burning that used to greet him every time he slipped through the window like he belonged there.

You didn’t text him to come over.

You didn’t have to.

At 11:47 p.m. there’s a soft knock on the fire escape door.

Not the window.

The door.

Like he’s asking permission this time.

You open it.

He’s soaked.

Black hoodie clinging to his shoulders, hair dripping into his eyes, looking smaller than he has any right to in the rain.

He doesn’t step inside yet.

Just stands there, hands at his sides, waiting.

“I didn’t bring coffee,” he says quietly. “Or flowers. Or excuses.”

You lean against the doorframe. Arms crossed. Heart loud enough you’re sure he hears it.

“Then why are you here?”

“Because I can’t do another night pretending I’m okay without you.”

His voice is raw. No armor. No deflection.

“I tried. I really did. But every patrol ends with me standing on your roof instead of going home. Every quiet moment ends with me thinking about how your laugh sounds when you’re half-asleep. Every time I close my eyes I see the moment I walked away and I hate myself more than I’ve ever hated anything.”

You swallow.

Let the silence sit.

Then, softer than you mean to:

“You’re dripping on my floor.”

He glances down. Almost smiles.

“Sorry.”

You step aside.

“Come in.”

He does.

Slowly. Like he’s afraid the space will collapse if he moves too fast.

You close the door behind him.

The click feels final.

Not an ending—an arrival.

He stands in the middle of your living room, water pooling at his boots, looking lost and found at the same time.

You walk over.

Reach up.

Push the wet hood off his head.

Your fingers slide into his hair, pushing the strands back from his face.

He closes his eyes at the touch.

Leans into it like a man starved.

“I love you,” he whispers.

The words come out like they’ve been clawing at his throat for months.

“I never stopped. I just… forgot how to say it without sounding like a threat.”

Your breath hitches.

“I know,” you tell him.

He opens his eyes.

Green. Bright. Terrified.

“I want to come home.

Not to the manor.

Not to the cave.

To you.

If you’ll still have me.”

You study him for a long moment.

The boy who once thought love was a liability.

The man who’s finally learned it’s the only thing worth bleeding for.

Then you step into him.

Arms around his neck.

Face buried in the wet hollow of his throat.

He exhales like he’s been holding the breath since the night he left.

His arms come around you—slow, careful, reverent.

Like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he holds too tight.

“I’m still angry sometimes,” you murmur against his skin.

“I know.”

“I’m still scared.”

“I know.”

“But I’m done running from this.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you.

Forehead against yours.

“Then stay,” he breathes.

“Stay with me.

Let me stay with you.”

You nod.

Once.

Small.

But certain.

He kisses you then.

Not desperate.

Not angry.

Slow.

Deep.

Like he’s memorizing the taste of coming home.

When you finally break apart, he rests his forehead against yours again.

“I brought something,” he says quietly.

You raise a brow.

He reaches into his pocket.

Pulls out a small, folded piece of paper.

You take it.

Unfold it.

It’s one of his sketches.

You—sleeping, hair across the pillow, soft morning light on your face.

The date in the corner: the morning after your first night together, years ago.

On the bottom, in tiny handwriting:

This is still the only place I’ve ever felt safe.

You look up at him.

Tears.

Not angry ones this time.

He brushes them away with his thumb.

“I kept it all this time,” he says. “Even when I didn’t deserve to.”

You fold the paper carefully.

Set it on the table.

Then you take his hand.

“Come on.”

You lead him to the bathroom.

Turn on the shower.

Help him out of the soaked clothes.

He lets you.

Doesn’t argue.

Doesn’t hide.

When the water is warm, you step in with him.

It’s not about sex.

Not tonight.

It’s about skin on skin.

About washing away months of distance.

About his arms around you under the spray, your cheek against his chest, listening to the heartbeat that always came back to you.

Later, in bed:

Sheets tangled.

His head on your chest.

Your fingers in his hair.

He’s quiet for a long time.

Then, so soft you almost miss it:

“I’m never leaving again.”

You kiss the top of his head.

“I know.”

The rain keeps falling outside.

But inside,

it’s finally quiet.

And warm.

And home.

Damian Wayne x Reader — The Breakup

The apartment smells like rain and the cedar candle you always kept burning when he came over.

It’s still burning now.

He hasn’t touched it.

You’re standing in the middle of the living room in socks and one of his old black hoodies that you never gave back. He’s in full tactical gear — cape dripping on your hardwood floor like he just came straight from patrol. No hello. No “I missed you.” Just:

“We need to talk.”

You already knew.

You’ve known for weeks.

The late nights turning into no-shows. The clipped messages. The way his eyes started sliding past you instead of holding yours like he used to — like you were the only thing sharp enough to cut through the noise in his head.

You cross your arms. “Then talk.”

He removes the domino mask slowly. Sets it on the coffee table like it weighs twenty pounds.

When he finally looks at you, there’s something fractured in his expression — something that’s been cracking for a long time.

“I can’t keep doing this to you.”

The words land like a slap you saw coming.

“Doing what?” you ask anyway. Because you need to hear him say it.

“Dragging you into my orbit.” His voice is low, controlled. Too controlled. “Every time I walk out that door there’s a non-zero chance I don’t walk back in. And every time I do come back, I bring pieces of the night with me. Blood. Threats. Nightmares that aren’t mine to give you.”

You laugh once — sharp, bitter. “You think I don’t already have those?”

He flinches. Just barely. But you catch it.

“I’ve watched you patch me up at 4 a.m.,” he continues, quieter now. “I’ve seen the way your hands shake when you think I’m asleep. I’ve read the messages you delete before sending them. The ones asking if I’m still breathing.”

Your throat burns. “And your solution is to… what? Decide for me that I’m better off without you?”

“Yes.”

The word is clean. Surgical.

You stare at him. At the boy who once broke into your apartment at 2 a.m. just to leave a tiny origami bat on your pillow because you said you were having a bad week. The same boy who learned — painfully, awkwardly — how to say “I love you” without sounding like he was reporting mission status.

And now he’s standing here trying to perform an extraction on your heart like it’s a tactical objective.

“You don’t get to do that,” you say. Voice shaking despite every effort. “You don’t get to love me like a war zone and then decide I’m a civilian who needs evac.”

“I’m not good for you.” It comes out almost like a confession. “I never was.”

“Bullshit.” You step closer. Close enough to see the faint bruise blooming under his jaw, the exhaustion carved into the corners of his eyes. “You were the best thing that ever happened to me. And I was the best thing that ever happened to you. You just decided it was safer to pretend otherwise.”

Silence stretches. Thick. Suffocating.

He looks away first.

“I’m trying to protect you.”

“No.” You shake your head. Tears are coming now and you hate it. “You’re trying to protect yourself. From the possibility that I stay. That I choose you anyway. That I see everything — the blood, the rage, the League scars, the way you still flinch at sudden touches sometimes — and I still want you.”

His jaw flexes. Hard.

“I can’t be the reason you get hurt.”

“You already are.”

The sentence hangs between you like smoke.

He closes his eyes. Takes one slow breath. When he opens them again, they’re glassy in a way you’ve only seen twice before — once when Alfred had his heart attack, once when he thought he’d lost Titus.

“Then let me be the reason you get to live,” he says, almost a whisper. “Without looking over your shoulder for the rest of your life.”

You stare at him for a long moment.

Then you reach up, fingers brushing the side of his face — the one spot that’s still soft despite everything.

He doesn’t pull away.

But he doesn’t lean into it either.

“You’re really doing this,” you realize out loud.

“I have to.”

You nod once. Slow. Like you’re accepting a death sentence.

“Okay.”

His brows knit. “Okay?”

“Yeah.” You drop your hand. Step back. “If this is what you need to do to sleep at night… then go.”

He doesn’t move.

You give him the smallest, saddest smile you’ve ever managed.

“Then go, Damian.”

He stares at you like he’s memorizing every inch of your face.

Like he’s trying to burn it into the back of his eyelids so he can still see you when he closes them later.

Finally — finally — he picks up the mask.

“I’m sorry,” he says. Voice raw. Barely audible.

“I know.”

He turns toward the window.

Pauses.

Doesn’t look back.

“I’ll always—”

“Don’t.” Your voice cracks. “Don’t say it. Not right now.”

He nods. Once.

Then he’s gone — cape snapping in the wind like a final punctuation mark.

The candle flickers.

You don’t blow it out.

You let it burn until morning.

Until the wax pools like tears you refuse to shed yet.

And somewhere across Gotham, on a rooftop in the rain, Damian Wayne presses his forehead to cold concrete and breathes your name like a prayer he no longer has the right to make.

Three months.

Ninety-two days since the window clicked shut behind him.

You’ve been doing the things people are supposed to do after a breakup like yours:

New coffee shop.

Different playlists.

Running the same route at a different time so you don’t accidentally see the Bat-Signal and feel your chest cave in.

It’s working.

Sort of.

Until tonight.

You’re at the old bookstore on 14th — the one with the creaky stairs and the cat that hates everyone except you. You’re in the back corner, between mythology and medieval history, pretending the world is small enough to fit between these shelves.

Then you smell it.

Leather. Rain. That stupid cedar cologne he still wears because he claims it’s “practical” and “neutral” and you know damn well he kept buying it after you told him it reminded you of winter in the mountains.

You don’t look up.

You just tighten your grip on the book in your hands (something about ancient assassin orders — of course).

Footsteps. Slow. Deliberate.

He stops two shelves away.

You can feel him looking at you the way only Damian Wayne can: like he’s cataloguing every change, every new freckle, every tired line around your eyes.

You speak first. Because if you don’t, the silence will kill you both.

“Still stalking civilians in bookstores, Wayne?”

A pause. Then that low, familiar huff — not quite a laugh, more like he’s conceding a point.

“Tt. I was in the area.”

“Sure you were.”

You finally lift your eyes.

He’s not in gear.

Black hoodie. Dark jeans. Hair a little longer than last time, curling slightly at the nape. No mask. No cape. Just… Damian.

The version of him you used to wake up to on rare, stolen mornings.

He looks tired.

Not patrol tired.

Something heavier.

You close the book. Set it down carefully.

“What do you want, Damian?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

Just watches you like he’s afraid the wrong word will make you vanish.

“I wanted to see if you were…” He stops. Swallows. “If you were still breathing.”

You almost laugh. Almost.

“I’m fine,” you say. Then, because you’re tired of lying to him: “I’m surviving.”

He nods once. Like that answer both relieves and wounds him.

Another long silence.

The cat jumps onto the shelf between you, stares at him with open disdain, then starts grooming itself like he’s beneath notice.

You almost smile. Almost.

Then he says, very quietly:

“I was wrong.”

Three words.

They hit harder than the entire breakup speech.

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“I was wrong.” He takes one step closer. The space between shelves feels like a battlefield. “I thought removing myself would… sanitize your life. Make it safer. Cleaner. I thought I was the poison.”

You stare at him. Heart hammering so loud you’re sure he can hear it.

“And now?” you ask.

“Now I understand I was the antidote too.” His voice cracks on the last word — just barely. “And I took the only thing that ever made the nights bearable away from both of us.”

You feel the tears threaten again. You hate that he still has that power.

“You don’t get to just show up three months later and say you were wrong, Damian.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Because I can’t sleep.” Raw. Honest. “Because every time I close my eyes I see your face when I walked out that window. Because Titus keeps looking at the door like you’re coming back. Because I passed the coffee shop yesterday and ordered your stupid oat milk latte before I remembered you don’t drink it anymore. Because I’m still in love with you and I’m terrified I’ve ruined any chance of ever earning that back.”

The confession hangs there.

Heavy.

Exposed.

You take a shaky breath.

“I’m not the same person I was three months ago,” you tell him.

“I’m not either.”

You look at him — really look.

See the faint tremor in his hands. The way he’s holding himself like he expects you to say no. The way he’s still here anyway.

“I don’t forgive you,” you say slowly. “Not yet. Maybe not ever completely.”

He nods. Accepts it. Doesn’t argue.

“But…” You hesitate. “I miss you. Every stupid day. And I hate that I do.”

His shoulders drop — just a fraction. Like he can finally breathe again.

You step around the shelf. Close enough to touch. You don’t. Not yet.

“I’m not promising anything,” you warn him. “No second chances on a silver platter. You want in? You crawl. You prove it. Every single day. No shortcuts. No running when it gets hard.”

He meets your eyes. Steady. Unflinching.

“I will.”

You study him for a long moment.

Then, quietly:

“Start tomorrow. 7 a.m. Coffee. The place on 5th. Don’t be late.”

He exhales. Almost a laugh. Almost relief.

“I won’t.”

You turn to leave. Pause at the end of the aisle.

“And Damian?”

He looks up.

“Bring the cat treats. She still hates you.”

The corner of his mouth twitches — the tiniest, most precious ghost of a smile.

“Noted.”

You walk away without looking back.

But this time,

the window stays cracked open.

Just enough.

Author’s note:

In the dim glow of the Batcave's monitors, you steal another glance at Damian Wayne. He's perched on the edge of a workbench, sharpening his katana with precise, rhythmic strokes that speak to his unyielding discipline. As Robin, he's all sharp edges and calculated intensity—a product of his assassin upbringing and Batman's rigorous training. But you've caught glimpses of something softer beneath that facade, especially when he thinks no one's watching. Like now, when his green eyes flick up briefly, meeting yours across the room before darting away. Your heart skips, a familiar warmth blooming in your chest.

You both joined the team around the same time—teammates in the Teen Titans, or whatever loose alliance Batman allows these days. You've fought side by side against villains like Deathstroke and the Court of Owls, your powers syncing in ways that feel almost instinctive. But talking? That's rare. Damian's words are sparse, laced with sarcasm or commands, and you... well, you're not much better. Shy around him, maybe, or just afraid to shatter the fragile tension that hums between you. You like him—more than like him, if you're honest. The way he smirks after a flawless takedown, or how he once bandaged your wound with surprising gentleness, muttering something about "not being careless next time." It all adds up to a secret crush you've buried deep, convinced he feels nothing in return.

He probably doesn't even notice you that way, you tell yourself, turning back to your gear check. But then there's the way he lingers after missions, offering curt nods of approval that feel like high praise. Or how he positions himself just a little closer to you in battle, like an unspoken promise of protection. If only you'd say something. If only he would.

The mission briefing snaps you out of it. It's a routine op: infiltrate an abandoned LexCorp lab rumored to house experimental tech. Intel suggests time-manipulation devices—artifacts from some interdimensional mishap. Batman assigns you and Damian to the recon team, his voice gravelly over the comms. "Stay sharp. No risks."

The lab is a maze of flickering lights and humming machinery when you arrive. Damian moves like a shadow ahead of you, his cape whispering against the concrete. You follow, your heart pounding not just from the adrenaline but from the proximity. "Clear," he murmurs, signaling you forward. You nod, slipping past him to scan a console. That's when it happens—a hidden tripwire, or maybe a booby-trapped artifact. A surge of energy erupts, a vortex of swirling blue light engulfing you both before you can react.

The world tilts, spins, and then... silence.

You come to on a manicured lawn, the air thick with the scent of blooming roses. Disoriented, you push yourself up, spotting Damian already on his feet, katana drawn. "Where...?" you whisper, but he silences you with a raised hand. In the distance, Wayne Manor looms—familiar, yet not. The architecture is the same, but the gardens look more overgrown, the tech on the perimeter subtly advanced.

"Time displacement," Damian hisses, his voice low and urgent. "We must have triggered one of those devices. This is the future—our future, perhaps."

Panic rises in your throat. "How do we get back?"

"Unknown. But we can't be seen. If we encounter our future selves or the family..." He trails off, the implications clear: paradox, chaos, erasure. "We hide. Observe. Find a way to reverse it."

You nod, falling into step behind him as he leads you toward the manor. Sneaking in is child's play for two trained vigilantes—through a side entrance, avoiding patrols that seem eerily familiar. But alarms blare faintly in the distance; someone's onto intruders. Damian grabs your hand—his grip firm, electric—and pulls you into the ventilation system. "In here," he orders, boosting you up before climbing in after.

The vents are a labyrinth of metal ducts, cool and echoing with distant voices. You crawl in silence, Damian's presence a constant brush against your side in the tight space. Your mind races: What year is this? How long have we been gone? And beneath it all, the unspoken thrill of being this close to him, even in danger.

After what feels like hours of navigating, you spot a faint light ahead—a small grate, more like a tiny window into one of the upper bedrooms. Damian pauses, peering through. "A room," he whispers. "Empty? No—wait."

You squeeze beside him, your shoulder pressing against his as you both look. The room is lavish, familiar as Damian's quarters but matured—bookshelves lined with well-worn tomes, a king-sized bed rumpled with use. And there, on that bed...

Your breath catches. It's you—older, maybe by a decade, hair longer, body curved with confidence. And Damian—future Damian—taller, broader, his features sharpened by time but still unmistakably him. They're entangled, sheets twisted around them, moving with a raw, passionate intensity that makes your face burn.

He's above her—you—kissing down her neck with a hunger that borders on reverence, his hands roaming possessively over her skin. She arches into him, fingers digging into his back, pulling him closer. "Damian," future-you moans, voice husky and breathless. He responds with a low growl, thrusting deeper, their bodies slick with sweat, rhythm building to something frantic.

You freeze, shock slamming into you like a freight train. This can't be real. Your future selves—together, like that? Intimate, uninhibited, lost in each other. Damian—your Damian—stiffens beside you, his breath hitching audibly. You glance at him, seeing his wide eyes, the flush creeping up his neck. He's as stunned as you are, maybe more, his usual composure shattered.

They're not stopping. Future-Damian's pace quickens, hips snapping against hers with a wet, rhythmic slap that echoes faintly through the grate. She cries out, legs wrapping around him, urging him on. "Yes—right there—don't stop..." He buries his face in her shoulder, murmuring something too low to hear, but the tenderness in it twists something deep inside you.

You should look away. You need to. But you're transfixed, a mix of horror, embarrassment, and—god help you—a spark of arousal. This is what could be? What will be? Damian likes you back? Enough for... this?

Beside you, present-Damian shifts uncomfortably, his body heat radiating in the confined space. "We... we have to move," he whispers, voice strained, avoiding your eyes. But neither of you budges, the scene unfolding like a forbidden dream—climax building, their gasps mingling until future-you shudders, calling his name in ecstasy, and he follows, collapsing over her with a satisfied groan.

The afterglow is intimate, too—future-Damian pressing soft kisses to her forehead, whispering, "Beloved," in a voice laced with affection you've never heard from him.

Your heart hammers. Shock gives way to a whirlwind of emotions: jealousy of your future self, longing for the boy beside you, and a burning question—does he feel it now, too?

Finally, Damian pulls back, his face a mask of conflicted turmoil. "This changes nothing," he mutters, but his voice cracks. "We find a way back. Now."

You nod, but as you crawl away, the image sears into your mind. Maybe, just maybe, the silence between you won't last forever.

The vents feel narrower now, the air thicker with the heat of your shared embarrassment and something far more dangerous—unspoken possibility. You crawl ahead this time, Damian close behind, his breathing uneven in a way you've never heard from him. Neither of you speaks for several long minutes. The only sounds are the soft scrape of knees on metal, the distant hum of the manor’s ventilation system, and the pounding of your own pulse in your ears.

You emerge into a wider horizontal duct that runs parallel to the second-floor hallway. There’s just enough space to sit side by side if you press your backs to opposite walls. You both do, instinctively, knees drawn up, shoulders almost touching. The silence stretches until it’s unbearable.

Finally, Damian breaks it.

“That…” His voice is rough, quieter than usual. “Was not something I anticipated seeing.”

You let out a shaky laugh that’s more nerves than humor. “Yeah. No kidding.”

He doesn’t look at you. His gaze is fixed on the faint slats of light filtering through the next grate down the duct. “It could be a trick. A simulation. Some temporal echo designed to destabilize us.”

You turn your head slightly, studying the sharp line of his jaw. “You don’t believe that.”

A muscle ticks in his cheek. “No.”

Another beat of silence.

You swallow. “They looked… happy.”

Damian’s eyes flick to you then—sharp, searching, almost startled. “They looked like they belonged to each other.”

The words land heavier than he probably intended. Your throat tightens. You think of future-you’s hand sliding possessively into future-Damian’s hair, the way he’d kissed her palm like it was sacred. The way he’d said “beloved” like it was the only word that still mattered.

You hug your knees a little tighter. “Do you think… that means we end up together? Like, actually together?”

He exhales through his nose, a sound that’s half scoff, half surrender. “I think it means the future version of me is considerably less disciplined than I am.”

You can’t help the small, surprised smile that tugs at your lips. “That’s one way to put it.”

He finally meets your eyes fully. In the dim light, his irises look almost black, but there’s a flicker of something raw in them—something he usually keeps locked behind layers of training and trauma.

“I have never…” He stops, jaw working. Tries again. “I have never allowed myself to consider… that. With anyone. Least of all—” He cuts himself off, looking away again.

“Least of all me?” you finish softly.

He doesn’t deny it. Just closes his eyes for a second, like the admission is costing him something physical.

“I thought you hated talking to me,” you admit, barely above a whisper. “You’re always so… curt. Distant.”

His brows draw together. “I thought the same of you.”

That makes you blink. “Me?”

“You speak to everyone else. Laugh with them. Tease Kon, banter with Raven. With me you become…” He searches for the word. “Silent. Watchful. Like you are waiting for me to disappoint you.”

The realization hits you both at once.

You’ve been mirroring each other—guarding the same fragile thing.

“I wasn’t waiting for you to disappoint me,” you say quietly. “I was terrified you’d see how much I like you and… shut it down. Like it was a weakness.”

Damian lets out a low, incredulous breath. “You think I would consider that a weakness?”

“I think you consider most feelings weaknesses.”

He doesn’t argue. Just looks at you for a long moment, something shifting behind his eyes.

“I do not,” he says finally, “consider wanting you a weakness.”

Your heart stutters.

He keeps going, voice low and deliberate, like he’s choosing each word with surgical precision. “I have cataloged every time you have smiled at me. Every time your hand brushed mine during gear-up. Every time you positioned yourself between me and harm without hesitation. I told myself it was tactical awareness. Professional observation.” A bitter twist to his mouth. “I lied.”

The confession hangs between you.

You reach out—slowly, giving him time to pull away—and rest your fingertips against the back of his gloved hand. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move. Just watches your fingers like they’re a foreign object he’s trying to classify.

“I like you too,” you whisper. “A lot. For a long time.”

His gaze lifts to yours again. This time he doesn’t look away.

“Then why,” he asks, almost gently, “have we wasted so much time saying nothing?”

You laugh under your breath. “Because we’re both idiots?”

The corner of his mouth twitches—the smallest, most reluctant smile you’ve ever seen from him.

“Perhaps.”

A distant alarm chirps somewhere in the manor—probably the security system finally registering your earlier breach. Time is running out.

Damian’s hand turns under yours. His fingers lace through yours, glove against skin, firm and warm even through the leather.

“When we return,” he says, “we will speak. Properly. No more silence.”

You nod, throat tight. “Promise?”

“I do not make promises I cannot keep.”

He leans in then—just enough that his forehead rests against yours. It’s not a kiss. Not yet. But it’s closer than you’ve ever been, and it feels like the beginning of something inevitable.

You stay like that for several heartbeats, breathing the same air, until the alarm grows louder.

Damian pulls back first, already shifting into mission mode—but he doesn’t let go of your hand.

“Come,” he murmurs. “We find the device that brought us here. We go home.”

And then—quiet, almost under his breath, like he’s testing how the words feel—he adds:

“And when we do… I intend to kiss you. Properly.”

Your face flames. You duck your head to hide your smile, but he sees it anyway.

He squeezes your hand once.

Then he starts crawling again, pulling you with him.

This time, neither of you lets go.

Author’s Note:

You never let anyone see the small wooden box.

It lives under the loose floorboard in the corner of your room in Titans Tower — third panel from the left window, the one that creaks just enough to remind you it’s there. Inside: one hospital bracelet too small for any adult wrist, a single lock of soft black hair tied with blue thread, three Polaroids that have started to curl at the edges, and a folded piece of paper with the only poem you ever wrote in your life.

You are twenty-one now.

Five years have passed since you last held him.

His name was Luca.

No one on the team knows he existed. Not Dick with his gentle big-brother questions, not Raven who can sense grief like weather pressure, not even Damian — especially not Damian.

You’ve been together almost eleven months. Long enough that he no longer flinches when you reach for his face in the dark. Long enough that he sometimes falls asleep with his head on your stomach while you card fingers through his hair and pretend the ache is just period cramps. Long enough that the lie has started to feel like skin instead of clothing.

You tell yourself it’s protection.

If they knew, they would look at you differently.

If he knew, he might decide the version of you he loves is incomplete.

So the box stays hidden.

And you keep smiling.

Until the night everything cracks open.

It starts with a warehouse raid in Blüdhaven.

Standard op: reported metahuman trafficking ring, possible Cadmus leftovers, low-to-mid threat level. Nightwing wants the whole team — clean sweep, no stragglers.

You and Damian take the east loading dock.

You move like you always do: silent, synchronized, his katana a silver extension of your own knives. You’ve done this dance a hundred times. He trusts your left side. You trust his right. It’s muscle memory now.

Then the trap springs.

Not a bomb. Not gas.

Something worse.

A low-frequency sonic pulse — illegal black-market tech originally designed for crowd control, repurposed to induce temporary but violent vertigo + auditory hallucination. The moment it hits, the world becomes a washing machine. Your equilibrium collapses. Damian staggers beside you, one hand shooting out to grab your wrist.

You both go down hard.

When the ringing finally dulls enough for thought, you realize three things at once:

Your earpiece is dead.

Damian is bleeding from a shallow cut above his eyebrow.

The floorboard panel in your bedroom is no longer under carpet — because someone dragged your entire dresser three feet to the left while you were gone.

The team is already back at the Tower when you and Damian limp through the zeta-tube.

Dick meets you in the med bay, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

“We need to talk,” he says.

Not to Damian.

To you.

Your stomach drops through the floor.

They found it.

Not on purpose.

Gar had been looking for your spare charger (he always forgets his). He lifted the wrong floor panel. Saw wood instead of concrete. Pried it up.

Raven was the first person he called over.

She felt the grief before she even saw the contents.

By the time you and Damian reach the common area, the whole team is there — not crowded around the box like vultures, but arranged in that careful half-circle people make when they don’t know whether to hug you or give you space.

The box sits open on the coffee table.

Everything is still inside.

Exactly as you left it.

Luca’s hospital bracelet lies on top like an accusation.

You stop walking.

Damian’s hand — still tacky with drying blood — tightens around yours.

No one speaks for almost ten seconds.

Then Raven, very quietly:

“How old?”

You swallow once. Twice.

“Five,” you say. “He was five.”

A collective inhale. Small. Sharp.

Gar makes a soft wounded sound and presses both hands over his mouth.

Kori’s eyes immediately glass over with Tamaranean tears — the kind that glow faintly orange at the edges.

Dick exhales through his nose like he’s been punched in the diaphragm.

Damian hasn’t moved.

Hasn’t spoken.

Hasn’t let go of your hand.

You force your eyes away from the box and look at him.

His face is blank in the way only Damian can manage — the lethal calm he wears right before he disassembles someone. But his pupils are blown wide. His pulse is hammering against your palm.

You whisper — barely audible:

“I was going to tell you.”

His jaw flexes once.

“When?” The word is glass. “Next year? When we’re thirty? After we—” He cuts himself off. The unspoken end of the sentence hangs between you like smoke.

After we get married.

After we have children.

After I look at you every day for the rest of my life and never know half of who you are.

You have no answer that won’t sound like an excuse.

So you don’t give one.

Instead you say — voice cracking on the first syllable:

“His name was Luca.”

Damian blinks. Once. Very slowly.

“Luca,” he repeats. Like he’s tasting the name. Like he’s trying to decide whether it fits inside his chest.

You nod.

“He… he loved drawing birds.” A tiny, helpless laugh escapes you. “He said they were the only things that could follow him home from school without getting in trouble.” Another wet breath. “He had this stupid laugh. Like he was trying to sneeze and giggle at the same time.”

The room is so quiet you can hear the ventilation hum.

“He got sick,” you continue. “Fast. Some… aggressive neuroblastoma. Stage four by the time they caught it. They tried everything. Chemo. Radiation. Experimental trials. Nothing worked.” Your voice thins to a thread. “He was five years and seventeen days old when he died. In the children’s ward on the sixth floor of St. Mary’s. I was holding his hand. He asked if the birds would still come to the window if he wasn’t there anymore. I said yes. He smiled. And then… he just… stopped.”

You’re crying now.

Not dramatically.

Just steadily. The way rain happens on concrete.

“I buried him next to my mom. Under the big cedar tree. There’s a little stone angel there now. It’s crooked. I never fixed it because… I don’t know. It felt dishonest to make it perfect when nothing else was.”

Silence again.

Then Damian lets go of your hand.

For one horrible second you think he’s walking away.

Instead he steps forward, reaches past the open box, and very carefully lifts the single lock of hair tied with blue thread.

He holds it between thumb and forefinger like it might dissolve.

Then he turns to you.

His voice is low. Rough. Almost unrecognizable.

“Why didn’t you trust me with this?”

The question isn’t angry.

It’s devastated.

You wrap both arms around your middle like you’re trying to hold your organs in place.

“Because if you knew… you might realize I’m not—” Your throat closes. “I’m not whole anymore. There’s a piece missing. Permanently. And I didn’t want you to look at me every day and see the hole.”

Damian stares at you for a long moment.

Then he steps into your space, presses his forehead to yours, and speaks so quietly only you can hear:

“You think I don’t have holes?”

You blink wetly.

“I was raised by the League of Assassins until I was ten. My grandfather slit my throat in front of my mother when I was thirteen because I hesitated on a kill order. I died. I came back. Every night I still hear the blade coming down.” His breath fans across your cheek. “You think I don’t understand permanent damage?”

A sob rips out of you before you can stop it.

He pulls you against his chest — armor and all — one hand cradling the back of your head like you’re made of porcelain.

“You are not less because you survived losing him,” he murmurs into your hair. “You are more. Do you understand me? More.”

You fist your hands in his tunic and cry like you haven’t since the funeral.

The team doesn’t interrupt.

Eventually Dick clears his throat.

“We’re not going to pretend we didn’t see this,” he says gently. “But we’re also not going to make you talk about it until you’re ready. Okay?”

You nod against Damian’s shoulder.

Gar wipes his eyes with the heel of his hand. “I’m… I’m gonna go make hot chocolate. With the little marshmallows. For… for everybody. Yeah?”

Kori is already crying openly, hands clasped under her chin. “I will help.”

Raven touches two fingers to her own heart, then extends them toward you — a silent Tamaranean gesture she learned from Kori years ago. I carry part of your pain now.

Dick looks at Damian.

Damian meets his eyes over the top of your head.

Something wordless passes between them.

Dick nods once.

Then the room slowly empties until it’s just the two of you.

Damian doesn’t let go.

He walks you backward until the backs of your knees hit the couch, then sits and pulls you into his lap. The wooden box is still open on the table in front of you.

He reaches past you again.

This time he picks up one of the Polaroids — Luca grinning gap-toothed at the camera, both hands covered in blue finger-paint, a lopsided bird drawn across his cheek.

Damian studies it for a long time.

“He looks like you,” he says finally. “Around the eyes.”

You sniff. “Everyone says he had my smile.”

Damian traces the curve of Luca’s painted cheek with the pad of his thumb.

“Will you tell me more?” he asks. Not demanding. Asking.

You hesitate.

Then you lean your temple against his jaw.

“He hated carrots. But he loved carrot cake. Go figure.”

A small sound — almost a laugh — leaves Damian’s throat.

“Contrarian. Like his mother.”

You close your eyes.

Damian sets the photo down carefully. Picks up the folded poem instead.

“May I?”

You nod.

He unfolds it with the same reverence he uses when handling ancient manuscripts.

Reads silently.

When he finishes, his voice is thick.

“‘Small wings don’t need to fly forever.

They only need one good sky.’”

He folds it again. Places it back inside the box.

Then he closes the lid.

Gently.

Like closing a door on a sleeping child.

“I want to visit the grave,” he says.

Your breath catches.

“Okay.”

“Tomorrow.”

“Okay.”

He presses his lips to your temple.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he tells you. “Not because you’re whole. Not because you’re broken. Because you’re you. And I chose you long before I knew this part of the story.”

You turn your face into his neck.

“I’m sorry I hid him from you.”

“I’m sorry I made you think you had to.”

You stay like that for a long time.

Eventually Gar comes back with a tray of mismatched mugs, marshmallows floating like tiny clouds. Kori has lit candles — not for mood, but because Tamaranean tradition says light keeps the dead company. Raven sits on the floor and begins quietly braiding a bracelet out of black cord — something to leave at the grave, she says, if you’ll allow it.

Dick just leans against the wall and watches.

No one asks for more details tonight.

But no one leaves either.

Later, when the tower quiets and the others have drifted to their rooms, Damian leads you back to yours.

He doesn’t ask to stay.

He simply does.

You lift the floorboard again — together this time.

He helps you put the box back.

When the panel clicks into place, he presses his palm flat against the wood.

Like a vow.

Then he pulls you into bed, tucks you against his chest, and holds you so tightly you can feel both your heartbeats.

“Tell me one more thing about him before we sleep,” he murmurs.

You think for a moment.

“He used to sing made-up songs to his stuffed robin. Very off-key. Very loud.”

Damian’s lips curve against your hair.

“I’d like to hear one someday.”

You smile into the dark.

“Maybe tomorrow.”

He kisses the crown of your head.

“Tomorrow.”

And for the first time in five years, tomorrow doesn’t feel like something to survive.

It feels like something to walk into.

Together.

The first time Damian coughed up flowers in front of you, he tried to kill the evidence with rage.

He was in the manor’s training room, shirtless, sweat-slicked, knuckles bleeding from the heavy bag. You’d come looking for him after he’d disappeared from movie night without a word—again. The door was half-open. You saw him double over, one hand braced on the wall, the other pressed to his mouth. Crimson petals fluttered to the mat like wet confetti. Blood followed.

He noticed you instantly.

In one brutal motion he spun, katana already drawn from the nearby rack, point leveled at your throat before you could even gasp.

“Leave,” he snarled, voice wrecked. “Now.”

You didn’t move.

Petals kept falling from between his fingers. Damask roses—his mother’s favorite. The irony was so cruel it almost felt personal.

“Damian,” you said quietly, eyes locked on the blade instead of the flowers. “Put it down.”

He didn’t. His chest heaved. Another cough ripped through him; more petals, more blood. The sword trembled.

You took one step forward.

He took one step back.

“I will not ask again,” he rasped.

“You’re dying,” you said. Not accusing. Just stating fact. “And you’re doing it alone. On purpose.”

The blade wavered.

Then it dropped. Clattered against the floor. He turned away so fast you almost missed the way his shoulders shook—not from another cough, but from something uglier. Shame. Fear. The kind he’d been trained never to feel.

You closed the distance slowly.

He didn’t look at you when you reached him. Just stared at the bloodied mat, jaw clenched so tight you thought his teeth might crack.

“How long?” you asked.

“Three months.” His voice was flat. Dead. “Give or take.”

Three months.

You’d been friends for almost two years. Study partners. Late-night talks on the roof. You’d patched his wounds, teased him about his terrible taste in music, let him fall asleep against your shoulder once when he was too exhausted to pretend he wasn’t. And for three months he’d been choking on roses because of you.

You felt sick.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because it is pathetic,” he spat. “And pointless. You do not feel the same. I already know.”

You stared at the side of his face. The sharp line of his jaw. The way his lashes were clumped with unshed tears he refused to let fall.

“How do you know?” you whispered.

He laughed once—short, bitter, broken. “Because if you did, the flowers would have stopped.”

Silence stretched so thin it hurt.

Then you reached out, slowly, and touched the petals still caught in his bloody palm. He flinched like you’d burned him.

“I didn’t know,” you said. “I didn’t know it was possible to love someone this quietly.”

His head snapped toward you.

You kept your hand on his, petals crushed between your fingers.

“I thought I was just… safe. Comfortable. That you tolerated me because I didn’t ask for anything.” Your voice cracked. “I didn’t realize I was allowed to want more. That you might want more.”

Damian stared at you like you’d spoken in a language he’d never learned.

You lifted your other hand to his cheek. He didn’t pull away this time.

“I love you,” you said. Simple. Terrified. True. “I’ve loved you for a long time. I just didn’t know the words belonged between us until right now.”

A shudder ran through him—violent, full-body.

Another cough built. You braced for petals, for blood.

None came.

His breathing hitched. Then steadied.

He looked down at the crushed roses in his hand, then back at you. Eyes glassy. Searching.

“Say it again,” he demanded, voice barely above a whisper.

“I love you, Damian.”

He closed his eyes like the words physically hurt.

Then he leaned forward—slow, hesitant, like he expected the floor to disappear—and pressed his forehead to yours. His hands came up to cradle your face, thumbs trembling against your cheeks.

“I thought—” His voice broke. “I thought if I removed them surgically… I could forget you. That it would be cleaner.”

You felt your own tears spill.

He exhaled shakily against your lips.

“I do not want to forget you.”

You kissed him then—soft at first, tasting copper and roses and relief. He froze for half a second before he kissed back like a man drowning finally allowed to breathe. Desperate. Careful. Like he was afraid you’d vanish if he held on too tight.

When you finally parted, he didn’t let go. Just kept his forehead pressed to yours, breathing you in.

“The flowers,” he murmured eventually. “They’re… quieter.”

You smiled through tears. “Good. Let them die.”

He huffed a small, wrecked laugh—the first real one you’d heard in months.

“I will not be good at this,” he warned, voice rough. “At… whatever this becomes.”

“I know.”

“I will be difficult.”

“I know that too.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you—really look. Green eyes raw and unguarded for once.

“Then stay,” he said. Quiet command. Quiet plea. “Even when I make it hard.”

You brushed a stray petal from his collarbone.

“Always.”

He exhaled like he’d been holding the breath for years.

Then, for the first time in months, he let himself lean into you completely—head tucked under your chin, arms wrapped around your waist, still shaking just a little.

No more petals fell that night.

Just quiet breathing.

And the slow, fragile beginning of something neither of you knew how to name yet—but both of you refused to let die.

Author's Note

The patrol had gone sideways faster than anyone expected. One minute, Damian—sharp-tongued, sword-wielding Robin—was barking orders at you through comms while you covered his flank from a rooftop. The next, some half-baked mad scientist's "youth rejuvenation ray" (because of course Gotham had one of those lying around) misfired during the scuffle and hit him square in the chest.

A flash of green light. A puff of smoke. And then...

...a very small, very confused toddler sitting in a pile of oversized Robin gear, green domino mask comically large on his chubby face, cape pooling around him like a blanket.

You stared. Blinked. Then stared again.

The tiny version of Damian Wayne—maybe two and a half, tops—looked up at you with those same piercing green eyes, scowled (as much as a toddler can scowl), and tried to stand. His little legs wobbled, arms pinwheeling, before he plopped right back down on his butt with an indignant huff.

That was it. That was the moment something inside you snapped.

You burst out laughing.

Not a polite chuckle. Not a giggle. Full-on, doubled-over, tears-streaming, can't-breathe, wheezing laughter that echoed off the alley walls.

"Oh my God," you gasped between cackles, clutching your stomach. "Oh no—oh no, you're—you're so tiny! Look at your little feets! And the cape! It's dragging like a wedding train!"

Toddler Damian's scowl deepened into something almost impressive for someone who still had all his baby teeth. He crossed his pudgy arms (or tried to—his sleeves were too long) and glared murderously up at you.

You only laughed harder.

"Stop—stop laughing at me!" His voice came out high-pitched and lispy, the assassin edge softened into pure toddler outrage. "This is—This is undignified!"

You wiped your eyes, still snorting. "Baby Dami. Oh my god, you're Baby Dami now. I can't—I can't breathe—"

He tried to stand again, failed adorably, and landed on his knees with a soft thump. That set you off all over again.

By the time you managed to scoop him up (he squirmed and growled the whole time, tiny fists thumping your shoulder like he was trying to karate-chop you), you were still grinning like an idiot.

"Alright, alright, tough guy," you cooed, shifting him onto your hip. His little legs dangled, boots comically oversized and slipping off. "Let's get you home before the others see and start taking blackmail photos for the next decade."

He crossed his arms again, cheeks puffed out. "I am not a baby. Put me down."

"Aww, but you're so cute when you're mad!" You bounced him lightly. He yelped, grabbing your shirt for balance. "Look at those cheeks! I could just eat you up—yes I could, yes I could!"

His face went bright red. "Cease this infantile babble at once!"

You gasped dramatically. "Infantile? Me? Never! Who's my widdle assassin baby? Who's the cutest stabby toddler in Gotham? You are! Yes you are!"

He buried his face in your shoulder with a muffled groan of pure mortification. But he didn't push away. In fact, after a second, his tiny hand fisted in your jacket like he was holding on for dear life.

You softened a little, rubbing slow circles on his back. "Hey... it's okay. We'll fix this. Zatanna or Constantine or someone will reverse it in no time. Until then..." You pressed a kiss to the top of his head, right between those ridiculous little bat ears on the mask he refused to take off. "...you're stuck with me, kiddo."

He peeked up at you, eyes still narrowed but less furious now. "...You are insufferable."

"And you're adorable. Deal with it." You booped his nose. He swatted at your finger with surprising speed for someone so small.

Back at the manor (after sneaking past Alfred because explaining this to the butler would have been a whole other level of chaos), you set him down in the middle of the living room rug. He immediately tried to toddle toward the kitchen—probably to find a weapon or something equally dramatic—but his balance was shot. Three steps in, he face-planted softly into the carpet with a tiny "Oof."

You lost it again, collapsing onto the couch in fresh hysterics while he pushed himself up, glaring daggers.

"Would you like some apple slices, widdle Dami-wami?" you asked in the most exaggerated baby voice imaginable, batting your lashes. "Or maybe some baba? Warm milkies?"

"I will end you," he threatened, voice cracking adorably on the last word.

You scooped him up again before he could attempt another escape, settling him in your lap. "Shhh, shhh, it's nap time soon anyway, isn't it? My sleepy little Robin needs his rest."

He grumbled something that sounded suspiciously like Arabic curses, but he slowly relaxed against you, head tucking under your chin. One tiny hand came up to play with the zipper of your jacket—fidgeting, not fighting.

You kept up the baby voice, softer now. "Who's the bestest boy in the whole wide world? Hmm? Who's gonna be big again soon but still lets me cuddle him? That's right, you are."

He huffed. But he didn't move away.

And when his breathing evened out a few minutes later, tiny snores puffing against your collarbone, you just smiled and held him tighter.

Yeah. This was going in the blackmail folder forever.

(But only after you got about a thousand photos of him drooling on your shirt. For science.)

The Wayne Manor loomed ahead like a dark sentinel against the Gotham skyline, its gothic spires cutting through the late-afternoon fog. You'd been gone for twenty-three days—twenty-three agonizing, mission-filled days in some godforsaken corner of Eastern Europe, tracking a League remnant cell that thought they could rebuild in the shadows. It had been brutal: stakeouts in freezing rain, hand-to-hand fights that left bruises blooming across your ribs, nights spent curled in abandoned warehouses clutching your comms like a lifeline, hoping for even a static-laced "tt" from Damian to remind you he was still out there.

But now you were home.

The Batmobile had dropped you at the back entrance—Alfred's quiet insistence that you "not track mud through the front hall again, Miss"—but you barely heard him. Your duffel hit the marble floor with a dull thud as you kicked off your boots, heart hammering louder than any explosion you'd dodged overseas.

"Damian?" Your voice echoed through the cavernous foyer, bright and breathless. No answer. Of course. He was probably in the Cave, sharpening blades or brooding over case files like the dramatic little prince he was.

You didn't care. You bolted toward the grandfather clock entrance, fingers flying over the hidden mechanism. The clock swung open with a low groan, revealing the staircase down. You took the steps two at a time, pulse racing with something sweeter than adrenaline.

The Cave smelled like always: damp stone, motor oil, and the faint metallic tang of weaponry. Batcomputer screens glowed blue in the dim light, casting long shadows. And there—standing with his back to you, arms crossed, cape still draped over his shoulders from patrol—was Damian Wayne. Robin no longer, just Damian now, twenty-one and sharp-edged as ever, though the years had softened some of the angles. His dark hair was slightly mussed, like he'd run his hands through it too many times waiting.

You didn't announce yourself. You just launched.

"Damian!"

He turned just in time—trained reflexes kicking in—but you were already airborne. Your arms wrapped around his neck, legs hooking around his waist as you collided with him like a missile. The impact rocked him back a step, boots scraping against the stone, but he didn't stumble. Strong arms snapped around your waist instantly, catching you, holding you tight against his chest.

"Yayayayayayayay!" The words burst out of you in a giddy, unbroken stream as you peppered his face with kisses—cheek, jaw, corner of his mouth, forehead, nose, anywhere you could reach. "My sweet boyfriend! Yayayayayaa! I love you! I love you so much! I missed you! I missed you I missed you I missed you—"

Each kiss punctuated the declaration, loud and enthusiastic, your lips smacking against his skin with zero regard for dignity. You could feel the heat rising in his cheeks under your assault, but he didn't pull away. If anything, his grip tightened, one hand splaying across your lower back, the other cradling the nape of your neck like he was afraid you'd vanish again if he let go.

"Beloved," he muttered, voice low and rough, the way it got when he was trying (and failing) to sound annoyed. "You're being ridiculous."

But his lips twitched. Barely. A microscopic upward curve that only someone who knew him as well as you did would catch.

You pulled back just enough to look at him—really look. Green eyes sharp and bright, staring at you like you'd hung the moon instead of just come back from blowing up a League safehouse. His hair was longer now, curling slightly at the ends. A fresh scar curved along his left cheekbone—new since you'd left. Your thumb traced it gently.

"Missed this face," you whispered, then dove back in, kissing the scar, then his lips this time—soft at first, then deeper, hungrier. He met you halfway, tilting his head, one hand sliding up to tangle in your hair.

When you finally broke for air, you didn't let go. You buried your face in the crook of his neck, breathing him in—leather, steel, and that faint cedar scent he pretended he didn't wear just because you'd once said you liked it.

"I hate missions without you," you mumbled against his skin. "Everything was cold and stupid and I kept thinking 'Damian would hate this' or 'Damian would do this better' or 'I wish Damian was here to complain about how incompetent everyone is.'"

A low huff of laughter vibrated through his chest. "Tt. Flattery will get you nowhere."

"Liar." You nuzzled closer. "It got me you."

He didn't argue. Instead, he carried you—still wrapped around him like a koala—over to the medical cot near the workbench. He sat down carefully, settling you in his lap so you were straddling him, your knees bracketing his hips. His hands settled on your thighs, thumbs tracing slow circles through the fabric of your tactical pants.

You framed his face with both hands, thumbs brushing over the faint stubble along his jaw. "Tell me you missed me too. Say it. Out loud. No tsundere bullshit."

His eyes narrowed, but the corners softened. "I... did not enjoy your absence."

You waited, eyebrow raised.

He exhaled through his nose. "I missed you. Intolerably."

You beamed, heart doing cartwheels. "Good boy."

Before he could protest the wording, you kissed him again—slow this time, savoring. His lips parted under yours, and for once he let you lead, let you pour every ounce of pent-up affection into it. When you pulled back, your forehead rested against his.

"I brought you something," you said softly.

His brow furrowed. "You were on a covert op. What could you possibly—"

You reached into your jacket pocket and pulled out a small, battered tin. Inside was a single perfect dumpling—steamed, still warm from the vendor you'd sweet-talked on your way out of the extraction point.

His eyes widened fractionally. "You... preserved street food through international travel."

"For you." You held it up triumphantly. "I told the guy it was for my very serious, very grumpy boyfriend who gets hangry when I leave. He gave me extra chili oil."

Damian stared at the dumpling like it was a priceless artifact. Then, slowly, he took it from you, examining it with the same intensity he gave Wayne Enterprises quarterly reports.

"You are absurd," he said, but his voice cracked just a little.

You grinned. "Eat it before it gets cold, habibi."

He took a bite—small, precise—and closed his eyes for a second, savoring. When he opened them again, something raw flickered there. Gratitude. Relief. Love, plain and unguarded.

You leaned in and kissed the corner of his mouth where a crumb lingered. "I love you," you whispered again. "Like... stupid amounts. Cartoon heart-eyes levels."

"Beloved." His hand cupped your cheek. "You are impossible."

"Yeah, but I'm your impossible."

He didn't deny it. Instead, he pulled you closer, tucking your head under his chin. For long minutes you just sat there, wrapped in each other, the hum of the Cave around you fading to white noise.

Eventually, you started talking—rambling, really—about the mission. The idiot henchmen who'd tried to flirt instead of fight. The snow that got in your boots. How you'd dreamed of him every night, even when exhaustion should've knocked you out cold.

He listened. Really listened. Occasionally he'd murmur "tt" or "foolish," but his hands never stopped moving—stroking your back, threading through your hair, grounding you.

"And then I thought," you finished, voice quieter now, "if I didn't make it back... I never told you enough how much you mean to me. How you're the best thing that's ever happened. Even when you're being a brat."

He stiffened slightly. "I am not—"

"You are." You poked his chest. "But you're my brat. And I wouldn't trade you for anyone."

Silence stretched. Then, so quiet you almost missed it:

"I kept your pillow on my side of the bed."

Your heart squeezed. "Yeah?"

"I... may have worn your hoodie once. When the manor was too quiet."

You pulled back to look at him. His ears were pink.

"Damian Al Ghul-Wayne," you said, delighted, "are you admitting to cuddling my clothes like a lovesick puppy?"

"Do not push it," he growled, but there was no heat in it.

You laughed—bright, unrestrained—and tackled him backward onto the cot. He let you, arms coming around you as you sprawled across his chest.

"I love you," you said again, because it bore repeating. "I love your stupid scowl and your perfect hair and the way you pretend you don't care but you do. So much."

His fingers traced your spine. "And I..." He swallowed. "Love you. More than I ever thought possible."

You kissed his jaw. His temple. The tip of his nose. "Say it again."

"I love you."

"Again."

"I love you."

You kept going until he was laughing—quiet, reluctant laughs that turned into something warmer. Eventually you just lay there, tangled together on the narrow cot, listening to each other's breathing.

The mission was over. The world could wait.

Right now, it was just you and your sweet, grumpy boyfriend.

And you'd missed him more than words could ever say.

The air in Al-Mafraq carried diesel, sun-baked stone, and the sharp tang of cordite.

Damian Wayne—once Robin, now Redbird in black and red—dropped silently from the half-collapsed souk roof onto a masked mercenary. One forearm crush to the windpipe ended the threat before it could scream.

“Two more, east colonnade,” he barked into comms. “Moving toward the central fountain. Explosives confirmed.”

“Copy,” Nightwing replied, calm amid the storm. “Red Hood has north. Spoiler and Orphan flanking. Red Robin on drone overwatch.”

“Signal’s jammed,” Tim added. “Civilian frequencies are dark. We’re limited to two blocks.”

Damian didn’t respond. He was already leaping rooftops, cape whipping behind him like frayed shadow.

He wasn’t meant to be here. None of them were.

A rogue League of Shadows splinter cell—born from Ra’s latest “death”—had targeted an aid convoy with medical supplies laced in a fear-toxin variant. Scarecrow echoes. Bruce dispatched the family to prevent another mass panic, this time on foreign soil.

Damian came because it was the desert. Because dust and shouted Arabic still twisted something raw and hopeful in his chest.

Nine years since Nanda Parbat. Since Talia dragged him away by the wrist while your small, furious face vanished behind the gate.

He still carried your last gift under the suit: a tiny brass gazelle keychain, won at a street fair. You’d shoved it into his pocket with a muttered, “So you remember something soft exists in the world, idiot.”

He never took it off.

Comms crackled. “Redbird, movement on the rooftop opposite the old hammam. Civilian? Armed?”

Damian vaulted the gap, boots skidding on loose tile.

He froze.

You stood at the roof’s edge—dusty jeans, black keffiyeh loose around your neck, sleeves rolled, battered sat-phone to your ear. You shouted rapid Levantine Arabic about triage and pediatric doses. Smoke rose thick behind you from the wrecked convoy.

Older. Exhausted. Exactly like every buried dream since he was twelve.

And on a roof in an active op.

“Civilian confirmed,” he forced out, voice cracking. “Do not engage. Repeat—do not engage.”

“Damian?” Nightwing’s tone sharpened. “What’s wrong?”

You turned. Eyes locked across the thirty-foot void.

The phone slipped. Clattered on tile.

The war zone went eerily quiet for one heartbeat.

Then your voice—soft, like something sacred you’d almost forgotten.

“Damian?”

He launched before thought could catch up. Boots slammed down inches from you. Hands seized your shoulders—too hard—searching for blood, wounds, any reason you were here in hell.

“What the hell are you doing?” It came out half-snarl, half-plea. “This isn’t safe—you can’t—”

You stared at the mask. The red bird. The unchanged green eyes.

“You’re… Robin?” you whispered.

“No.” Hoarse. “Not anymore.”

Your hand rose—hesitant—brushed the mask’s edge like it might vanish.

A broken laugh escaped you. “Of course you are.”

He ripped the mask off. Let it drop.

Soot-streaked face, sweat-plastered hair. Suddenly he looked twelve again—the boy who stole figs for you from the kitchens.

You touched his cheek.

He flinched like fire.

Then caught your wrist. Not to stop you. To anchor.

“I looked for you,” he rasped, words torn free. “Every time I could. Every return. I looked.”

“I know.” Your voice cracked. “I moved constantly. UNHCR, MSF, Doctors Without Borders… I didn’t want to be found.”

A half-sob, half-growl tore from him. He yanked you close—hard enough your feet left the ground.

You buried your face in his neck. Smoke, metal, and that same cedar soap from childhood.

“I thought you were dead,” he whispered into your hair. “Or that you hated me enough to stay gone.”

“I never hated you.” Arms locked around him. “I hated that you left.”

“I had no choice.”

“I know.”

He was shaking. You felt it in every pressed inch.

Boots hit tile behind you.

Nightwing landed first—escrima in hand—froze at the sight of maskless Damian clinging like you were his only gravity.

Jason next. Helmet tilted. “What the actual fu—”

Tim dropped in, drone controller still gripped, eyes wide.

Cassandra appeared silent on the ledge, head cocked, reading everything.

Steph last, cape fluttering. “Uh… guys?”

Damian didn’t turn. Couldn’t.

Silent tears soaked your keffiyeh.

You held tighter.

“It’s okay,” you murmured in Arabic, the same soothing cadence from his childhood nightmares. “It’s okay, Damian. I’m here.”

Jason’s voice strangled. “Did the demon brat just start crying?”

“Shut up, Todd,” Damian rasped—no venom.

Dick stepped closer. “Damian… who is she?”

You lifted your head enough to meet their stares.

“I’m the girl who taught him to braid palm fronds at nine,” you said simply. “And he’s the boy who promised he’d come back.”

Tim made a modem-death noise.

Cass smiled—small, approving.

Steph whispered, “Holy shit, this is canon now.”

Jason just stared, poleaxed.

Gunfire cracked two streets over.

Damian stiffened. Instinct surged.

He pulled back, cupped your face, thumbs sweeping dust from your cheeks.

“You need to leave. Now. Shooters still active, toxin—”

“I’m not leaving without the last aid truck,” you said stubbornly. “Kids need that insulin. I’m the only one with the manifest codes.”

He stared like you’d insulted his bloodline.

Then laughed—short, helpless.

“Of course you are.”

He turned. “Nightwing, Red Hood—with me. Clear the route. Red Robin, Spoiler—escort her to the truck. Orphan, overwatch.”

Dick blinked. “You’re giving orders now?”

“I always have.” Then softer, almost pleading: “Please.”

Dick looked—from Damian’s protective hover, to drying tear tracks—and something settled.

“Got it, Little D.”

The next twenty minutes blurred: violence, precision, Damian fighting like every second bought him back to you.

You rode in the truck’s back with Tim and Steph. Tim kept glancing over.

“So… you and Damian,” he ventured over the engine. “Childhood…?”

“Friends,” you said. “Best friends. Until he vanished one night.”

Steph winced. “Yeah. That tracks.”

You stared out at burning sections of city.

“He promised he’d come back.”

Tim’s voice softened. “He never really broke it. Just… got lost for a while.”

The truck jerked to a halt at camp’s edge.

You jumped out before it stopped.

Damian was already there—knuckles bloody, cape torn, chest heaving.

He saw you.

Ran.

Not hero grace. Desperate, messy, human.

Crashed into you—nearly took you both down.

Arms wrapped tight—one hand fisting your hair, the other locked around your back. Face buried in your neck.

And cried.

Loud now. Wrenching sobs shaking his frame.

In front of family. Aid workers. Peeking kids.

He didn’t care.

“I’m sorry,” he choked. “I’m so sorry. I should have fought harder. Come back sooner. I should have—”

You shushed him, stroking his hair like when he was small and terrified.

“You’re here now,” you whispered. “That’s enough.”

He shook his head against your shoulder.

“It’s not. I lost years. I lost you.”

You pulled back. Looked—really looked.

Red-rimmed eyes. Beautiful. Terrified.

“You didn’t lose me,” you said. “I was always waiting. Even when I pretended I wasn’t.”

He laughed wetly. “Liar.”

“Habit,” you corrected.

He kissed you.

Not gentle. Not careful.

Desperate—like surfacing after nine years drowning.

You kissed back the same.

When you parted, foreheads pressed, the Bat-family stared in shock, awe, horror.

Jason first. “Okay, seriously. What the hell is happening?”

Dick elbowed him. “Shut up. Let them have this.”

Cass stepped forward. Touched Damian’s shoulder. Then yours.

Nodded once.

Family.

Tim kept blinking like his brain crashed.

Steph hissed to Tim, “I need a picture. For science.”

“No pictures,” Damian growled, eyes never leaving you.

You smiled against his mouth.

“Too late. They’ll never let you live this down.”

“I don’t care,” he said, raw. “As long as you’re here.”

You brushed the last tear from his cheek.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you promised.

For the first time since twelve,

Damian Wayne believed someone.

Author’s Note:

Quick question for Tumblr writers,is there some word count limit I don’t know about? 😭

This fic was originally 3.4k words and trust me, I did not want to shorten it, but I had to.

Damian Wayne did not lose control.

He contained it.

That’s what he told himself as he stood in the cave, fists clenched at his sides, listening to Jason laugh too loudly and Dick talk over him while you leaned against the console—arms crossed, eyes bright, entirely too comfortable.

Too close.

Too… you.

Raven stood a few steps away, silent, hood low. Her presence was heavy tonight. Tense. Damian could feel it pressing against his concentration like static.

He hated that he knew why.

1

“You’re distracted,” Bruce said without looking up from the Batcomputer.

Damian bristled. “I am not.”

“You missed a patrol cue,” Tim added mildly.

Damian opened his mouth to argue—then stopped.

Because Bruce wasn’t looking at him.

Bruce was looking at the way Damian’s eyes followed you when you moved.

Jason noticed too. Of course he did.

“Oh my god,” Jason said suddenly. “You’ve got it bad.”

Damian snapped his head toward him. “Do not finish that sentence.”

Dick grinned. “Finish what? The obvious?”

You raised a brow. “What’s obvious?”

Damian felt his face heat. “Nothing.”

Raven’s jaw tightened.

2

Later, on patrol, Raven finally spoke.

“You don’t hide it well,” she said quietly as they moved across rooftops.

Damian didn’t look at her. “I am hiding nothing.”

“You are,” she said. “Just not from everyone.”

He stopped.

Turned.

The city hummed beneath them.

“Say what you intend to say,” Damian demanded.

Raven’s hands curled into fists inside her sleeves. “You love her.”

The word hung between them.

Damian didn’t deny it.

That silence was the cruelest answer of all.

“I tried,” Raven continued, voice strained but controlled, “to be patient. Logical. I thought if I stayed—if I was close enough—you might see me the way you see her.”

Damian swallowed.

“And you never did,” she said.

His voice came out low. “I never lied to you.”

“No,” Raven said softly. “You just never chose me.”

3

The confrontation should have been calm.

It wasn’t.

Because you walked onto the roof at the exact wrong moment.

You froze when you saw them—Raven rigid, Damian tense, emotions sharp enough to cut.

“What’s going on?” you asked.

Raven looked at you.

Really looked.

And something finally cracked.

“You,” she said.

You blinked. “Me?”

“You don’t even realize it,” Raven said, voice rising. “You don’t try, you don’t ask, you don’t claim him—and yet he revolves around you like gravity.”

Damian snapped. “Enough.”

“No,” Raven shot back. “You don’t get to stop this. Not now.”

You stepped forward instinctively. “Hey—”

“I feel everything,” Raven said, eyes glowing faintly. “And his feelings for you are everywhere. They drown everything else out.”

Damian moved between you without thinking.

That did it.

You saw it then.

Clear as day.

4

“Damian,” you said quietly.

He turned to you instantly.

Always instantly.

Raven let out a breath that sounded like surrender.

“I’m leaving,” she said. “Before I say something I regret.”

She vanished in a shimmer of dark energy.

Silence fell hard.

You stared at Damian.

“…You gonna explain,” you asked gently, “or should I just keep pretending I don’t see it?”

He clenched his jaw.

“I did not intend for this to happen like this.”

You huffed a weak laugh. “Yeah. Neither did she.”

You looked away, voice softer. “I never wanted to hurt anyone.”

“I know,” Damian said immediately.

That—that—was the problem.

5

The Batfamily did not let him survive the night.

“So,” Dick said later, arms crossed, smug. “You blocked Raven with your body.”

Jason grinned. “Classic.”

Tim adjusted his glasses. “Statistically significant behavior.”

Damian glared. “You are all insufferable.”

Bruce said nothing.

Just placed a hand on Damian’s shoulder.

“You should talk to her,” Bruce said.

Damian nodded.

Then hesitated.

“And to you,” Bruce added, glancing at you across the cave.

Your stomach flipped.

6

You found Damian in the training room after midnight.

He was alone, sword laid out, movements precise but restless.

“You always do this when you’re overwhelmed,” you said softly.

He didn’t turn. “You always notice.”

You stepped closer. “Damian… why didn’t you ever tell me?”

His hands stilled.

“…Because if I said it,” he said quietly, “and you did not feel the same, I would lose what little I have left.”

Your chest tightened.

“You idiot,” you whispered.

He turned sharply. “Excuse me?”

You reached for his wrist—gentle, grounding.

“I left because I thought you chose Gotham over me,” you said. “Because I thought I was just… a phase.”

His breath hitched.

“You were never that,” he said fiercely. “You were the only constant I had.”

Silence.

Heavy.

Charged.

7

“You love me,” you said, not a question.

“Yes.”

Immediate. Unfiltered.

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

“And you still didn’t chase me?”

“I did,” he said. “Every day. In my head.”

You laughed shakily, eyes burning. “God. We’re terrible at this.”

He stepped closer.

Not touching.

Waiting.

“I am not asking you to choose me,” Damian said carefully. “I will endure if you cannot.”

You looked up at him.

“Damian Wayne,” you said, voice soft but steady, “I never stopped choosing you.”

Something in his eyes finally broke.

Not tears.

Relief.

8

He didn’t kiss you.

Not yet.

He rested his forehead against yours instead.

Careful.

Reverent.

Like he was afraid the moment might vanish if he moved too fast.

Outside the room, Jason leaned against the wall, grinning.

“Told you,” he whispered.

Dick smiled. Tim sighed in victory. Bruce walked away quietly, satisfied.

And somewhere far from the cave, Raven sat alone hurting, yes but finally knowing the truth.

Damian had only ever had eyes for you.

Author’s Note :

No one noticed it at first.

That was the thing about Raven—she was too composed, too controlled for her emotions to leak in obvious ways. If jealousy crept in, it did so silently, curling around her ribs like smoke, settling into places no one could see.

Except… Damian Wayne.

And you.

You had returned to Gotham like a storm no one warned him about.

Years ago, you’d worked with Damian—trained beside him, bled beside him, trusted him in ways he never let anyone else. Then Bruce took him away. Pulled him into the Batfamily, into responsibility, into distance.

And you disappeared.

Now you were back.

Older. Sharper. Still annoyingly fearless.

And Damian—seventeen now, taller, broader, more disciplined—looked at you like he’d been waiting the entire time.

You weren’t together. Not officially. Not even close.

But Damian was already lost.

Everyone knew it.

1

“You’re staring.”

Damian didn’t look away.

You were across the training room, dodging Nightwing’s strikes with lazy precision, smirking when he barely missed you.

“I am observing,” Damian snapped.

Raven, standing beside him, tilted her head slightly. Her hood cast a shadow over her eyes, but her voice was neutral. Too neutral.

“You’ve been observing her for ten minutes.”

Damian scoffed. “Do not be ridiculous.”

“You are,” Raven said calmly. “Your heart rate increases when she enters the room.”

Damian finally turned, irritation flashing. “Do not monitor me.”

“I don’t need to,” Raven replied. “Your emotions are loud.”

They weren’t, actually. Not to most people.

But Raven felt emotions the way others felt temperature.

And Damian’s were… singular.

You finished sparring and hopped off the mat, sweat on your brow, grin crooked and teasing as always.

“You get slower, Grayson.”

Nightwing laughed. “You get cockier.”

Your eyes flicked across the room—and landed on Damian.

Something unspoken passed between you. A look. A pause.

Damian’s shoulders squared instinctively.

Raven noticed.

She always noticed.

2

Raven tried to be logical about it.

Damian Wayne was difficult, arrogant, emotionally guarded. He was not an easy person to care about—yet she did. His discipline resonated with her. His control mirrored her own.

And sometimes… he let her close.

They trained together. Meditated. Patrolled side by side when the Titans crossed paths with Gotham.

Sometimes, Damian sat beside her on the roof, silent but present, and that presence felt like permission.

So Raven told herself she had a chance.

Until you came back.

You were loud where Raven was quiet. Warm where she was cold. Teasing where she was restrained.

And Damian—Damian reacted to you without thinking.

“You’re reckless,” he snapped at you during patrol one night.

You grinned, upside down on a gargoyle. “Missed me too, Dami?”

His jaw tightened. “Do not call me that.”

“You never stopped me before.”

Raven hovered nearby, watching the exchange, feeling something dark coil in her chest.

“You don’t have to engage,” she told Damian softly.

He didn’t hear her.

His eyes were locked on you.

3

Raven tried harder.

She stood closer to him during briefings. Sat beside him. Let her hand brush his wrist once—accidentally, deliberately.

Damian didn’t pull away.

That part hurt the most.

Because sometimes… it worked.

“Your form has improved,” he told her after training.

Raven’s lips curved faintly. “Yours too.”

They sparred longer than necessary. His focus sharpened. For a moment, it was just the two of them.

Until you walked in.

“You two look intense,” you said lightly. “Am I interrupting?”

Damian froze.

“No,” he said too quickly. “We were finished.”

Raven felt it then.

The way his attention shifted. The way his emotions reoriented—like a compass snapping north.

Toward you.

Every. Single. Time.

4

The Batfamily noticed before Raven wanted them to.

“You okay?” Starfire asked gently one evening.

Raven stiffened. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Starfire gestured vaguely. “Your aura is… spikier than usual. And you glare when she laughs.”

Raven’s gaze snapped to you across the room—leaning against the table, laughing at something Jason said, Damian standing just a little too close.

“I don’t glare,” Raven muttered.

Jason snorted. “You absolutely do.”

Raven stood abruptly. “Excuse me.”

She left before she could say something she couldn’t take back.

5

Damian cornered you in the hallway later.

“You are being careless,” he said.

You blinked. “Wow, hi to you too.”

“You provoke people unnecessarily.”

You leaned closer, smirk softening. “You worried about me?”

“Yes,” he snapped instantly—then froze.

You smiled, slow and knowing.

Raven stood at the end of the hallway, unseen.

She felt the truth hit her like a punch.

Damian didn’t hesitate.

Not for her.

Not ever.

6

The jealousy didn’t explode.

It eroded.

Raven grew quieter. Sharper. Her control strained.

She snapped at Beast Boy. Snuffed out candles too aggressively. Meditated longer than necessary.

And every time Damian’s gaze drifted to you, it twisted deeper.

One night, she finally said it.

“Do you care for her?”

Damian didn’t answer immediately.

That was answer enough.

“Yes,” he said at last. “It is… complicated.”

Raven’s voice barely held. “And me?”

He looked at her then—really looked.

“You are important to me,” he said carefully.

Not what she asked.

Not what she needed.

7

You noticed too.

Raven’s clipped tone. The way she avoided your eyes. The tension that crackled whenever Damian stood too close to you.

One evening, you pulled her aside.

“If I did something—”

“You didn’t,” Raven interrupted. Too fast.

You studied her. “You sure?”

Raven hesitated. Just for a second.

“He loves you,” she said quietly.

Your breath caught.

“He doesn’t,” you said automatically.

Raven’s eyes softened—sad, resigned.

“He does,” she said. “And he always has.”

8

Damian found you later that night, sitting alone on the roof.

“You spoke with Raven,” he said.

“Yeah.”

Silence stretched.

“I never meant to hurt her,” he said stiffly.

“I know.”

You glanced at him. “You ever gonna tell me?”

He stiffened. “Tell you what?”

“That you look at me like I’m the only thing in the room.”

His breath hitched.

“…You already know.”

You smiled—soft, real.

And somewhere inside the tower, Raven felt the jealousy finally loosen its grip—not gone, but understood.

Because Damian Wayne had already chosen.

He just hadn’t said it out loud yet.

Author’s Note:

Hi hello 😌

This fic is all about quiet jealousy and loud emotions no one wants to admit. Raven isn’t evil here,she’s hurting. Damian is emotionally constipated (as usual). And the reader? Oblivious but deeply loved.

This is a slow burn, so no rushing the relationship. It’s all glances, tension, almost-confessions, and everyone around them knowing before they do.

If you want a continuation ,let me know 🖤

Sometimes anger doesn’t arrive screaming.

Sometimes it sits quietly in your chest for years, learning the shape of your ribs.

You learned that early.

Bruce learned it next.

Dick learned it on a mission where you shattered a man’s nose with your bare hands and didn’t stop even when he stopped moving.

And no one else ever did.

Not Alfred.

Not the League.

Not the Titans.

Not even Damian.

Especially not Damian.

You had spent years building yourself into something controlled.

Measured.

Sharp but careful.

Meds. Therapy. Training. Breathing exercises at 3 a.m.

Smiling when you wanted to break things.

And then Damian came along.

And you fell in love with him.

And then you broke up.

It was loud.

It was ugly.

It was full of words neither of you could take back.

A week later, the world almost ended.

The Gotham sky was split open by sirens and fire and something alien tearing through the night.

The mission was joint — Batfamily, Titans, half of the League on standby.

Some meta-enhanced weapons dealer with a god complex and a mouth that wouldn’t shut up.

You moved like you always did: clean, precise, lethal.

You didn’t look at Damian.

He didn’t look at you.

Until the villain did.

He noticed the way your jaw tightened.

The way your knuckles flexed.

The way your breath stuttered.

He grinned.

And he said something.

It wasn’t even that clever.

Just cruel in the right way.

Just personal enough.

Just enough.

Something in your chest snapped.

The world went red.

You hit him once.

Twice.

Again.

He went down.

You didn’t stop.

Your fist connected with his face over and over and over, blood splattering across the pavement, your body moving on instinct older than thought.

Someone shouted your name.

You didn’t hear it.

Hands grabbed your shoulders.

You shrugged them off.

Another punch.

Another.

Another.

Dick wrapped his arms around you from behind, dragging you back as you screamed, the sound ripping out of your throat like something feral.

You were shaking.

You were crying.

You were still trying to get to him.

Bruce landed in front of you, eyes wide in a way you had only seen once before.

"Enough," he said, voice sharp as a blade.

Your body finally stopped.

Not because you wanted to.

Because you were empty.

The villain lay unconscious and broken at your feet.

The street was silent.

Every hero on the scene was staring at you.

And Damian —

Damian was looking at you like he didn’t know who you were.

Back at the cave, the silence was worse.

You hadn’t spoken.

You couldn’t.

Your hands were still shaking.

Bruce closed the Batcomputer with a sharp snap.

"What was that?" he demanded.

You didn’t answer.

Dick shifted uncomfortably, glancing at the others.

Tim looked worried.

Jason looked confused.

The Titans stood near the stairs, whispering.

Damian stood apart from everyone.

Arms crossed.

Jaw tight.

Eyes locked on you.

Bruce’s voice softened just a fraction.

"Talk to me."

Your throat burned.

"My meds aren’t working."

The words landed heavy in the cave.

Everyone froze.

Bruce inhaled slowly.

"The doctor called this morning," you continued. "They want me in therapy. Immediately. They’re changing my dosage."

Damian’s eyes widened.

"Meds?" he echoed.

You finally looked at him.

Your heart shattered.

"I have anger issues," you said quietly. "I always have."

The cave felt too big.

Too exposed.

No one spoke.

Dick’s face went pale.

Jason blinked.

Tim swallowed.

Damian took a step toward you.

"Since when?"

"Since before I met you."

His voice dropped. "You never told me."

You laughed softly, broken.

"You were already fighting the world, Damian. I didn’t want you fighting me too."

He stared at you like he might break.

Bruce dismissed the others gently, the cave slowly emptying until it was just you, Bruce, Dick… and Damian.

Damian’s voice cracked. "Is that why you left?"

Your breath hitched.

"Part of it."

Silence.

Then:

"I thought you just stopped loving me."

You looked at him then.

Really looked.

Your eyes filled.

"I loved you too much."

His hands trembled.

"I would’ve stayed."

"I know."

That hurt more than anything.

Later, you sat alone on the manor roof, knees pulled to your chest, Gotham spread beneath you.

Damian found you.

He didn’t speak at first.

He just sat beside you.

The wind moved between you.

After a long time, he said quietly, "I’m not afraid of your anger."

Your chest tightened.

"I am."

He turned to you.

"I’m afraid of losing you."

Your eyes burned.

For the first time since the breakup, he reached for your hand.

You didn’t pull away.

The city kept breathing around you.

So did you.

And for the first time in a long time…

You weren’t alone with the storm.

You first noticed it during late nights in the Manor, when the rest of the world had finally gone quiet and you were both too restless to sleep. The halls were dark, the city beyond the windows glowing faintly like distant stars, and everything felt suspended in that strange in-between where tomorrow hadn’t arrived yet and yesterday was already fading.

You would find him in the library, always in the same corner, surrounded by half-open books and the low hum of a single lamp.

He would look up when you entered.

Not surprised.

Never surprised.

Just… relieved.

You never said it out loud, but you felt it. The way his shoulders loosened the moment he saw you. The way his gaze softened, just a fraction, like something inside him had settled into place.

You started bringing him tea. He pretended he didn’t care. You both knew he did.

Tonight was no different.

Rain whispered against the tall windows. The house was too quiet. You hovered in the doorway, debating whether to disturb him, when he spoke without looking up.

“You may enter.”

You smiled. “Still creepy.”

His mouth twitched.

You crossed the room, setting the mug beside his stack of books. Steam curled upward, carrying the faint scent of chamomile and honey. He paused his reading.

“…Thank you.”

You took the seat across from him, curling your legs beneath you. The chair was too big, the room too dim, and everything about the moment felt soft in a way neither of you were good at acknowledging.

Minutes passed in silence.

Comfortable. Easy.

Your eyes drifted to the rain sliding down the glass. “Do you ever think about leaving?” you asked quietly.

He looked up.

“Leaving where.”

“Here. Gotham. Everything.” You shrugged. “Just… disappearing.”

His gaze held yours. “No.”

The word came out too fast.

You raised an eyebrow.

“I mean,” he corrected, “I have obligations.”

You nodded. “Right.”

He studied you for a moment. “Why do you ask?”

You hesitated. Then, “Sometimes I feel like I don’t belong anywhere.”

Something in his chest tightened.

He closed his book, more carefully than necessary. “You belong here.”

The certainty in his voice made your breath catch.

You looked away. “You don’t get to decide that.”

He leaned forward slightly. “I do when it concerns my home.”

You laughed softly. “Your home?”

“Yes.”

There it was again — the way he included you without even realizing it.

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t.

The silence returned, but it had changed. It felt heavier. Fuller.

Your shoulder brushed his when you shifted. Neither of you moved away.

You became aware of him in a way that made your heart ache: the steady rhythm of his breathing, the warmth radiating from his arm, the way his presence grounded the entire room.

You wondered if he felt it too.

His fingers curled against the edge of the table, just inches from yours. Close enough that you could see the faint scars along his knuckles. Close enough that if either of you moved, even slightly…

Neither of you did.

“Damian,” you murmured, “what happens when the mission is over?”

He frowned. “Which mission.”

“All of them.”

He didn’t answer right away.

When he did, his voice was quieter than you’d ever heard it. “I do not think… the mission ever truly ends.”

You nodded. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

His eyes searched your face. “Why.”

You swallowed. “Because someday I’ll have to leave.”

His breath faltered.

The word leave echoed in his mind like something breaking.

“You will not,” he said.

You looked at him. “You don’t know that.”

He held your gaze. “I know.”

Something in his expression — fierce, protective, painfully sincere — made your chest tighten.

You looked away first.

“Sometimes,” you whispered, “I wish I could just stay. In this moment. With you. And not think about anything else.”

His voice was barely audible. “So do I.”

Your head snapped up.

He looked almost startled by his own words, but he didn’t take them back.

For a moment, everything stopped.

The rain.

The clock.

The world.

It was just the two of you, suspended in the fragile space between truth and fear.

You shifted closer without meaning to.

He did the same.

Your knees brushed. Your hands nearly touched.

His heart was racing. He knew it was. He wondered if you could hear it.

You were looking at him now, really looking — like you were memorizing him, like you were afraid he might disappear if you blinked.

“Damian,” you said, your voice soft, “do you ever think about… us?”

He swallowed.

Every day.

Every night.

Every time you smiled at him.

Every time you walked into a room and the world felt steadier.

But he said only, “Often.”

Your breath caught.

You reached for his hand before you could overthink it. Your fingers brushed his, tentative, uncertain.

He froze.

Then, slowly, he turned his hand over and laced your fingers together.

The contact was gentle. Reverent. Like he was afraid the moment might shatter if he held you too tightly.

Your heart felt too big for your chest.

Neither of you spoke.

You didn’t need to.

The rain kept falling. The clock kept ticking. The world kept moving.

But the space between your heartbeats felt infinite.

He didn’t know what tomorrow would bring. He didn’t know how to promise anything. He only knew this:

He wanted this moment.

He wanted you in it.

He wanted the quiet, the closeness, the unspoken love that was slowly, softly, becoming impossible to ignore.

You leaned your forehead against his shoulder.

He exhaled, the tension in his body melting, and rested his cheek against your hair.

In that silence, in that fragile closeness, something sacred took root.

Not loud.

Not fast.

Just real.

author’s note:

“You know,” you say mildly, stirring your tea, “if you keep staring like that, someone’s going to think you’re planning a murder.”

“I am always planning several,” Damian replies instantly.

You don’t even look at him. “Of course you are.”

That earns you a pause.

You glance up then, meeting his green eyes. They’re narrowed—not in anger, but in that curious, assessing way he gets when something doesn’t fit neatly into his world.

You smile. Soft. Unafraid.

Damian hates that his chest tightens.

“You’re new,” he says.

“I’ve been here three weeks.”

“That is new.”

“Fair.”

You lean against the counter, utterly at ease in Wayne Manor, like you belong there. Like you weren’t intimidated by billionaires, vigilantes, or the sharpest assassin-raised teenager in Gotham.

It unsettles him.

“You have not introduced yourself properly,” Damian says.

You blink. “You didn’t ask.”

“I should not have to.”

“Ah,” you nod seriously. “Prince of Gotham expectations.”

His scowl deepens. “Do not mock me.”

“I’m teasing,” you correct gently. “There’s a difference.”

No one corrects Damian Wayne gently. No one survives it, anyway.

Yet here you are. Alive. Smiling.

“…Your name,” he says, stiffly.

You tell him.

Damian repeats it once under his breath, testing the shape of it like a blade in his palm.

He does not forget it.

Over the next week, you notice things.

How Damian always ends up near you during meals, pretending not to care.

How he listens when you speak—really listens, eyes sharp, like every word matters.

How he bristles when Jason jokes too close, or when Dick sits beside you a little too comfortably.

“You’re very… intense,” you tell him one night on the balcony, Gotham glittering below.

“I am disciplined.”

“You threatened the microwave earlier.”

“It insulted me first.”

You laugh.

The sound hits him square in the chest.

“Why are you not afraid of me?” he asks suddenly.

You think for a moment. Then: “Because I can see you’re trying.”

“Trying to what?”

“Be good. Be better. Be more than what you were taught.”

His breath stills.

No one has ever phrased it that way.

You step closer, resting your arms on the railing beside him. Not touching. Not pushing. Just… there.

“I think that’s brave,” you add quietly.

Damian’s hands curl into fists.

Brave.

He has been called many things—weapon, prodigy, monster—but never that.

He turns to you, eyes searching your face like he’s bracing for betrayal.

Instead, he finds sincerity.

That is what scares him most.

The Batfamily notices before either of you admit anything.

“Kid’s got it bad,” Jason mutters.

“He’s like a feral cat around them,” Tim adds.

Dick grins. “Adorable.”

Damian ignores them all.

But later, when you’re about to leave for the night, he stops you in the hall.

“…Stay,” he says.

Not an order. Not a demand.

A request.

You look at him, really look at him—this boy raised on blades and blood, learning softness in real time.

“Okay,” you say.

His shoulders ease like he’s been holding his breath for years.

When he walks you to the guest room, his hand brushes yours—accidental, tentative.

You don’t pull away.

Neither does he.

And that is how Damian Wayne falls in love:

Quietly.

Fiercely.

And with his whole heart.