In an apron! (That she’s never seen him wear). With his sleeves rolled up to his elbows! And—his hands!

They’re moving in such a practiced way that looks so fluid. The tips of his fingers are curved on the carrot he’s cutting, perfectly dancing parallel to the knife in his other hand as he slices. 

His forearms follow the movement, muscles flexing in such a way that is—Sexy??

And—and the veins. She’d read how attractive they are many times in the tabloids but didn’t understand before. Watching him now… 

A few strands of his hair fall forward, shadowing his eyes from her while he cuts—the sharp edge of his jaw tight with concentration. 

There’s a fleeting thought as her brain begins to restart, in the form of a pop-up notification reminding her that she’s been staring like a complete idiot for multiple minutes now, and should probably move—at the very least get out of the entryway—but…

For some reason her feet are floored to the spot—unable to break free from her trance. She can’t stop staring at him. 

She’s always admired his fighting style during training, and had immediately picked up on the quiet grace he carries into everything he does. Just like a leader. Just like a prince. 

As Damian gets closer to the end of the carrot, his brows furrow together more. A couple of slices later he bites his lower lip, and she nearly melts into a puddle right there on the spot.

Death by vegetables? Yeah, that sounds about right. 

“Raven.” 

She blinks hard—completely caught off guard by Damian calling her name. Her eyes meet the warm welcome of his own, and her cheeks heat with the realization that he had just caught her staring. 

Like an idiot.

So instead of saying something redeeming and neutral like ‘Oh hey Damian, how are you doing?,’ or ‘What a nice day it is this afternoon,’ she blurts out, “You’re chopping.” 

One of his eyebrows rise high as he scrutinizes her face, probably considering if she’s being serious, and how much sarcasm he should deal out. She wants to smack herself. Really? Of all our emoticons, that’s what we came up with? 

Raven’s pretty sure she sees Knowledge in her mind, shrugging helplessly at her. 

The next best thing is a humble and hasty retreat—cast with a mumbled apology and a dramatic swish of her cape while turning on her heel. 

Before she can follow through with that plan, Damian replies with a snort, “That’s very observant. Your detective work is phenomenal.”

Raven tries to backtrack. She knows, of course, from the schedule that it’s Damian’s day to cook. “I mean—I wasn’t expecting to see you making dinner so early.” 

It seems to be a fair point, because Damian doesn’t tease her further into oblivion. “I decided to prep now so that all I need to do later is bake it,” he admits. 

Her feet finally wake up at the startup sound of her brain beginning to function again. They lead her closer to the island.

“What are you making?”

“Chicken pot pie,” he says, using a single finger to swipe the blade of his knife, guiding the stray pieces of carrot into a bowl. Then Damian takes the cloth tucked into his apron pocket to wipe his hands before causally tossing it over his shoulder. He gets started on the crust, kneading the dough with careful, methodical movements. 

Raven finds a stool across from him to sit on. His hands are still working in the dough—arms flexing again—and she’s suddenly wondering what other skills he has with those hands that she doesn’t know about. Up closer she can smell his cologne, some kind of dark spice that she inhales deep—

Raven hasn’t noticed before how good he smells. She’s always known he’s been somewhat attractive. She’s not blind after all. The features in his face and body have always been symmetrically appealing. The sheer amount of fan mail he gets everyday is a testament to that fact. That and the literal trail of women that make a point to track him when he goes out in public. Plus the tabloids that have an entire staff dedicated to his whereabouts. It’s a little obsessive really—and plus they have absolutely no right to violate his privacy like that—

“Are you unwell, Raven?” Damian asks, breaking the silence. 

Raven almost slips off the stool.

Oh Gods. She’s been staring at his hands again, watching the easy way they work the dough into a crust for the pie. Damian’s now looking at her with both concern and confusion— clearly finding her behavior odd, but unsure why. 

Suddenly the kitchen is too damn hot, and too damn small. 

I have to get out of here. 

“I’m fine!” Raven squeaks while rushing out of her seat, then clears her throat because that came out way too high-pitched, “Just have a little tickle in my throat—I’m gonna grab a glass of water, and I’ll be out of your way.”

Damian pauses in his prepping to watch her stride across the kitchen to the fridge. Raven can feel his gaze at her back. 

“You’re not in my way. You can stay if you’d like,” he says after her. 

Raven silently wills the blush in her cheeks to fade while searching for a glass in the cabinet. Now focused on the singular goal of getting the heck out, she declines Damian’s offer.

“No, no, I was actually on my way to meditate.” Her hands keep fishing, coming back with coffee mugs. Dammit I just need one glass. Who’s idea was it to put all the drinkable dishwear together in one cupboard? Fucking Garfield. “It might take an extra hour today so I want to start early.” 

There’s silence while glass and ceramic clink against one another, until Raven finds a water glass towards the back. Finally! Then she turns to the fridge to fill it. 

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Damian asks.

“Mhm, all good. Don’t worry about me,” she rambles, internally wincing because this is probably the most nonsense she’s spouted in a conversation with him, “I’ll be ready for patrol tonight.” 

“I’m not worried about patrol.” 

His words stall her, particularly the ones that he doesn’t say. His concern is touching really, and she feels a need to dissuade him from pushing further. 

“Good! That’s great, then I’ll see you later for dinner? I’m sure the pie is going to be hot—I mean great! I mean, I’m sure it will be hot as in it’s coming from the oven hot—not er—“

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. 

“…Right.” 

Raven sucks in a breath through her teeth and closes her eyes, desperate to slow down her current spiral. The glass of water clutched in her fingers is cold—a stark contrast to the embarrassed heat fanning her face. She ponders if she can get away with placing it against her flushed neck. He’d notice (he notices everything), but maybe he’d be too polite to comment on it. 

“Ooooo’ watcha makin’ in here, Rob?” Garfield calls out a moment later, strolling in with his nostrils flared. 

Oh thank Gods. Who knew Garfield would be her saving grace? 

“Chicken pot pie,” Damian says, his eyes still on her—now unreadable. 

“Oh man,” Gar pouts comically, canines protruding.

Damian finally breaks eye contact to roll them at the ceiling. “I’m making a vegan pie as well, Beast Boy.” 

“Heck yeah! I can’t wait. I’m starving.” 

Raven can’t help her own eye roll at the Changeling's words while basking in the slight reprieve from Damian’s attention. 

“Well the more you talk, the more distracting you are,” Damian deadpans. 

“I’m leaving! I just wanted to come see what was for dinner,” Garfield says, then walks over to the pantry to grab a snack. Typical. 

Damian deigns not to reply, re-focusing back on his task. Raven’s relieved to find that he leaves her alone for the time being, respectful of her own time to get away so she can meditate. Which is needed even more since she’s been in the kitchen. After watching Damian.

Who seems to be at such ease in his environment while cooking dinner. He grabs the rolling pin already laid out to one side, and starts to flatten out the dough, like he’s done it a million times before. A practiced art. It’s so…so domestic. 

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” Garfield jokes from beside her, snapping her back into the present. 

Damian looks back up at the two of them quizzically just as Raven’s power lashes out. It takes the plastic bag in Garfield’s hands, and promptly makes it explode. Barbeque chips rain down on the three of them, shocked silence broken by Garfield’s yell. 

Damian’s eyes dart between the two of them, at a complete loss while trying to bridge together what just happened. 

“My chips!” Garfield whines.

“Idiot,” Raven growls back at Gar. She doesn’t wait for a response, or even offer to help clean up the mess. Saving grace my ass. Instead she finally turns on her heel like she should’ve done at the very beginning of this disaster (and yes her cape does swish out dramatically). She stomps out of the kitchen, all the way up to the roof of the tower, all while bidding her heart to slow its wild and rapid beat. 

When she reaches the railing, she groans into her hands, feeling like one of Damian’s vegetables on the cutting board. 

Of all the emotions warring through her mind, battling it out in her mindscape, there’s only one singular conscious thought running through it. 

An admission that she can’t take back now that it’s fully formed.