Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Damian didn’t notice people, not unless they gave him a reason. Most were too loud, too fake, too needy. But her...He noticed her. She smiled at everyone like it was second nature. Even him. Even when he gave her nothing but silence in return. He didn’t understand it. But he remembered it. And that was new.

What was the point of being so nice to everyone? He didn't understand. She never had an ulterior motive. At least, not one he could sense. She tried to talk to him even though he was curt and borderline rude. Just simple, mundane things. A small compliment about whatever he’d doodled in the margins, a complaint about not understanding the lecture—her attempt at some kind of middle ground. It shouldn’t have worked, but it made him curious.

He knew arrogance. A place like Gotham Prep was full of it—and he was full of it. But he had the skill to back up his pride. Her little comments and greetings weren’t like that. No social climbing, not even just polite, but genuinely kind. She was almost out of place. She didn’t belong, and somehow, that wasn’t a bad thing. It was... interesting.

The classroom was dim despite the grand, arched windows. The walls, once an elegant cream, were yellowing with age. The school had declined without his father's financial support. Damian sat in the back, as always, away from the weak hum of conversation and the scuff of polished shoes against stone tile.

It wasn’t eavesdropping; he just noticed things. Like how she nearly bombed her midterm, how her head always seemed to be in the clouds even when buried in books. The wrong books, usually. He remembered the authors anyway—absently, like everything else about her he wasn’t supposed to care about.

The teacher was rambling about something, but her eyes were focused on a lazy pencil marker flower on the corner of her notebook. Her handwriting was looping, a little messy, with the letters leaning together as if she hadn't fully lifted her pen between letters.

“Would you like to visit the library with me after class?”

It was the first time he’d said more than a flat sound in her direction, and her reaction was instant. She blinked—surprised. Of course, she was. Weeks of her relentless greetings met with nothing but nods and dead stares, and now—

“If you have better things to do, then do not waste my time,” he said, already looking back at his notebook.

“I’m just used to your brooding–” she started, but his glare cut her off.

“Of course! I love the library,” she corrected herself quickly.

“Good. I will meet you there after class.”

Later, after the lab, he caught sight of her tugging her hair free from the short ponytail she’d used for the project. She slung her fraying bag over one shoulder—he half expected it to snap under the weight. But he was more focused on the way she looked when she realized he was waiting by the door. He didn’t mean to wait by the door. It just… happened.

She hadn’t expected him to be there. He could tell by the way she paused mid-step, eyes flicking toward him, caught off guard.

He didn’t say anything. Just turned and walked, and she fell into step beside him.

The hallway was dim and narrow, and all too full of students loitering. Lined with tall lockers, their paint chipped, some doors crooked. The stone floor was uneven, cracked in places, and echoing with their footsteps. The building smelled faintly of aged paper and wasted potential.

“Thanks, by the way,” she said after a moment. He didn’t respond, so she added, “For inviting me.”

“It was nothing. I needed a study partner.”

“Right… wouldn’t you want someone who’s, like, top of the class? Like you?”

“Like I said, I need a study partner. Not a know-it-all. Besides, you’re… passable.”

“Right… yeah, okay.”

She didn’t sound convinced—like she was saying it for her own benefit, not his.

“Sit,” he said. Firm, not angry. Just bossy

She set her worn bag down beside the table leg and sat. Her uniform creased slightly as she settled in, but it was still neat. Put together. Like she was trying.
The library felt like a secret buried inside the school. Warmer, somehow, despite the cracked stone columns and high ceilings. Shelves towered toward the sky, heavy with books that hadn’t been moved in decades. Some of the upper ledges were dust-furred, and the ladder squealed in protest as a pair of students played on it down the aisle. The lamps flickered on occasion. Golden light pooled beneath them like something sacred.

“So what exactly are we supposed to be studying?” she asked, picking up the textbook he’d set on the table. “Advanced European politics? Thrilling.”

“It was your weakest subject on the midterm.” Blunt. Not cruel—just honest.

“Thanks for the reminder,” she said with a snicker, rolling her eyes like it was a joke.

“I’m not here for emotional support. I’m here to make sure you pass.”

“And here I thought I was your study partner.”

A moment passed. Then:
“Don’t most people try to be… I don’t know. Charming. When they ask someone to hang out?”

“I’m not most people.”

“Yeah,” she smiled, “I figured that out pretty quickly.”

“Why do you do that?”

“Huh?”

“Smile at everyone. Be… nice. Even when they don’t deserve it.”

She looked at him, catching the weight in his stare—stormy, unreadable. Then her eyes dropped to the table, tracing the wooden grain with her fingers.

“Someone has to be,” she said softly. “And if I don’t… then who will?”

She was different. Not fake. Not trying to impress anyone. Just... real. Quietly strong in a way he didn’t understand—but couldn’t ignore. The library was quieter now. Fewer students. The light filtered in through the grand windows, coating the tables and shelves in soft gold. Their books were still open, but they weren’t studying anymore.

“You know, when you said I did bad on my midterm… you weren’t wrong.” She offered a small, awkward smile, setting the pencil down instead of spinning it like she had been.

“I bombed it. Almost lost my scholarship.”

That was it. That’s why she didn’t belong here—not really. Gotham Prep was for legacies. Names that filled headlines. She was here on borrowed time and talent. A school full of artificial smiles and last names that were supposed to mean something, but didn't really in the end. He’d been one of them, too. Head down, never noticing her.

“Why didn’t you ask for help?”

He looked up, eyes narrowing, not judging, just... alert.

“I guess… I’m used to figuring things out myself. And it’s Gotham Prep. People already look at me like I don’t belong. I’d rather fail quietly than ask the stuck-up rich kids for favors.”

“I’m not like them.”

But wasn’t he? He’d thought the same thing—until now.

“I know.”

That surprised him—only for a moment—before he spoke again.

“They want something from me. Most people do. A connection to the Wayne fortune, to Gotham’s elite... whatever. You’re the only person here who treats me like I’m just a person. Not a name. Not some future CEO. I notice that.”

“I notice you, too.”

The air between them thickened. No more words came. They just sat there, in the gold-tinted quiet, suddenly unsure what to do with honesty.

Chapter Text

He hadn’t meant for them to become study partners.

Okay—maybe he had. Just not this quickly.

He hadn’t expected her company to be so... congenial. They shared more classes than he’d realized—maybe because she always sat near the back, head down, like she didn’t want to be seen. But then, why did she greet everyone in the hallway?
Girls were confusing.

History was the focus today, only because there was a quiz at the end of the week. She was late. Not that he kept glancing at the clock. He picked the same table as usual, tucked in the far corner of the library where no one stared.

Finally, she arrived—hair a little messy, breathless, smiling like being five minutes late was no big deal.

“Sorry. Lab ran long. My partner mixed up the chemical labels—again.” She paused, probably waiting for a glare or a dry remark.

Damian turned the page of his book, “You’re five minutes late.”

“Yeah, I know. I—”

He slid a second highlighter toward her without looking up.

“Don’t do it again.”

She rolled her eyes, but he didn’t press. They studied in silence, not the awkward kind. The kind that felt natural. Familiar. A light flickered overhead—the same one that had been blinking all month.

He caught himself glancing at her notes a few times. Her handwriting was small and looped, cluttering the margins with reminders, arrows, and the occasional doodle.

“You doodle instead of summarizing the text.”

“I do summarize. See?” She pointed to a starred line: Monarchist backlash in 1830s France. “I just make it fun.”

“History is not fun.”

Without missing a beat, she shot back, “Do you always study like this? Like you’re preparing to take over the world?”

“I don’t prepare. I dominate.”

She snorted—a quick, startled laugh that drew a sharp glance from a nearby table. She covered it with a cough, but he caught the smirk tugging at her lips.

His matched it.

The next day, he couldn’t even remember what they’d studied—only that she brought a chocolate bar and split it in half without asking. When he declined, she just slid a piece toward him anyway. Slightly melted and faintly almond-scented. He heard loud whispers and snickers from the next table, but it didn’t catch his attention. His mind was cluttered from her kindness.

Despite his better judgment, he ate it. He told himself it didn’t mean anything. But he remembered the taste.

Then there was tea—two paper cups with a logo on the sleeve. She claimed they messed up her order, but let her keep both.

“Throwing away perfectly good tea would be criminal,” she’d said.

That was just how she was: always a little messy, a little too generous, never making a big deal out of either.

Her notes were organized, in her own chaotic way. But her binder? Anarchy.

He looked at the mess of handouts, bent tabs, and half-stuck post-its like it had personally offended him. So he fixed it. Or started to. She didn’t stop him. Didn’t even complain.

He shouldn’t have cared. But the mess bothered him—because it was hers. Maybe it came off as bossy. She let him help, though. And for once, he didn’t feel like a control freak. Just someone who wanted to make something easier for her.

That mattered.

The heaters hummed. The windows frosted over. But the warmth he felt had nothing to do with either.

It all just felt… easy.

He didn’t want this to mean anything to him. But it was starting to.

Days became weeks. Weeks blurred into months. And it wasn’t just about studying after school anymore.

It was meeting her at her locker before class. It was falling into step beside her in the hallway, without needing to speak. It was silently passing her a pencil when hers wore down to the silver or snapped mid-sentence.

They didn’t talk about it. But something had changed.

And neither of them seemed in any hurry to name it—or stop it.

Chapter Text

The early morning chill still clung to the concrete steps outside the main building, damp from last night’s rain. Clouds hung low over Gotham Prep like they couldn’t be bothered to clear, casting everything in muted gray. Damian Wayne sat on the stone ledge, elbows on his knees, fingers absently scrolling through his phone. His posture was casual, almost bored, but his ears were alert, sharp, and trained.

He wasn’t reading anything. He was listening.

Even through the buzz of early arrivals—rustling backpacks, car doors slamming, bursts of laughter from across the courtyard—he could pick out the sound of her footsteps. He always could. Light. Quick. Just a little offbeat. Like she moved to music only she could hear. Only today, the sound was different.

Dragging. Slower. Off.

His spine straightened. He tucked his phone away and ran a hand through his hair like he hadn’t been waiting. But when he looked up— She looked awful.

Pale. Her usual glow dulled under sickly lighting. Her eyes sagged beneath the weight of a sleepless night. There was a smudge under one eye—not makeup. Not like she usually wears to make herself seem more put together. Shadows. Even her walk—normally light, energetic—was sluggish, like her body was trying to move through water.

“You look like death,” he said flatly.

She coughed into her elbow, breath rattling. Still, she managed a faint smile, lips cracking slightly. “Nice to see you too.”

He frowned. Students passed them without pausing, a few giving him subtle side-glances before hurrying along. He ignored them all.

“Why are you even here?”

“I didn’t want to miss our session.” She pulled her fraying bag higher on her shoulder with effort. “And I have a quiz in chem. It’s fine. Just a cold.”

“You sound like a car trying to start in winter.”

“Wow. You know how to comfort a girl.”

“I’m not trying to comfort you,” he said, already stepping down from the stairs.

“Come on. You’re slow today.” She rolled her eyes but followed, her sneakers scuffing the pavement.

He stopped suddenly. She nearly walked into him, catching herself with a cough. Her shoes scuffed further on the cracked sidewalk.

“Seriously,” he said. “You should be in bed.”

“And yet you’re still walking toward the library.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Only because I know you’re stubborn enough to follow me there even if you faint in the hallway.”

She shrugged, lips twitching up into a tired smile. “You know me so well.”

As she passed, her shoulder brushed his arm, and he stiffened slightly. She was warm. Too warm. Fever-warm. He said nothing, but his jaw flexed.

Their usual table in the far corner of the library looked colder than usual. She dropped her bag beside the chair with a dull thud, the kind that echoed fatigue. She eased into the seat like her bones hurt. Her cough came again, worse this time. He dropped his own bag down harder than necessary.

“You’re not studying today.”

“What? Why?”

“You’re obviously sick.”

“I can still function. Y’know you’re unusually bossy today.”

“I’m always bossy.”

“Well. Yeah. But this feels more... nurse-like. Next, you’ll be checking my temperature.”

She said it as a joke, but he didn’t laugh. Instead, he reached forward and placed the back of his hand against her forehead without warning. Her breath caught.

“Idiot,” he muttered. “You’re burning up.” She blinked at him, startled. Not just by the touch, but how gentle it was. He was already pulling his hand back.

They sat in silence for a moment.

“At least rest before class starts.”

She sighed and her shoulders slumped slightly, like she didn't have it in her to argue anymore. She took a seat on the steps, and he stayed standing, but he was already requesting Alfred to drop off some tea. And it was there before lunch, per a small lie.

It was easy to find her. She sat by herself in the library every day at lunch. Not that he had been stalking her. It was odd, though, considering how friendly she was to everyone. While others crowded the cafeteria, she claimed this spot like a sanctuary. He didn’t speak. Just set the black thermos down on the table in front of her. The metal made a soft clink against the wood.

Her eyes opened slowly.

“What’s that?” she asked, voice rough and low. Her cold only sounded worse now.

“Tea.” She blinked up at him, confusion flickering through her expression. Then, quiet surprise.

“Drink it.”

“Because you’re secretly a nurse?”

“Drink it.”

She sighed, more like a tired breath, and unscrewed the lid. Steam curled from the opening, carrying a warm scent: lemon and honey and something subtly floral beneath it. Chamomile, maybe. Her first sip melted across her sore throat like relief. It was already soothing her scratchy throat. A small hum falling from her lips as her eyes flicked back up to his, softer this time, though she could be imagining it with as tired as she was.

“Thank you.”

He said nothing.

So she added, quieter, “It’s nice of you.”

His brow twitched. “Bringing tea?”

“And caring.”

He looked at her for a beat too long.

“People don’t say that to me.”

“Probably because you're scowling most of the time.”

“I'm not scowling.”

“Yes, this is your friendly face.”

He shook his head, and his mouth twitched like he might smile, but he didn’t.

“You're weird,” a beat of silence. He then added, “You're kind, and you mean what you say… you don't try to be someone else, it's… strange.”

“You’re nice too. You just don’t know how to let people see it.”

She said it so easily, like it was obvious.

Only you.

She sips on her tea like she hasn't just made his heart jump. Like she hadn't seen through him. She sips the tea like it’s the best thing she’s tasted all day.

And he watches like he didn’t just ask Alfred to brew it three different times to make sure it was perfect.

Chapter Text

The counselor’s office smelled like old paper and bitter coffee. Like stress that had been recycled too many times. She sat on the edge of her chair, spine straight, fingers pressed tight against the hem of her skirt. She nodded, not because she agreed—God, no—but because that’s what good girls did. Girls who didn’t make waves. Girls who kept their scholarships.

"One more underperformance," the counselor said crisply, "and the board will have to reconsider your aid. Understood?"

Underperformance.

Like it was a software issue. A minor glitch. Like she hadn’t been clawing her way through every class with shaking hands and half-sleepless nights.

“Yes, ma’am,” she murmured, and she smiled. Just barely. Just enough. Because polite girls—quiet girls—were the kind that got second chances.

She left with the paper crumpled in her hand. The words blurred, not from tears—she wasn’t crying—but from the heat in her skull and the pounding rush of shame and panic. Her fingers had gone cold, even though she was gripping the notice like it might blow away.

She couldn’t lose her scholarship. She couldn’t.

Of course, that was when she ran straight into a wall. No, not a wall—Damian Wayne.

She bounced off his shoulder like a rubber band snapping, and he didn’t budge. Just looked down at her with that usual expression: cool, unreadable, dark green eyes like they were always assessing threats. Even her.

“You’re late,” he said. She blinked.

“What?”

“For our session. You’re twelve minutes late.”

“Oh.” She glanced vaguely over her shoulder, disoriented. “Right. Sorry.”

His brow twitched—just barely—but it was enough to register as irritation.“What were you doing?”

She didn’t answer. Just adjusted the strap of her bag and brushed past him. He watched her go, jaw tight.

Nobody brushed him off. Especially not her.

The library was nearly empty, the smell of old books thick in the corners. They sat at their usual table, far from the windows, tucked into the quiet. He didn’t say anything when they settled in. For once, neither did she.

No soft jokes. No idle doodles. No humming some half-finished melody under her breath. Just silence and the heavy, oppressive weight of everything unsaid. Damian tapped his pen once. “You’re not doodling.”

She looked up, slow, like she was surfacing from underwater.

“Maybe I’m evolving,” she muttered. “Or spiraling.”

Then she shut the book. A gentle thud. Let her head drop into the crook of her arms.

“I got a warning,” she said, voice muffled in her sleeves. “One more bad grade and I lose my scholarship.”

He didn’t speak.

“I’m not telling you so you’ll feel bad,” she added quickly. “I just… if I flake or act weird, that’s why. You don’t have to babysit me.”

Damian leaned back in his chair, regarding her for a long moment.

“You’ve always been weird,” he said.

“Thanks,” she muttered dryly, but it made the edge of her mouth twitch.

“But not stupid.” She blinked, lifting her head.

He reopened her textbook. “We’re fixing this.”

There was no kindness in his tone. No warmth. Just... certainty. And somehow, that felt safer than sympathy. She didn’t argue. Not really. Not when he started outlining her notes with infuriating precision, highlighting key sections, drawing diagrams she didn’t ask for but needed anyway. He didn’t say “I’ll help you.” He just... did.

It wasn’t perfect. They didn’t flow. She was messy, distracted, emotional. He was sharp, exact, annoyingly efficient. But somewhere between his eye-rolls and her sighs, they clicked.

He noticed what she missed. She explained what he skimmed over.

When he slid a printed quiz packet across the table, her eyes went wide. “Where’d you get this?”

He didn’t look up. “Sources.”

“You’re very mysterious,” she said, narrowing her eyes.

“You’re very behind on 19th-century French nationalism.”

She laughed and rolled her eyes. Not a polite one. A real one. Small, surprised—and the first one all day. Her hair fell forward, and she pushed it back without thinking, pen tapping against the quiz as she dove in like it was an ocean of knowledge she couldn't quite understand, but tried to.

Damian, despite himself, kept watching. The way her head tilted slightly when something clicked. The way her face relaxed when she understood. The faint crease between her brows that deepened when she was focused. It shouldn’t have been interesting.

But it was.

The next morning, she opened her locker to find a small, neat stack of flashcards. Color-coded. Unlabeled. But she knew exactly who made them. She carried them to the library, heart doing something it wasn’t supposed to. He was already at their table, back straight, reading. Facing the entrance like always—like a soldier waiting for an attack. She took her seat across from him. She watched the side of his face as he kept his eyes on the book, not bothering to look up at her.

“You made these.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“You color-coded the French Revolution.”

“It’s strategic. The color helps with memorization.”

“It’s also nice,” she said.

He didn’t answer, but he didn’t deny it either. She smiled to herself and looked down at the cards again. Red was for revolutions. Blue for treaties. Green for names she couldn’t remember—but wanted to, now.

Chapter Text

They shut down the school library.

No warning, no explanation—just a handwritten sign on the door claiming “Maintenance,” as if that flickering overhead light hadn’t been a persistent nuisance for the better part of a semester. Damian had tolerated it longer than most people would’ve. But now that they were allegedly fixing it, he found himself irrationally annoyed. Perhaps it had nothing to do with maintenance at all. More likely, it was because of the senior class. Their idea of rebellion lately involved glue, glitter, and one unfortunate incident with a fog machine.

Embarrassing. These people were months away from adulthood.

Which meant he and she had to find somewhere else to hold their after-school study sessions. A temporary inconvenience, he told himself. Nothing more.

They tried the music room first. After choir practice cleared out, she’d simply wave him in from where she lingered near the piano. It should’ve been easy—convenient, even. Her last class ended there. But the space made him uncomfortable. The lighting was too warm. There were far too many posters of smiling students holding instruments. And worst of all, people stared. The arts wing was insular, and his presence there stuck out. Too many raised brows. Too many whispers. He could hear every one of them, even when she tried to distract him with a soft joke.

He didn’t return the next day.

They tried the common area after that. A disaster. It was loud, cluttered, and chaotic—some kind of battlefield of half-zipped duffle bags, soccer cleats, and students pretending not to eavesdrop. The constant thud of basketballs echoed from the gym, overlapping with shouted plays and coaches blowing whistles like they were warding off demons. His jaw ached by the end of it.

Then they tried the hallway just outside the counseling center.

That was worse.

It was like trying to solve equations in the middle of a storm. One minute, someone was walking by, wiping tears on their sleeve. The next, a door would slam open and a student would storm out, muttering curses. It was too exposed. Too raw. He caught her watching people with soft eyes more than once, her attention drifting. He didn’t blame her. He’d nearly lost focus himself when one kid broke down sobbing across from them.

They ran out of options.

Which left only one solution. One place, quiet, isolated, and stocked with every resource imaginable. It wasn’t ideal.

Inviting her to the manor… was a problem. Multiple problems, actually.

First, it blurred the line. This was supposed to be a routine, strictly academic. Bringing her into his home made it personal.

Second, his brothers. Any one of them could appear without warning, and they would never let it go. He could already hear Todd’s smug commentary, or worse, Grayson’s too-eager enthusiasm.

She didn’t hesitate when he told her.

It should’ve thrown her. It threw him.

That was the worst part. He’d expected at least some teasing—maybe a flustered “your house?” or a joke about his mysterious rich-boy lifestyle. But she just blinked once, coughed into her sleeve, and nodded.

“Okay,” she said, like he’d asked her to meet at the library again. Like it wasn’t a monumental shift.

Now she was here.

Standing in the front hall of Wayne Manor, sneakers slightly damp from the rain, her hair too. Her bag slung over one shoulder. Her eyes flicked over the tall ceilings and dark wooden trim, but not in the way most people did. She wasn’t awestruck. Just quietly observing, polite. He found himself watching her more than the moment.

“I didn’t know it was like a thirty-minute walk up your driveway,” she murmured.

Her focus trailed up the walls and iron banisters on the railing of the stairs.

“You live in a castle!” She perked up a smile, painting her lips.

“Tch.” He shut the door behind her. “It’s a house.”

Before he could roll his eyes properly, a deep bark echoed down the corridor.

“Stay still,” he muttered, and she barely had time to process before something large, black, and fast came bounding around the corner. Titus skidded to a stop just in time, tail already wagging. His enormous head swung toward her, sniffing with focused curiosity. He watched her tense from the corner of his eye.

“Is that a dog or a horse?” It was clearly an attempt at humor to hide her unease. He couldn't blame her; Titus was intimidating.

He scratched behind Titus’s ear without looking at her. “A dog. He’s better company than most people.”

Titus sniffed again, then gave a satisfied huff and leaned into her leg.

She bent down slowly, reaching a hand toward him. “He’s huge.”

“He’s trained in five languages and knows more than most of our teachers.”

“That’s not intimidating at all,” she said, grinning despite herself. “What’s his name?”

“Titus.”

“Like the Shakespeare character?”

He paused. “…Yes.”

She smiled like she wasn’t surprised. “Hi, Titus,” she murmured, brushing his fur gently. Titus huffed in approval, then wandered off like his inspection had been passed. Nails clicking on the wood before he disappeared fully down the hallway. Damian turned to lead her deeper into the manor—but they barely made it two steps before Alfred appeared, silent as always, hands folded neatly in front of him.

“Master Damian,” he said. “And you must be his study partner.”

Her eyes widened. “Oh. Um. Yes. Hi.” She stood a little straighter, clearly caught off guard.

Alfred offered the faintest of smiles. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. Would you care for something to drink? Tea, perhaps?”

“She’s fine,” Damian cut in. He nodded, already deciding against Damian's wishes to make her tea. They both wait until he's out of earshot before whispering.

“You have a butler?”

He didn’t dignify it with a response. Just pressed up the stairs as she stumbles behind him. As she walked behind him, her eyes trailed everything, more distracted than she'd ever been. She followed him down a long hallway lined with heavy portraits and polished floors that creaked slightly beneath their steps.

“Didn't know you lived in a museum.”

He didn’t speak until they reached the end. He opened his door—wide enough for her to walk in, but not wide enough to invite her.

It wasn’t what she expected.

His room was clean, but not cold. Sparse, but not impersonal. There were shelves—neatly arranged, categorized by subject. One wall held weapons, sheathed and displayed with precision. The opposite wall had books, journals, and notebooks lined up in rows like a library in miniature. The only disorganized thing was the bed, the blanket half-thrown aside. Like he’d gotten up and immediately stopped caring. Like he never expected anyone to see it.

She didn’t comment. Just set her bag down by the desk and stood, taking it in with quiet curiosity.

"You really went with the whole ninja aesthetic, huh?"

"Tt. They’re authentic, not decorative."

Damian crossed the room and tugged a worn book from the shelf. “We’re reviewing bio today,” he muttered.

“Wow. Straight to business.”

“You’re already behind.”

She coughed and sat in the desk chair, sipping from the thermos Alfred must’ve placed there. “Nice to know your nurturing side was temporary.”

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t tell her how long he’d hesitated before inviting her. Didn’t explain the way it unsettled him. It felt normal. That was the unsettling part. Instead, he flipped to the marked page, handed her a pencil, and sat across from her with a quiet scowl.

But when she looked up and smiled—sleepy, tired, real—he almost smiled back.

Almost.

The room settled into a quiet hum, the only sound the scratch of her pencil and the occasional flip of a page.

For a while, it was like any other study session. She leaned over the open textbook, brow furrowed, the steam from her tea (Alfred insisted) curling faintly beside her. Damian watched her annotate a diagram with sluggish care—her handwriting a little messier than usual, but still precise enough to make his own neater notes look almost sterile by comparison.

“Enzymes,” he said when she paused too long. “You keep skipping them.”

“I’m not skipping. I’m... ignoring with intent.”

“Tt.” He circled a section with his pencil and nudged the page toward her. “This one controls the breakdown of—”

“I know,” she groaned softly. “I just—my brain feels like soup today.”

He quirked an eyebrow. “Soup?”

“Foggy. Hot. Kind of useless.”

He stared.

“Sorry. I’m trying.”

He didn't respond immediately. Instead, he reached across the table, flipped her textbook gently back to the last diagram, and set it at a better angle.

“Then stop trying to memorize everything right now,” he said, voice lower. Less clipped. “Just focus on understanding the process.”

She blinked at him. “That almost sounded like advice.”

“It was advice,” he muttered.

A small smile tugged at her lips. She looked at him sideways, pencil tapping rhythmically against her notebook. She’d expected cold stone and colder silence. But the room was warm. Lived-in. Quiet in a way that didn’t feel empty.

“I think your room’s the warmest place in this whole mansion,” she said after a beat. “Even with all the swords on the walls. Why do you–”

He didn’t look up. “It’s insulated with reinforced wall panels. Keeps the temperature stable.”

She snorted quietly. “I was trying to be poetic.”

Chapter Text

She sighed, pencil tapping rhythmically. “School’s relentless lately.”

A pause.

She laughed under her breath. And then, offhandedly, like it meant nothing, she said, “You know there’s a winter dance next month?”

He paused mid-sentence. “No.”

She hummed. “Well, there is. I think it’s supposed to be the week before break.”

“Sounds irritating.”

“Oh, it definitely will be.” She stretched slightly on the floor, her legs stretching out from their curled position under her. “There’s gonna be themed decorations and punch that tastes like melted Jolly Ranchers. 

“You’re going, then?”

“I don’t know.” She rubbed her temple. “I mean… probably. It’s not like I get invited to things very often. You go so people remember you exist.”

He studied her for a long moment. Her voice had gone quieter. Tired in a way that wasn’t just from the cold.

“But I don’t want to spend money on a dress I’ll never wear again,” she added, more to her tea than to him. “Especially when the rent’s due and my brothers need new shoes.”

She twisted her mug between her palms, eyes fixed on the steam curling into nothing. He said nothing.

There was a kind of stillness in the air now. Not uncomfortable. Just heavy.

Eventually, she blinked up at him. “You’d hate it.”

“Obviously.”

“Too many people. Too much noise. Plus, dancing.”

“Dancing is undignified.”

She rolls her eyes and lets the conversation roll away. She read the same page over and over again, though. 

Both their thoughts were interrupted by giggles down the hallway.

Damian’s jaw tightened before the sound even reached the door. Todd’s too-loud laugh. Drake's snort. Grayson’s overdone shushing, like that ever worked.

Jason’s muttered, “Did the demon finally bring someone home?” was followed by a chorus of amusement and a faint thud —probably someone being shoved into a wall.

Damian didn’t move, but his pencil snapped clean in half between his fingers.

She blinked at the sudden sound and glanced up, startled.

“You okay?”

He exhaled sharply through his nose. “Ignore them. They thrive on attention.”

She tilted her head slightly. “They’re your brothers, right?”

“Unfortunately.”

Before she could say anything else, there was a light knock at the door—sharp and purposeful, unlike the chaos outside. Alfred entered, stepping around the threshold with a steaming mug in one hand and a small plate of crackers in the other.

“I trust the tea is still to your liking?”  he said warmly, with the gentlest of nods.

She straightened slightly, voice still soft. “It’s perfect, thank you.”

Alfred placed the plate down beside her notebook with a gracious smile. “For your strength, dear. You look as though the day’s trying to take you under.”

“It kind of is,” she admitted.

Damian said nothing. He kept his eyes on the desk, flipping to the next page with unnecessary force.

Alfred glanced over at him, gaze flicking briefly to the red marks across his knuckles. His eyes narrowed just so, but he said nothing.

“I’ll be nearby,” the butler said mildly. “If you need anything more helpful than Master Wayne’s... enthusiasm for biology.”

She smiled as he closed the door behind him.

After a beat, she leaned closer and whispered, “He’s nicer than you.”

“I should hope so. It’s literally his job.”

She laughed again, quiet and warm. Her fingers reached out to take one of the crackers, but paused mid-air. She stared at the purpling line along his knuckle. Faint, but fresh. The kind of mark that didn’t come from tripping over a stair. She looked like she wanted to say something.

He followed her gaze before realizing what caught her attention.

His hands.

The bruises weren’t bad—not today—but they were visible. The faint dark purple across his knuckles, the raw skin over one joint. A small cut, scabbed over, tugged near the base of his thumb.

She didn’t say anything for a long moment. Just reached for her tea instead, though her brows pinched faintly with something unsaid.

“You should wrap those,” she said eventually, tone so light it almost passed unnoticed.

“I’m fine.”

She glanced at him sideways. “You always say that.”

He looked back down at the page. “Because it’s always true.”

Except it wasn’t. Not really.

She went quiet after that. Didn’t push. Didn’t ask why the bruises were there. Just leaned her head on her hand again and kept reading. Or pretending to. He wasn’t sure her eyes had moved from the same sentence in five minutes.

He stared at the side of her face for a moment longer. She looked worn thin. Pale. Even her usual softness had an edge now, like the exhaustion had soaked into her bones. It was rather late. The silence stretched between them. Not uncomfortable—just weighted.

He closed his book. “We’re taking a break.”

Her head lifted slightly. “We are?”

“You're foggy and I’m irritated,” he said, already standing. “It’s unproductive.”

She followed slowly, brushing her palms over the front of her skirt as she stood. “Okay, okay. Break it is.”

He led her through the hallways without much explanation. She didn’t ask questions, just tugged her cardigan tighter over her arms as they stepped out the back door and into the garden. The air was sharp with cold, the kind that bit at noses and fingers. It wasn’t snowing yet, but the air carried that weight. Clouds hung low and heavy above them, and the branches of the trees were nearly bare, their skeletal shapes dusted with frost.

Damian kept his hands tucked into his pockets as she wandered a few steps ahead, her boots crunching softly over the gravel path.

“This place is ridiculous,” she murmured.

He quirked an eyebrow. “You say that like it’s an insult.”

“No, I mean—” She paused, glancing back at him. “It’s like a museum. Or a castle. Like somewhere you’d film a period drama.” She laughed softly. Her breath puffed visibly in the air, curling like the steam from her tea earlier. “I just meant it’s a lot.”

“It’s just home.”

She looked around again. “That’s kind of what I mean.”

They stopped near one of the stone benches beside the fountain. The water had been turned off for winter, the basin frozen over in a thin sheet of ice. A single bird flitted across the ledge before darting away again. The wind carried the crisp scent of pine and distant woodsmoke, the kind of cold that clung to skin and wouldn’t shake off. You couldn't even smell the city all the way out here.

She sat slowly, rubbing her gloved hands together.

He stood a pace away, watching her.

“Your brothers seemed nice,” she said after a while.

“They’re insufferable.”

“Maybe.” She smiled faintly. “But they’re loud in a way that sounds like they care.”

He didn’t answer.

She looked down at her fingers, picking at the edge of one glove. “I didn’t mean to invite myself over today. I know it’s weird.”

He shook his head. “It’s not.”

“You say that, but this place is… it’s kind of the opposite of mine.” Her voice dropped slightly. “Your tea comes with crackers and silver trays. We microwave ours in mismatched mugs.”

He frowned. “I didn’t invite you here to compare kitchens.”

“I know. I’m just…” She trailed off, then looked up at him. “Thanks.”

He blinked. “For what?”

“For noticing I felt awful. For the tea. For not mocking me when I said my brain was soup.”

He looked away, clearing his throat. “I mocked you a little.”

“But not a lot,” she teased. “Thanks, again.”

He nodded, then turned slightly, like he couldn’t stand being looked at directly. Gratitude always felt too direct. Like being seen without armor.

She watched him, then her gaze dipped briefly to his hands again. The bruises still visible across his knuckles. But this time, she didn’t say anything.

Instead, she just said, “I like it out here.”

He glanced back at her. “Why?”

“It’s quiet. And it doesn’t feel… fake. Even though it’s all trimmed and neat. It still feels like something real grows here. Plus, you can see the stars out here, even if it's only a few.”

Something flickered across his face—just for a second. Then he turned away again, motioning toward the path.

“We should get back.”

She stood, brushing off her skirt. “Back to enzymes and mitochondria?”

He shot her a look. “Yes. Unless you want to fail.”

She grinned. “You’re getting bossier.”

“And you’re getting slower.”

Neither of them said anything else as they walked back.

But the silence didn’t feel quite so heavy anymore.

Chapter Text

The Gotham Prep courtyard buzzed with the kind of chaos only teenagers on the brink of a school dance could generate. The air was thick with perfume and nerves, notes stuffed into lockers like confessionals, and murmured invitations passed back and forth with “totally casual” smiles. Girls in plaid skirts clustered in groups, swiping through dress ideas on their phones and squealing loud enough to echo off the ivy-covered brick.

She stood at her locker, scarf fraying at the edges, arms full of textbooks that smelled faintly of old paper and reheated coffee. Her cheeks were flushed from morning rehearsal, still humming a soft note from the winter concert’s closing number. Something wistful. A little sharp.

The noise didn't touch her, not really. She floated just outside of it—noticed, maybe, but never quite included.

But Ryan always noticed her.

He’d been showing up more lately. Not in a weird way—not exactly. Just... always there. At her locker between classes, with that easy smile and “just wondering if you finished the history notes.” Hovering at the edge of her world like he was waiting for an opening she hadn’t given.

And she hadn’t told him to stop. Not really. Not directly. She didn’t want to hurt his feelings. And she wasn’t used to saying no.

Debate team captain. Good hair. Good posture. The kind of boy teachers loved and boys tolerated. Always smiling like he expected you to smile back.

“Hey, got a sec?”

She turned, surprised. “Oh—hi, Ryan. What’s up?”

The polite voice. The automatic smile. She gave them to everyone, but he didn’t notice that part. He rubbed the back of his neck, trying for casual, but everything about him hummed with nervous anticipation.

“I was just thinking—uh, the dance is coming up, and I thought maybe…” His voice trailed off. “If you're not going with anyone…”

She froze. Her stomach twisted—not with nerves, but something colder. Not again.

And then she felt it—that quiet weight at the end of the corridor.

Damian Wayne. Still, as a painting, half-shielded by lockers, a textbook open but unread. Watching.

Of course, he saw. He always sees.

Her throat felt tight.

“Oh! Ryan, that’s… really sweet.” Her smile didn’t falter, but it softened. Honest, for just a second. “But I already said yes to someone.”

That was the first time Damian had ever seen her lie.

She was good at it. Not too smooth, not too eager—just enough sincerity to pass as truth.

Ryan blinked. “Oh? Who?”

There was a moment. A small hesitation. Not enough for most people to catch. But Damian wasn’t most people.

“Damian,” she said. “Damian Wayne.”

The name landed like a dropped tray in the cafeteria.

Ryan gawked. “Wayne? As in—?”

“Yep. That one.”

“Huh.” He shifted, visibly thrown. “Didn’t know you two were… close.”

“We’re not.”

The voice came from behind him, low and final.

Damian stepped forward from the lockers, hands tucked into his coat pockets. His face gave away nothing, but his presence filled the space in a way Ryan couldn’t fake. His eyes flicked to her, unreadable, before returning to the other boy.

“We’re just going together. That’s all.”

Ryan cleared his throat, taking an instinctive step back. “Right. Yeah. Cool. See you around…”

He left quickly, retreat obvious. He didn’t look back.

The silence that followed felt heavier than the noise had.

She didn’t move.

“You let me lie,” she said quietly.

Damian didn’t answer. He just looked at her. Not angry. Not even surprised. Just… studying her, like she was a puzzle he was starting to recognize the edges of.

She fumbled, heat creeping into her cheeks. “I wasn’t trying to— I mean, I know you don’t want to go. I just… needed to get him off my back, and it came out and I panicked—”

“I said yes,” he cut in.

Her breath caught. “What?”

“I said yes,” he repeated, evenly. “Because you told him you were going with me.”

She stared, stunned into silence. 

“You didn’t have to,” she managed. “I mean… you really didn’t have to.”

“I know.”

Her breath stuttered, just a little. He made it sound so easy. That was it. No fanfare. No teasing smirk. Just fact.

Her heart thudded in her chest, uncomfortably loud. She looked down, adjusting the strap of her bag where it bit into her shoulder.

“I’ll buy a ticket then,” she mumbled. “If we’re going.”

“You’re not paying for it.”

“What? Damian—”

“You’re not,” he said again, a little firmer. “Just tell me when to pick you up.”

She didn’t answer right away. Guilt twisted in her stomach. He hadn't even wanted to go, now he insisted on buying her ticket?

Down the hall, the bell rang. Students scattered like startled birds, chatter rising again.

Damian’s knuckles were bruised. She noticed it now—subtle purple blooming beneath the skin, just along the ridge of his right hand. Not fresh. Fading. But not the kind of thing you get from fencing practice, either. But who knew what rich boys did in their free time?

She didn’t ask. Not yet.

Instead, she turned toward her class, expression unreadable. “Guess I’ll see you later?”

Damian nodded once.

As she disappeared into the crowd, he exhaled slowly. Flexed his fingers. Shoved his hands back into his pockets before anyone else could see.

In history, her pen hovered uselessly above her notes. She stared at the same sentence for ten minutes.

Because you told him you were going with me.

The words kept looping. Calm. Final. Like it hadn’t cost him anything to say it.

The thing was… it had. She knew it had. Damian Wayne didn’t do school dances. He barely did school.

Across the room, a group of girls whispered about dresses, lipstick, and who might ask whom. Their voices washed over her, but she stayed quiet, not daring to join in. When one of them glanced her way and asked, “So, who’s Damian Wayne taking to the dance?” her throat tightened. She didn’t answer.

Later, walking down the hall between classes, the quiet weight of Damian’s gaze pressed against her back. She heard footsteps behind her and turned briefly, just in time to catch him slipping around a corner, eyes unreadable, as always. He didn’t say a word, and neither did she. But the nod they exchanged, brief and almost invisible, made her heart skip.

When she got home that evening, the air carried a familiar mix of cheap vanilla shampoo, black coffee, and the faint trace of laundry detergent—the kind that came from bulk bottles on sale. A coat rack leaned by the front door under the weight of too many jackets. One of the twins’ backpacks had spilled open on the floor again, scattering crumpled worksheets and a half-eaten granola bar. Dishes waited in the sink, and a cracked mug held a few mismatched forks.

It wasn’t terrible. It was home. But she never invited people over. Not here.

She dropped her backpack on the kitchen table, wedged between the narrow galley kitchen and the chipped wall that separated it from the couch, and pulled out her songbook, the pages filled with delicate, inked notes and soft poetry. Her fingers brushed over the words, but her mind wasn’t on music. It was on a bruise blooming under Damian’s skin, on the quiet promise in his voice, on the lie she’d told and the truth she couldn’t quite say out loud.

Her pen hovered. She pressed the tip to the page, but no ink came—like even the paper knew better than to speak just yet.
A lie.
A yes.
A bruise.
And the space between all of it — quiet, unsettled, waiting.

She shut the book before she had the chance to dwell on it. She groaned and pressed her forehead to the cool table, hoping it would make her brain less scrambled. She hadn't even meant to ask him. And she was sure he hadn't planned on going, yet here they were. Heading for something neither of them had planned. 

She heard her mother chuckle from the kitchen. "That bad, huh?"

“I accidentally asked someone to the dance. Then he accidentally said yes.”

Her mother hummed, the kind of sound that meant tell me more , even if she didn’t press.

“I wasn’t going to go,” she added. “I didn’t want to deal with it. The dresses, the music, the pretending to be someone I’m not…” Her voice trailed off.

There was a pause, then the sound of a dish towel being folded.

"You know, when I was your age, I almost skipped my winter dance," her mom said. "Thought I didn’t belong. Thought no one would notice if I stayed home.” She smiled faintly. “I was wrong, by the way.”

She finally sat up, rubbing at her temple. “Did you go?” 

“Eventually. Late. In a dress I’d borrowed and shoes two sizes too small.” Her mom leaned in the doorway now, arms crossed, expression soft. “And I danced with a boy who was so nervous he tripped over the decorations. Cut his hand on one of those stupid glittery centerpieces.”

That made her smile, just a little. “Sounds kind of pathetic.”

“It was,” her mom agreed. “And perfect.” She hesitated. “Sometimes the best things sneak up on you when you're sure you don’t deserve them.”

She didn’t answer. Her eyes flicked to her songbook again.

Her mom tilted her head. “What’s his name?”

“Damian…” Her mother waited for more, and with a defeated sigh, she added, “Wayne.”

That earned a low whistle. “As in… Wayne Wayne?”

The girl groaned and buried her face in her hands again. “Please don’t make it a thing.”

“I’m not,” her mom said gently. “But if he’s the one who said yes, maybe you’re not the only one surprised.”

She peeked up at her through her fingers.

Her mom smiled, almost knowingly. “You think you asked him by accident, honey, but some things don’t just happen by chance.”

Chapter Text

“You look like you're going to a funeral. Lose the scowl,” Tim joked, leaning in the doorway with a smirk, arms crossed.

Damian stood in front of the full-length mirror, in a tailored black suit he wore to the galas his father hosted. It was cut razor-sharp at the shoulders, the fabric matte but rich, like it had absorbed the Gotham night. No tie—because of course not—but a single dark pocket square added the barest hint of contrast. His shoes were polished to a quiet gleam, his cufflinks subtle and clean. It wasn’t flashy. It didn’t need to be. The suit wore him as much as he wore it—elegant, controlled, and just dangerous enough to make people look twice. His scowl furthered that.

“This is ridiculous.”

“What? The fact that you're nervous? Or that you let Alfred do your hair?” Dick chimed in, draping himself over the back of the couch.

“I'm not nervous.” Damian shot a glare, but it hardly worked on his brothers anymore.

“Your boutonniere, Master Damian.” Alfred appeared from the doorway with a small box.

The boutonniere was white. Ranunculus. Clean, compact, not overly sentimental. The florist had offered red. He declined. This wasn’t a love story—it was an event. Formalities required precision. No loose petals, no unnecessary flair. Just the white bloom, a sliver of baby’s breath, and a narrow black ribbon to match the suit. It would do. Nothing more. Nothing less. He clipped it to his lapel, ignoring his brothers.

He offered to pick her up. She declined.

The bookstore was small and unimpressive. Cracked red paint on the siding. Dust layered on the windowpanes like no one had cared to clean them in years. The kind of place most people passed without a second glance. But she chose it.
Of course she did.

She wasn’t wearing the kind of dress girls at galas wore. It wasn’t new. The fabric clung slightly where she’d sewn it tighter at the waist, the hem falling just uneven enough to betray that it had been altered by hand. But it was cream-colored—soft, vintage in shape, printed with faint white daisies that almost disappeared in the light.

They hadn’t even talked about matching—yet his boutonniere matched her dress. Like a sign.

Not flashy. Not designed to stand out. The square neckline and puffed sleeves gave it a delicate, almost old-fashioned elegance, like something pulled from a memory. A black shawl hung over her shoulders—simple, practical. Her hair was pinned back with effort, though a few strands had fallen loose. She hadn’t caked on makeup or worn anything loud. No jewelry. Nude ankle-strap heels, careful but not pretentious. She was trying. Harder than most. And somehow, in a way he couldn’t explain, it suited her more than any glittering dress ever could.

Just her.
And she looked real.

Her arms were crossed, her shoulders pulled in. Defensive posture. Not cold—embarrassed.

“You’re early,” she said, voice light, like she was trying not to sound nervous.

“I know,” Damian answered. Flat. Truthful. He scanned the windows behind her, glimpsing only shadows and spines of books too faded to read. “You didn’t want me to see where you live.”

Her expression twitched—barely—but it was enough.
There was a pause.

“You look fine.” The words left his mouth before he could catch them. They sounded clinical, like a report. Not what he meant. He didn’t correct it.

“Thanks,” she said, lips tugging into a crooked, practiced smile. “You kind of look like a Bond villain.”

He exhaled through his nose. “Then you should be careful getting in the car.”

He opened the door.
She hesitated. Not out of fear—something quieter. She looked back at the bookstore once, like she was leaving something behind. Then she ducked into the seat without a word.

He followed her in, pulled the door shut.
Alfred didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

As the car pulled away, Damian stared out the window, jaw tight, hands flat on his thighs. She was sitting beside him, too quiet—but she hadn’t said no. She’d gotten in. That was something.

He glanced at her once—sideways. Her hands were folded in her lap, her fingers worrying the fabric. Her knees angled inward. Contained. Controlled.
She looked like she didn’t belong.

And it made him want to burn down whatever room said so.

The school gym had been transformed. Glittering lights and silver paper stars hanging from the ceiling and the punch table. Music playing pop songs at just the right volume to not immediately kill conversation. Couples, romantic or not, danced under the lights and huddled around the snack table.

Anytime Damian so much as looked at someone, they averted their eyes.
Not her, though.

She was the one to nudge his arm and whisper something under her breath that would almost make him smile.

“Having fun yet?”

“No.”

“You're lying.”

She smiled and tilted her head slightly, hair slipping over her shoulder. He didn’t answer. His eyes on her again, there was a flicker of something in his gaze, warm and dangerous. Then someone tapped her shoulder.

“Mind if I steal her for one dance?” Ryan offered a smile and his hand.

Damian stiffened just slightly.

“I'm good where I am, thank you, though.”

She didn't even have to think about it. Ryan blinked and gave a glance that said, Really? Him?—but backed off. When he was gone, she glanced at Damian again.

“Okay. Be honest—”

“I always am.”

A small smile, before her face grew serious again. “Did you only agree to come so I wouldn't embarrass myself lying to Ryan?”

A pause.
He didn't look at her when he answered. “I came because you said I was the one you wanted to go with.”

Her breath hitched, only for a moment. And for a second, they stood off to the side of the gym, barely swaying, the lights reflecting off the other girls' glittering dresses and the decorations. It felt like something else was swaying too.
Something he didn’t have a name for.

The DJ switched to something upbeat, just a little too loud for conversation. Lights flashed above them in slow sweeps. A couple darted past—too fast, too close—and bumped the snack table behind them.

Something tipped. A plastic cup tumbled, knocking over another.
Punch splashed across the table, dripping to the floor.

She startled, then covered her mouth, trying not to laugh.
Damian blinked, stared at the puddle like it had personally offended him.

“That was almost graceful,” she whispered.

He exhaled—just a breath, not quite a laugh, but something close enough to make her eyes light up.

“You think this is funny?” he asked, dry.

She nudged his elbow. “You smiled.”

“I did not.”

“You almost did.”

He didn’t answer, but she didn’t need him to. The corner of his mouth had twitched, and she’d seen it.

She looked out toward the dance floor. Groups had thinned—some couples spinning in practiced rhythm, others awkwardly shifting side to side. It wasn’t impressive. It wasn’t intimidating. It just... was.

“You ever dance before?” she asked.

He gave her a sidelong look. “I’ve been trained in fourteen styles of martial arts.”

“What?” She laughed. Is that a joke from him? “That’s not a no.”

Another pause. Then he said, “It’s not the same.”

“No,” she agreed. “It’s harder. You can’t win at dancing.”

“Exactly.”

She tilted her head, studying him. Her voice dropped to something softer, closer.

“You could try. Just once.”

His gaze flicked to hers. Measured. Long.
Then, slowly, he held out a hand.

Not dramatic. Not for show. Just... offered.

She blinked—almost didn’t believe it—but took it.

They stepped onto the edge of the floor. He didn’t pull her in close. He let her guide the distance. One hand at her waist, the other in hers, stiff at first, like he was waiting for orders. But she didn’t give any.

She just moved. Slowly. No steps to memorize. Just the rhythm and the lights and the weight of his hand in hers.

“See?” she whispered, “Not so scary.”

He didn’t speak. But after a moment, his thumb brushed once—barely there—against the back of her hand.
And she knew that was all the answer he could give.

The music had grown louder, the crowd denser, and people had knocked over the snack table about three more times. It must have been some kind of dare. Damian hated the chaos of it all. So when she glanced up at him and mouthed, “Want to get out of here?” he didn't hesitate.

They stepped out of the crowded gym and into the cold. The night air was sharp with the winter cold. Snow was clinging to the railings and piling on the overgrown hedges. The further they walked, the thump of the music didn't stop, just faded.

Neither of them said anything right away. They just walked slowly down the path through the courtyard that circled the school. The bass still thudded in the distance, muffled now by stone walls and snowbanks. Her heels clicked softly on the pavement, the only rhythm left between them.

“I don't think school dances are really your thing.” She kept her eyes on the ground and her arms wrapped around her.

“I don’t think school is my thing.”

“I don't know, you know enough to help me keep my scholarship.”

She stopped walking near a bench, brushed the snow off it with her shawl, doing little to protect her arm from the cold, and sat down carefully. Damian stood, hesitating. She patted the space beside her.

“I don't bite.”

He sat. The cold seeped through the fabric of his pants; the fabric of her dress surely did less to protect her. But she didn't complain. Her dress fluttered slightly in the breeze, her fingers curling her shawl.

A moment passed, quiet but not uncomfortable.

“I used to dream about dances like this when I was little. I’d imagine sparkly dresses and some boy who looked at me like I mattered…”

Her voice was soft, and he didn't look at her, but he heard that edge in her voice. Not sad. Not bitter. More like acceptance, or understanding. She laughed under her breath before continuing.

“And then I got older and realized that kind of stuff was for girls who can afford the dress. Who eat lunch every day and don't choose between singing lessons and rent.”

She said it like a fact, not like something to be fixed.
Damian's hand twitched in his lap.

“You matter.”

Her breath caught. No one ever said that like it was a fact.

It silenced her. She turned to him slowly, her eyes wide. The golden light from the path's lanterns reflected in her eyes. She wanted to say something, but didn't.

Instead, she leaned into his shoulder. Just enough to brush him. Just to see if he'd pull away. He didn't. He stilled like a rock.

“You—”

“I didn't say you could.”

“You didn't stop me.”

He didn't answer, and she didn't move. They stayed like that a little bit longer. Warm shoulders touching in the freezing winter air. Damian stood first, brushing the snow off his jacket before offering her a hand.

If her smile could soften any more, it did. Her fingers were cold when she took his hand, and she smelled vaguely of vanilla and pinewood as she walked ahead of him.

“You're not as scary as you think you are.”

“And you talk too much.”

His tone was soft. Not like a warning, like a secret. Meant just for them.

Chapter Text

The apartment smelled like cinnamon and old wood—a warm, lived-in scent that clung to the yellowed curtains and warped floorboards, stubborn against time. The wallpaper peeled in slow curls near the corners, revealing the faded glue beneath, and one of the overhead lights buzzed faintly with a tired flicker. She stepped in quietly, shoes in hand, letting the door click shut behind her with a soft creak that echoed too loudly in the cramped space.
The kitchen light was still on.
All of them were, actually.
She knew it was the weekend, but—wasn’t it late?

The living room bled into the kitchen without much separation. A sagging couch sat pushed against one wall, its cushions permanently slouched. One of the throw pillows was missing a corner, and a blanket lay half-folded on the armrest—evidence of someone’s failed attempt at tidying up. The linoleum in the kitchen was stained in places, peeling at the edges like the wallpaper, and the baseboard under the sink was swollen with water damage no one ever fixed.

Her mom looked up from the round, hand-me-down table wedged into the kitchen nook. The surface was scratched and worn, a lace doily doing its best to hide a heat mark that looked like it had been there for years. She cradled a chipped floral mug of tea, glasses slipping low on her nose. She smiled—soft and tired—the same smile she’d passed down to her daughter. Her eyes lit up at the sight of her.

“That’s my beautiful girl. You made it back in one piece.”

“Barely,” she whispered, as if she weren’t still giddy.

Her mom tilted her head, sensing something in her voice. “Good barely or bad barely?”

She just smiled—quiet, soft, and dreamy. The kind of smile that lingered even when you tried to push it away. Her mom stood, brushing her hands on her apron—clean, but threadbare at the seams—and reached out to tuck a strand of hair behind her daughter’s ear.

“Did he treat you right?”
Gentle. Understanding. As her mother always was.

“Yeah. He did.”

She didn’t need to say more. Her mom nodded, satisfied, and wrapped her in a hug that smelled like flour and lemon dish soap.

“Go wash your face before you pass out on the couch again,” she said. “I saved you a cinnamon roll.”

A floorboard creaked near the hallway—a slow, deliberate sound. Her stepfather leaned against the frame, half-shadowed by the yellow light above. His arms were crossed, one foot tapping absently against the floor, like he’d been waiting there longer than he wanted to admit.

“You didn’t call,” he said. Not quite sharp. Not quite casual. “Hard to keep track of you when you’re out all night.”

His voice was low. Controlled. But his words landed with weight.

“I texted,” she replied quickly. “Told Mom.”

“Oh, right.” He took a drink from the beer can in his hand, the metallic hiss of it quiet in the room. “Guess I’ll start getting my updates from her now.”

Her mom laughed softly, brushing a loose curl behind her ear like she hadn’t noticed the shift in tone. “She got in safe, that’s what matters.”

“Sure.”
His eyes didn’t leave her.

She nodded once, mutely, and slipped past him, careful not to let her arm brush his. The hallway beyond the kitchen was narrow, the walls close and the ceiling low. A water stain spread above the bathroom door, and one of the picture frames hanging in the hall had slipped sideways, never straightened.

A thud of the floorboards behind her made her turn—then out stumbled her little brothers, one right after the other. Both in mismatched pajamas with superhero logos faded from too many washes, their bare feet soft on the cold tile. Their curly hair stuck up at odd angles, sleep still clinging to them. Identical. Wide-eyed. Trouble, always.

She crouched to their level, her voice low and warm, hands braced on her knees.
“James. Arthur. What are you still doing up?”

“You said we could see your princess dress,” James said, rubbing one eye with a fist.

“And you were supposed to bring us snacks,” Arthur added, crossing his arms like a tiny lawyer.

She sighed through a smile. “Far from a princess dress.”

“It’s sparkly,” Arthur countered, indignant. “That counts.”

James nodded solemnly in agreement. “And you smell like cake!”

“That’s the perfume Mom let me borrow,” she whispered, brushing his curls back from his face. “You two were supposed to be asleep an hour ago.”

“We tried. But Arthur kept making ghost noises.”

“Did not.”

“Did too.”

“Okay,” she said, laughing under her breath. “Enough. You’ll wake the neighbors—and we all know what happens when Mr. Delgado stomps his boot through the ceiling again.”

The twins giggled. She leaned in and gently bumped her forehead against theirs—first James, then Arthur.

“I missed you little monsters.”

“You were gone forever,” James mumbled into her shoulder as he hugged her. Arthur followed without hesitation, wrapping his arms around her waist. She squeezed them both tightly, one arm around each.

“Hey,” she whispered, quieter now. “I always come back, okay?”

Arthur tugged at her hand, then tilted his head. “Was that boy the prince?”

“What?” she blinked.

“The one you left with. Mom said you were going with someone,” James chimed in. “We saw him from the window. He was tall. And he looked mad.”

“He looked like he’d punch a dragon,” Arthur added helpfully.

She blinked, caught off guard—and then let out a breathy, tired laugh.

“No dragons,” she said. “But… yeah. That was him.”

“Are you gonna marry him?” Arthur asked, completely serious.

Her face flushed. “What? No. No—definitely not.”

“But… is he nice?” Arthur asked, quieter now, like the answer really mattered.

She hesitated. Thought of the look on Damian’s face earlier—the softest edge of something careful, not quite distant. How he’d waited. How he’d seen her.

“Yeah,” she said softly. “He can be.”

“Okay,” Arthur said, satisfied. “But if he’s mean, we’ll beat him up.”

“Yeah,” James agreed with a fierce little nod.

She smiled, almost tearfully, and leaned down to kiss the tops of their heads.
“Go split that cinnamon roll,” she murmured, “and try not to get sugar on your pillows.”

They bolted off again, their whispers fading into the kitchen. She stood in the dim hallway alone, heart full and aching in a way she didn’t have the words for.

She carried herself down the hall and into her room, the door creaking a little as it closed behind her. The light switch stuck sometimes, so she didn’t bother with it—just let the faint glow from the streetlamp outside her window spill across the clutter.

The room was small, the ceiling low, the wallpaper peeling in the corners where the damp crept in during winter. A few old concert posters were taped to the slanted wall above her bed, curling at the edges. Paper stars hung from fishing line, and little plastic charms—mostly music notes and tiny animals—were pinned to a corkboard beside the mirror. There were photos too, faded and thumbtacked in crooked lines: the twins with chocolate on their faces, her mom laughing at something off-camera, and one old Polaroid of her as a kid, holding a too-big guitar across her lap like it was treasure.

She let her bag drop with a soft thud and kicked her shoes into the corner, too tired to be neat. Her dress was already slipping off one shoulder. She peeled it away carefully, fingers working at the zipper, then hung it on the back of the door to avoid more wrinkles. It wasn’t hers, anyway.

She stepped into an old shirt she kept folded on the bottom shelf of the closet. It still smelled faintly of dust and cedar, like it hadn’t been touched in years. She didn’t wear it often—just when the night felt too loud or her heart too heavy. A box of old things had been tucked beneath the coat rack months ago, and no one had claimed it. She never asked where it came from.

The collar was loose around her neck. She rubbed at a spot of dried hairspray behind her ear, then combed her fingers through her tangled hair, tugging out pins and glitter and whatever else the day had left behind.

Her room was quiet. Not peaceful, not really, but hers.

She sat on the edge of the bed, toes curling against the cold floor, and let herself breathe. Just for a moment.

It hadn’t been bad. Not really. No one had laughed at her. The dress didn’t rip. She didn’t trip over her own feet. And he—Damian—he’d been... something else entirely. Sharp around the edges, but careful in his own way. He hadn’t embarrassed her. He hadn’t left.

And still, there was this ache she couldn’t name.

Like she’d shown up to something important and wasn’t sure she was ever meant to be there.

She looked over at the little cluster of things on her dresser—an old ribbon, a chipped mug with pens in it, the tin box where she kept her guitar charm tucked beneath a folded scrap of music. Her fingers hovered over it, then pulled away. Not tonight.

Instead, she laid back against the mattress with a soft exhale, the old shirt bunched under her shoulder. Her hair fanned across the pillow, still damp near the nape from sweat or nerves or both. She stared up at the cracked ceiling and let her thoughts drift, just far enough to blur the edges.

She didn’t cry. She wasn’t sad, not exactly. Just… full. In the way that made it hard to breathe. Like the night had been too much and not enough all at once.

Maybe tomorrow she’d write about it. Not in a song. Just a line or two. Something only she would understand.

Something quiet.

Chapter Text

“I don’t know if he saw me. Not really. But I think, for a second, I saw him.”

He’d only caught a glimpse of the words over her shoulder before she sensed him—like a shift in air pressure, the quiet press of a storm rolling in—and closed the notebook without flinching.

They’d agreed to meet in the music room after school. Not that it had ever been said outright. It was just a habit now. She lingered there after class, and he… showed up. It saved her the walk, he told himself. But that wasn’t really it.

She turned at the sound of him, eyes catching the soft afternoon light filtering through the high windows. There was a warmth in her expression—unguarded, calm—that made something settle in his chest. No one else looked at him like that. She tucked the notebook carefully into the torn front pocket of her backpack, fingers brushing the edge like she wasn’t quite ready to let go of whatever she’d written.

“You sneaking up on me?” she asked, voice light. “What are you—Batman now or something?”

He didn’t miss a beat. “Something like that.”

She rolled her eyes, but her gaze flicked to the corner of the room, where a battered old guitar leaned against the wall. Her smile widened, slow and fond.

“You know what my favorite part about this room is?” she asked, already moving.

He didn’t answer—just watched.

“Free use of the instruments,” she said, grinning as she reached for the guitar. It was a beat-up acoustic, the wood scuffed and worn to a dull shine. One string had been missing since October, and the tuning pegs creaked in protest when she turned them. Still, when she strummed, the sound that came out was warm—quiet and uneven, but hers. She wasn’t playing a song, not really. Just shapes and chords, little moments of sound. But they filled the room gently. Like her.

“You play better than that thing deserves,” he said after a moment.

She glanced up from the strings, her smile curling slow and real—not the practiced one she gave everyone else, but something softer.

“That’s rare praise,” he added, voice a little quieter.

“Thanks,” she said, fingers still tracing the strings. “Taught myself.”

She smiled at the compliment, small and real, and looked down at the strings again. For a moment, neither of them spoke. The music faded into quiet, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Just still. Then she shifted on the bench, glancing sideways at her backpack. Her fingers hovered near the zipper like she was debating something.

“…Okay, don’t laugh,” she said suddenly, not looking at him. “I, um—I actually brought something for you.”

His brow twitched. “For me?”

“It’s dumb,” she said quickly, rummaging through her bag. “I know you probably have everything already, or could just buy it if you wanted—but I made this. So. You’re not allowed to hate it.”

She pulled out a small bundle wrapped in notebook paper, the edges crinkled and smudged with graphite. It was tied off with a scrap of red string that looked like it had been cut from an old hoodie. Crooked. A little lopsided. But careful in a way that made it feel more like her than anything else could’ve.

She didn’t hand it over right away. Just held it in her palm, staring down at it like she might change her mind. When she finally looked up, her voice was quieter.

“It’s not really… like a thing-thing. Just a little something. I wasn’t sure if you’d even want anything, but… I thought of you when I made it.”

She held it out to him then—awkwardly, like it weighed more than it should—and forced a smile.

“Merry Christmas. Or whatever.”

He untied the red thread like it might snap. The notebook paper crackled softly in his hands—creased, smudged, reused. Not expensive. But intentional. Familiar, in the way that counted.

He didn’t speak. Just kept unfolding. She tried not to watch him open it, but her eyes kept flicking from his hands to his face and back again, like she couldn’t help it.

Inside was a leather-bound notebook—small, maybe the size of a paperback. The cover was deep green, dyed unevenly in places, like it had been done by hand. The corners were reinforced with copper plates, slightly tarnished but polished at the edges. On the spine, a single letter was stitched in black thread: D.

His fingers brushed over it like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch it.

“You… made this?” he asked, almost under his breath. He turned it in his hands, the stitched spine brushing his fingertips. It wasn’t perfect. But it was real. And it was hers. And now—somehow—it was his.

She tucked a piece of hair behind her ear, eyes suddenly locked on the yellowing sheet music stapled to the wall. “Yeah. My uncle taught me how to do leather stuff a long time ago. I hadn’t tried it in a while, but… I saw you sketching in science last week. And I’ve seen your stuff in the art shows before. You’re—um—you’re good.”

Her words tumbled out like she was trying to explain herself before he could decide it was weird.

“It’s not perfect,” she added quickly. “It’s kind of uneven and I messed up the corners a little—”

“It is,” he said.

She blinked. “What?”

“It is perfect.”

He wasn’t smiling, not really. But his voice had gone soft at the edges, and something in his face had shifted—like the walls had pulled back just enough to let her see him for real.

She didn’t say anything else. Just looked at him, then at the notebook in his hands. And for once, the silence didn’t feel heavy. It felt full.

He kept it. She saw it in his backpack pocket the next day—barely visible, but there. The corner of the green leather sticking out just enough to know it was real. He didn’t say anything about it, but he didn’t have to.

They didn’t talk about the gifts again.

It wasn’t until later that week, when she got home, she found a large box in her room. The black paper and simple red ribbon gave it away.

She set her bag down by the door, cluttered with shoes and laundry she meant to do but hadn’t.

She unwrapped it slowly.

If she hadn’t known it was from Damian before, she did now.

It was beautiful—almost too much to look at all at once. The body was pale, smooth like sanded honey, and covered in dark, delicate flowers, all hand-burned into the wood. They bloomed from the bottom and reached up in winding vines, curling around the sound hole like they belonged there, like they’d always been there. Every line was careful. Every petal meant something.

It didn’t look new, exactly. More like something loved. Like someone had taken their time with it—not to make it perfect, but to make it hers.

The flowers weren’t all the same, either. Some were open, some still curled. The pattern was a little wild in places, but never messy. And unmistakably expensive.

She touched the edge of it like she was afraid to ruin it. Because this wasn’t just a guitar. Not really. It was a gesture. A language. A kind of seeing. And she didn’t quite have the words for what it meant.

But she knew what it felt like.

Warm. And a little overwhelming. Like maybe, for once, someone had actually paid attention.

She couldn’t accept this.

It was worth more than her family’s apartment, she was sure. How did he even get it in here?

She didn’t mean to get teary, but something in her chest folded a little when she ran her fingers over the flowers.

Not perfect, she thought. Just right.

She set the guitar down like it might break, hands lingering at the neck a second longer than necessary.

Then she curled up beside it on the bed, knees tucked to her chest, phone in hand.

She stared at the screen for a while before typing.

[to: Damian :)  ]
Didn’t know people like you did things like this.
I don’t even have words, really.
Just… thank you.
A lot.

She hovered over the send button, chewing her lip.

Then added:

It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever been given.

She hit send before she could overthink it.

The guitar sat beside her, catching the streetlight through the blinds. She didn’t play it. Not yet. Just let the silence hold them both, full in a way that didn’t need filling.

[from: Damian :)  ]
It’s just a guitar.
Didn’t like the way the old one sounded.
This one fits you better.
Figured you’d use this one more.

A moment passed before another message went through.

Glad you like it.

Chapter Text

He wasn’t sure why he agreed to this.

Correction: he was. He wouldn’t say it out loud. Not to her. Not to himself.

The wind nipped sharply at his collar as he stood outside the tiny tea shop she’d picked — a narrow building wedged between a laundromat and an art supply store, its windows fogged from the inside. The kind of place that smelled like cinnamon and old books. Not somewhere Damian Wayne ever walked into.

But she’d texted him the name with a little thumbs-up emoji and a “no pressure tho” — like she hadn’t been the only thing keeping him steady for weeks now.

He saw her before she saw him. Curled into a corner of the café like she belonged there — scarf wound twice around her neck, fraying at the ends, nose pink from the cold, hands wrapped around a mug that dwarfed her fingers. Her backpack sat slumped in the seat beside her, half-zipped, her notebook poking out from the top. Of course.

She looked up and smiled like she’d been waiting for him all along. Not just for him. For this.

The warmth in her eyes hit him harder than he was ready for.

He stepped inside, letting the door swing shut behind him with a soft jingle.

“You came,” she said, half surprised, half teasing. “I was starting to think you’d bail.”

“I said I’d be here.”

“Sure,” she said, lifting her mug. “But I figured you’d get some dramatic emergency call from your private island or something.”

Damian sat across from her, unbuttoning his coat but leaving it on. “It’s a private estate , not an island,” he replied dryly.

“Sounds the same to me.” She laughed — quiet, effortless, and still somehow enough to echo in his chest. Her drink was filled with an absurd amount of sugar and cream. She nudged a second cup toward him. Black tea. No sugar.

She remembered.

Something in the air shifted.

“About that… guitar—”

“It’s nothing,” he muttered, though his voice came out softer than he intended.

“It’s not. It’s probably worth more than I’ve ever had in my wallet at one time.”

“You needed one that actually worked. Not that wreck from the school closet.”

“I liked that wreck,” she said, nudging his boot gently under the table. “But I like this one more.”

He didn’t look up. Just traced the rim of his teacup with his thumb.

“I mean it,” she added, voice dipping quieter. “Thank you. Even if you can’t take compliments without making that face.”

He glanced at her, brow twitching. “What face?”

“That one,” she said, grinning. “The ‘please stop being nice to me, I might explode’ face.”

He huffed, not quite a laugh, but close. “You’re imagining things.”

“Sure,” she said lightly. “But just for the record… it meant a lot. Still does.”

The words settled between them — warm, undemanding. She didn’t expect a response. Not a real one.

Instead, he reached into his coat, the one he still hadn’t taken off, and pulled out the notebook she’d given him. Turned it once in his hands, then slid it back into the inner pocket, close to his chest.

“I’ve been using it,” he said, like a secret. “Not just for school.”

Her eyebrows lifted, eyes softening.

“Wow. High praise.”

He shrugged. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Too late.”

She leaned back, her scarf slipping off one shoulder. The zippers on her backpack jingled as she shifted, small details, but ones he noticed anyway.

Outside, the world was still cold. But inside, something was quietly shifting like steam curling off the top of a mug.

Her voice softened. “Can I… see?”

There was a pause.

Not uncomfortable. Just full — like the moment had to stretch to hold what she was asking.

“I haven’t drawn much,” he said, brushing his coat pocket like he could feel the weight of it through the fabric. “Not anything worth showing.”

“You don’t have to,” she added quickly. “I just thought… if you wanted to.”

Another pause. His gaze dropped to the table, then lifted to hers.

He pulled the notebook free again, thumb brushing the edge of the green leather, copper corners catching the light. He didn’t open it. Just set it on the table.

“You can look,” he said, low. “Just don’t make a thing of it.”

Her smile turned quieter, more private. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

She opened it like it was something fragile — something that mattered. And he watched her like she might break it, even though he knew she wouldn’t.

Inside, the sketches were precise, restrained. A bird mid-flight. Loose studies of his brothers — drawn without effort, as if they’d appeared on the page without him realizing. Tim hunched over a laptop. Dick laughing. Jason, jaw set, eyes turned away. Not posed. Just caught .

She flipped through them slowly, with the kind of smile she only gave to things she meant. It made his stomach tighten.

He knew what was coming. Not her , exactly. Just impressions. A shoulder. A familiar curl of hair. A hand resting on sheet music. Never a full face.

Just fragments.

And still—

She looked up, soft around the edges. Still, but not frozen.

“You’re really good,” she said. No teasing. No irony. Just truth.

“They’re rough.”

“I didn’t say they were perfect.” She touched a page lightly. “But they’re real. They feel like you care .”

He didn’t speak. Just watched her hand linger on a sketch she didn’t name — a page with a barely-there shape of something personal. A locket she always wore. A curl she always pushed behind her ear when she was concentrating.

She didn’t call it out.

Didn’t look at him.

But she turned the page a little slower.

“I’m glad you kept it,” she said softly. “The notebook.”

He swallowed. “I didn’t keep it. I use it.”

That made her smile, not the kind she gave away. The kind that meant something.

And for a moment, it was enough.

“Next week,” he said suddenly.

She blinked. “What?”

“I know another place. For tea. Less sugar. More peace.”

Her smile was slower this time. Warm like sunlight on frost. “It’s a date, then.”

She didn’t even think before she said it.

His gaze flicked away — but not fast enough to hide the shadow of a smirk.

“Something like that.”

The manor was quiet when he got back.
Snow had started again, dusting the long driveway in soft silver. Damian shut the door behind him with care, unwinding his scarf with fingers still faintly warmed from tea... and secondhand laughter.

He didn’t expect anyone to be awake.
But the light was still on in the study.

His father was there. Sitting at his desk, posture loose but eyes sharp, one hand resting on a folder he wasn’t reading.
Damian paused in the doorway. He could have kept walking. He didn’t.

“You were out late,” Bruce said, not looking up.

Damian stepped inside, slow and deliberate. The room smelled faintly of smoke and paper—familiar things. Anchoring things.

“I got tea,” he said. “With a friend.”

Bruce flipped a page. Didn't read it.
“Anything I should know?”

The question hung there. Quiet.
Not an accusation. Not even suspicion.

Just… a space, offered.

Damian’s voice was quieter when it came. “Nothing you need to worry about.”

Bruce nodded once. Still didn’t look at him.
But then, more softly:
“I meant… anything that matters.”

A beat.

Damian hesitated—then, barely audible:
“Not yet.”

Bruce gave no reaction beyond a small incline of his head. It was enough.
Damian turned to leave.

“I’ll be in the training room later,” he said as he stepped out, like it meant nothing.

But his steps were steadier than they’d been in weeks.

Chapter Text

She followed him through the narrow stairwell door, blinking at the space in front of her. The rooftop was quiet under a dark, bruised sky. Snow glittered around them, softening the edges of the world like everything had been muted.There weren’t many lanterns, and most looked handmade — probably by someone under the age of ten. Folded hapharzardly, cryaon marked the sides without any real idea of where to go. But they had just enough glow to cast a golden light over the roofs edge. Somewhere below, a car horn blared, distant and muffled. Up here, it didn’t matter.

Damian had two thick blankets tucked under his arm, folded neatly, probably his butlers doing. A smal box, in his other hand.

“I thought you said gotham had no good views.” She said, her breath already fogging as she puled her scarf tighter.

“I said it has bad angles,” He set the items down near the edge and shoved his hands in his coat pockets. “Not that it’s hopeless.” 

“You’re hopeless.” She teased, he only offered a dry glare in response.

He fanned out the blanket before gesturing for her to take a seat. She did and he followed shortly after. Sitting at an angle so he could watch the rooftop door and her. Her eyes glanced around for a moment. One corner of the rooftop had a bucket catching slow-dripping water, already half-filled with slush. It gurgled faintly when the wind hit. She looked back to the darkening sky.

“I always liked the snow, makes things feel warmer.”

“Snow is dangerous, it hides things and makes people careless.”

“Can’t let anything be pretty just for the sake of it, huh?”

They sat without saying much for a while, she didnt seem to have a need to fil the silence. The wind wasnt cruel, just sharp, but it cared the smel of… bread? Something baked? Her eyes flicked towards the box.

“You brought dinner?”

“Kind of,” he said, and opened it.

Inside were several pieces of flatbread — still faintly warm, the scent of thyme and olive oil rising in the cold. The edges were slightly uneven, one corner just a bit too crisp. Not perfect. But made with care.

“I made it,” he added, not quite looking at her. “Manakish. It’s Levantine.”

Her brows lifted, impressed. “Wait— you made this?”

“Don’t make it weird,” he said, nudging one toward her. “It’s supposed to be shared.”

Her smile faltered, just slightly — not out of judgment, but because she understood what it meant for him to offer something like this. Something from home

“She broke off a piece, steam curling from the center, and took a bite — like she hadn’t eaten in days. Her eyes closed. “Okay, this is illegal. This is insanely good.”

He rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

“I only had time for a few,” he said. “I ate earlier.”

“Liar,” she said, handing him back half. “You barely had one.”

He shrugged, taking it — but didn’t eat it. Just held it in one hand, like the warmth mattered more than the food.

She slowed, then looked at him. “So… did you learn to cook in some secret ninja monastery, or—?”

“My mother taught me,” he said, voice low. “And Alfred. He made me try again when I messed up the dough.”

He tapped one gloved finger against the side of the box, slow and steady — a rhythm only he seemed to know.

Something flickered across her face. “That’s… kind of amazing.”

He didn’t answer. Just stared out over the rooftops, lantern light brushing the side of his face.

“Thank you.”

He shifted slightly, the thermos between them creaking under his arm. She didn’t pull her stare away. A gust of wind rattled one of the lanterns gently, its paper sides crinkling like leaves.

“You can take the rest,” he said, quieter now. “If you want.”

She blinked. “Really?”

“For your family,” he added, then, quickly: “If they like this sort of thing. It’s fine if not. It’s just—leftover.”

She didn’t answer right away. Just watched him. The way he looked away when he said it. The way his hands still hovered over the box like it meant more than he wanted to admit.

Then she smiled — gently. Like she knew exactly what this was.

“They’ll love it,” she said, and meant it. “My brothers eat just about anything, but theyll devour this.

She could’ve joked again. Teased him about being a secret chef or tried to guess the ingredients. But she didn’t. Some things deserved to be taken seriously. Even when they came wrapped in tin foil. 

He nodded once. But didn’t speak.

Instead, she leaned into his shoulder — just enough to touch, not enough to startle. Her hand wrapped loosely around the thermos between them.

“I like this version of you,” she said softly. “The one who brings lanterns and secret rooftop dinners. Kinda romantic.”

“This version is the same,” he muttered, looking away. Were his ears just pink from the cold or something else?

“Nope. Im growing on you, I can tell.”

He didn’t answer.

The manor was quiet when he came back.

The kind of quiet that meant someone was awake — just quiet on purpose.

He slipped through the back entrance, brushing snow from his shoulders. The thermos was still warm in his coat pocket. The empty box, folded with unnecessary precision, sat under his arm.

He could’ve made it to his room unnoticed. Should’ve.

But when he passed the kitchen, the light was on.

Dick was sitting on the counter, eating shredded cheese straight from the bag.

Jason leaned against the fridge, arms crossed. Tim was at the table with his laptop open, eyes glassy from too much screen time. None of them said anything at first. Just looked up — and stared.

“…You’re late,” Dick said, dragging the word out like it was a sin. “Out saving kittens again?”

Damian said nothing. Just stepped past them, methodical. He placed the box on the counter, peeled off his gloves, and turned toward the sink to wash his hands.

Jason raised an eyebrow. “Is that—bread?”

Tim looked up. “Wait. Is that thyme? You baked something?”

“I prepared food,” Damian said flatly. “There’s a difference.”

“Oh my god,” Tim muttered. “He’s feeding classmates now.”

“I didn’t realize you were courting someone,” Dick added, grinning. “Should we start planning the rehearsal dinner?”

Jason opened the box, whistling low. “Manakish? Seriously? And you didn’t bring us any? Wow.”

“There wasn’t enough,” Damian said, turning off the faucet a little too sharply. “And it wasn’t for you.”

That made them go quieter — for about two seconds.

Then Dick leaned in, nudging the box closer to his nose. “Smells amazing. Does Alfred know you’ve been hiding skills like this?”

“It wasn’t—” Damian exhaled through his nose. “It was just something simple. It’s not a big deal.”

Jason grinned like a shark. “He’s blushing.”

“I am not.”

Damian scowled — but didn’t shake him off. Not this time. He retreated to his room. He climbed the stairs with quiet, steady steps. His coat still smelled like snow and sumac. His fingers still carried warmth from someone else’s laughter.

And tucked under his arm, hidden in the folds of fabric, was a scarf she’d forgotten — fraying at the ends.

Chapter Text

The front door creaked like it always did, no matter how slow she turned the handle. Rosie kicked the snow from her boots, quietly peeling off her scarf and tucking it onto the hook near the stairs — except… her scarf wasn’t there. She paused. Her fingers brushed her collar.

Right. She had taken it off, when the combination of warm food and scratchy wool felt too hot. Which meant Damian still had it.

She smiled at the thought — small and secret — as she made her way toward the kitchen.

The house was dim, only the yellow stovetop light still on. Her younger brothers were clustered around the old space heater, bundled in layers. The moment she walked in, their heads popped up like puppies.

“Did you bring food?” the littlest one, James, asked, voice muffled by his hoodie sleeve.

“Maybe.” She opened the box carefully, the lingering scent of thyme and olive oil still warm despite the cold. “But only if you’re nice.”

They swarmed like bees. She let them tear off uneven pieces, small fingers greasy and happy. Arthur, murmured a surprised, “This is actually really good.” He was picky, that was high praise coming from him.

“It’s from a friend,” she said, softer now. “He made it.”

Her mom came in then — bleary-eyed but awake, cardigan half slipping off one shoulder. Her gaze fell to the box, then to her daughter.

“Is that za’atar I smell?”

Her mom stood in the doorway, cardigan half-slipped from her shoulder, dark circles under her eyes, but something in her expression — that faint narrowing of memory

 “You know it?” She asked.

Her mother stepped forward slowly, like she was stepping into an old photograph. “When I was your age, we had neighbors down the hall. The mother was from Beirut, I think. She’d send me home with warm bread in wax paper when my parents forgot dinner again.”

She smiled faintly, like she was somewhere else. “Smelled just like this. I haven’t thought about it in years.”

She tore off a generous piece and handed it to her mother. Her mom took it gently, like it was more than food.

“You have a friend who made this?”

“Yeah,” She muttered. “He, uh—he wanted to share it.”

Her mom studied her for a second, chewing slowly.

“He must be a good kid,” she said finally, and something softened in her voice — a tone she couldn’t remember hearing in a long time. Not praise. Not interrogation. Just… acknowledgment.

“He is,” because there wasn’t a better word.

Her mom’s fingers brushed the edge of the box. “You ever bring him around?”

“What?”

“I’m just saying,” her mom said, taking another bite. “We don’t meet many of your friends.”

The girl shrugged. “I don’t usually have many.”

And she didnt like bringing them around her apartment. There was a reason She went to gotham Prep on a scholarship. She didnt need to make it anymore obvious to anyone at that school. Though Damian didnt seem the type to judge.

Her mom gave her a look. “You could, if you let yourself. You're a good kid too, you know.”

She didn’t know what to say to that. It wasn’t a compliment, not really. But it was close enough to something kind that it threw her off.

They stood quietly for a moment, gathered around the cluttered table — just chewing, just being — and for once, it felt okay. Like there was nothing broken in this house that couldn’t be forgotten for a night.

Then the front door shut. Not loud. Not slammed. But final.

She turned just enough to see him — her stepfather, still in his work jacket, shoulders hunched from the cold. Her mother offered him a sweet hello.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at them. At the open box. At her.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“Bread,” her voice clipped despite herself. “I brought it home.”

His eyes flicked to the crumbs on the floor, the heater still buzzing, the flicker of quiet between them.

“From who?”

She kept her voice steady. “A friend. He made extra.”

He didn’t respond right away. Just looked — at the food, at her, at her mom.

Something unreadable settled in the room.

“Clean it up before bed,” he said eventually. “Don’t leave a mess.”

And then he walked off. Just like that.

But the quiet that came after wasn’t warm anymore.

Her mother gave her a half-smile. One she had seen too many times — the kind that meant don’t worry about it even when something was already wrong.

She exhaled slowly and turned back to the box. Only one piece left.

She wrapped it in a napkin. Quiet. Careful. Like saving something that mattered.

She bid her brothers and mom a good night before retreating to her room.

Upstairs, her room was cold in the way small apartments always were — the kind of cold that sank in through the walls and lingered in the floorboards no matter how many blankets you piled on.

She closed the door with a quiet click and leaned against it, letting the muffled sounds of the house fall away. It wasn’t silent. There was never real silence here — not with pipes rattling, wind clawing against the window, the faint buzz of the heater three rooms over. But it was hers.

The scarf wasn’t here. Right. Still with him. She smiled without meaning to — small and crooked — and crossed the room.

Rubbing her arms against the cold, she sank onto the bed still fully dressed. No energy to change. No point.

It had been a good night.
No — something gentler than that. Soft. And it had ended the way nights did around here: with a shift in the air, the quiet kind that didn’t raise voices or slam doors, but still pressed down on your chest.

She let her fingers trail absentmindedly across the edge of her bedsheet, eyes half-focused on the ceiling.

In the drawer next to her bed, under spare guitar picks, bent notebook paper, and a few loose batteries, was an old photo. She hadn’t taken it out in months.

She did now.

It was creased from years of being handled too often. A snapshot from a summer a lifetime ago — her, maybe seven, sitting on the grass with a plastic ukulele in her lap, half-laughing at something off-frame. And him. Her dad. Grinning in that lopsided way like he’d just made a joke no one else heard, one arm wrapped around her tiny shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He’d always had a musician’s hands. Always humming something. Always telling her she had rhythm before she knew what that even meant.

She stared at the photo a little longer.

He left when she was nine. Said he needed to “figure things out.” Said he wasn’t who he wanted to be yet. She hadn’t really understood it then. She still wasn’t sure she did.

But she missed him.

Even now, with all the resentment that had built up like rust in her chest, for walking out, for leaving her with nothing but records and an aching sense of maybe — she still missed him. 

She wondered what he would think about the boy she'd been spending so much time with recently.

He’d be the first to ask where she learned a word like manakish. He’d love the story. He’d ask if the boy had kind hands and better taste in music than he did.

What did Damian listen to? Opera?

She should ask him. 

She tucked the photo back into the drawer, gentler this time. She didn’t look at it too long. Didn’t want to rewrite the memory by accident.

The manakish sat warm on her desk; she'd eat it before it went stale. She just wanted the warmth to last a little longer.

Her scarf was still gone. Damian still had it. 

And for some reason, that made her chest feel a little fuller. A little steadier.

She curled under the worn blanket, not ready for sleep, but ready for the quiet.

Outside, Gotham kept moving.

But for once, she didn’t feel behind.

Chapter Text

Winter break ended the way most good things did — quietly, without ceremony. The hallways of Gotham Prep buzzed again with too-loud voices and dragging backpacks. Coats dripped melted snow into the tile grout. Teachers acted like they hadn’t all just spent two weeks pretending school didn’t exist.

Before school, she spotted him at their usual spot — back corner of the library, second floor. Same chair, same scowl. The window beside him was fogged from the inside, but the sunlight caught the sharp edge of his profile, cutting him out of the dull gray world like a clean line of ink.

She dropped her bag on the chair across from him.

“You survived,” she said.

Damian didn’t look up from the book in his lap. “Clearly.”

She grinned, leaning over the table like she had a secret. “Okay, real question — what music do you actually listen to?”

That got his attention.

He blinked once. Slowly. “That’s a vague question.”

“Is it?” she said, elbow propped on the table. “I just mean, what’s on your playlist? Classical? War drums? Secret Taylor Swift fan?”

He narrowed his eyes like she’d insulted his bloodline. “My tastes are curated.”

“Oh god.”

“I prefer compositions with depth. Structure. Purpose.”

“So… you listen to operas in Latin while sharpening knives.”

“I listen to Verdi,” he said, deadpan. “Occasionally Górecki. And some traditional Levantine oud arrangements. Alfred insists on jazz during breakfast. I tolerate it.”

She paused before the corners of her mouth quirked up and she spoke, “So, like Laufey?”

“On occasion,” he said, flipping a page. “You asked.”

“Damian,” she said slowly, “that might be the most on-brand thing I’ve ever heard.”

“I’ll have to educate you on the good stuff sometime,” she added quietly.

He didn’t respond. Just sipped from the thermos between them like it was beneath him to dignify that with a reaction.

But she swore — just barely — there was the hint of a smirk.

“What’s that?” Her eyes dropped to the thermos.

“Tea.”

Her phone buzzed once against the desk, the sound barely noticeable under the low classroom hum. She glanced down, thumb swiping quickly across the screen.

[ from: Mom ] Working late. Can you handle dinner for the boys? Sorry. Behind on bills again. Love you.

She exhaled slowly, blinking at the message longer than necessary. Then she tucked the phone under her arm and stared ahead, eyes distant.

Damian, seated beside her, noticed. Of course he did.

“You’re quiet,” he said, his voice low enough not to carry.

“Sorry,” she murmured. “Just… my plans changed. I won’t be able to stay after school today.”

He didn’t react at first. Just closed the book in front of him with careful precision.

“We were going to study.”

“I know.” She rubbed at the corner of her notebook. “I wanted to. I just — my mom’s stuck working again. Someone bailed on their shift and…” Her voice trailed off, hiding the full truth. “I’ve got to get home. Make sure the boys don’t set anything on fire.”

Damian gave a small nod, not exactly understanding, but accepting the words. A silence stretched between them. Not tense. Just… heavier than before.

“We could study somewhere else,” he said eventually.

She didn’t answer right away. Just glanced at him, then away again. Her fingers fidgeted with the edge of her sleeve.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she said finally.

“Why not?”

Her mouth opened, but the words jammed somewhere in her throat. She didn’t want to explain the peeling linoleum or the cracked window that wouldn’t close all the way. Didn’t want him to see the stacked dishes, the flickering bulb in the hallway, the way the heater rattled like it was coughing.

“It’s just… crowded,” she said instead. “Loud. It’d be hard to focus.”

Damian didn’t press. But he didn’t look away either.

“It’s not like I’ve never been around noise.”

“Yeah, well…” she gave a quiet laugh, dry and crooked. “This is a different kind of noise.”

He let the moment sit.

She shifted in her seat, guilt curling in her ribs like it always did when she had to say no to something that felt like it mattered. Especially this. It felt unfair — she’d been to his house. She’d sat in rooms that probably cost more than her entire apartment.

“I’ll make it up to you,” she said finally. “Tomorrow, maybe.”

He nodded once, slow. Still watching her with that impassive expression of his.

“No rush,” he said. “We’ll figure it out.”

There was no judgment in his tone. No teasing. Just quiet, patient fact.

And somehow, that made her feel even more exposed.

She turned back to her notebook, tracing the edge of the page like it mattered, the pressure in her chest not easing. Not really.

But his shoulder stayed steady beside hers, just close enough to feel.

The bell rang sharply — not shrill, just final. A sound that marked the end of things.

She didn’t move at first.

Papers rustled. Desks scraped. Chairs shifted. Everyone around her rose in lazy disarray, half-zipped backpacks and clipped conversations tumbling toward the hallway.

She just sat there, eyes on the page in front of her. Blank. Like her thoughts.

Damian stood. Not rushed, not impatient — just ready. But when he looked down at her, there was something unreadable in his expression. As usual. Like he was trying to figure something out without asking.

She didn’t look up until he stepped away.

It wasn’t rude. It wasn’t cold. He just left space. Like he always did when he didn’t know what else to offer.

She closed her notebook slowly, the air around her feeling thinner now. Like she’d missed something — or maybe just left it behind.

And for the rest of the day, the conversation looped in her head. Not the words — those were easy. Excuses, mostly. Half-truths.

But the way he’d looked at her.

The way he hadn’t pushed.

The way he’d offered to meet her where she was, and she still couldn’t let him in.

She sat through chemistry without hearing a word. Ate lunch without tasting a bite. Every bell that rang just pulled her further out of herself, like the day was trying to move on without her.

It wasn’t just that she’d canceled. It was that she’d done it like she didn’t trust him to see her life as it was — loud and messy and small.

And that wasn’t fair.
Not to him.
Not to the part of her that wanted him to understand.

But shame didn’t make room for fairness.

It just stuck in her throat and settled in her stomach — all the way until the last bell rang, and even then, it didn’t let go.

She’d chewed down three of her nails and was working on the fourth in front of her locker.

She caught a glimpse of him across the hallway.

Damian stood with one hand on the strap of his backpack, head tilted slightly as he listened to someone talk — some girl from their French class, she thought. Pretty. Confident. Lip gloss too shiny.

He wasn’t even smiling, not really. Just… listening. That unreadable look on his face that made it impossible to know what he was thinking. But the girl leaned in just a little, like she wanted to know anyway.

The fourth nail cracked. She didn’t realize she’d bitten it too far until her lip curled slightly from the sting.

She looked away. Tried to act like she wasn’t staring. Tried to remind herself it didn’t matter — he could talk to whoever he wanted. She wasn’t… she didn’t have the right to feel anything about it.

But the last bell rang sharp and high over the hum of the hallway, and the sound jolted something loose in her chest.

She moved before she could think better of it.

“Hey,” she said, softer than she meant to, as she reached him.

Damian turned, eyes landing on her instantly — like he’d noticed her before she even opened her mouth. The other girl turned too, brows lifted in a polite kind of surprise.

“We still… have that thing, right?” she asked, a little breathless. “Study thing?”

A beat passed. The girl looked between them. Damian’s gaze flicked to the side, as if filing something away, then returned to her.

“Yes,” he said simply, like there was never a question. “We do.”

The girl’s smile tightened. “I didn’t realize—”

“It’s fine,” she cut in, too quickly. “We’re late anyway.”

Damian raised an eyebrow but didn’t argue.

She turned on her heel, heart thudding in her ears, and he followed — just like that. Like he always did.

She didn’t speak again until they were past the end of the lockers and halfway down the stairwell.

Then, quieter: “I didn’t mean to sound — jealous. Or weird.”

He glanced at her sidelong. “You didn’t.”

She wasn’t sure she believed him. She kept her eyes on her shoes.

“I wasn’t going to ask you over,” she muttered, fingers curling into her sleeve. “It’s not like… I don’t know. It’s not fancy. You’ve seen what kind of stuff I carry around. I just didn’t want to cancel again.”

Another silence stretched — not cold. Not awkward. Just careful.

“I don’t care about fancy,” he said at last. “I care if it’s you.”

She didn’t say anything.

Couldn’t.

Not when her throat had gone tight for no reason.

She just nodded, barely, and hoped the heating was working when they got there.

They stepped down the cracking stairs and out into the snow-coated courtyard. The crunch of old snow under her boots didn’t even distract her.

“We have to walk,” she said as they crossed the street, adjusting her backpack higher on her shoulder. “And it’s not the best part of Gotham — I mean, it’s not dangerous, just not like… townhouses and cafés, you know?”

Damian said nothing, just matched her pace easily.

“And we’ve just been busy lately so it’s not the cleanest right now, and my brothers are super loud and always touching stuff they shouldn’t, and—God—if my mom’s still at work they’ll probably be climbing the counters or wrestling in the hallway like little feral—”

“Are you trying to convince me not to come,” Damian asked mildly, “or just listing every possible thing that could go wrong in advance?”

She blinked up at him, caught mid-step. “I’m not—! I just—”

She exhaled. “I don’t want you to think less of me. Or my family. Or where I live.”

His expression didn’t change much. But he stopped walking.

She turned when she noticed he wasn’t beside her anymore.

He looked at her, steady, unreadable. But not cold. Just… focused. The way he looked when something mattered.

“I don’t care about square footage,” he said simply. “Or clutter. Or loud siblings. You’re not a report I’m evaluating.”

She swallowed. The air was colder in her throat now.

He added, “You invited me. That’s enough.”

It landed harder than anything dramatic could’ve. Just a calm certainty, like it wasn’t up for debate.

She looked down at her shoes, then back at him. “You’re really bad at letting people spiral, you know that?”

He started walking again. “I’m not interested in pointless spirals.”

“But I’m really good at them.”

“I’ve noticed.”

That earned the smallest smile from her. Maybe not enough to unstick the worry in her chest, but enough to loosen it just a little.

They didn’t talk much the rest of the way. But their arms brushed once — and neither of them pulled away.

Chapter Text

The building looked exactly like she’d described — narrow, old, and in need of upkeep. The hallway light on the second floor buzzed intermittently, casting a yellow flicker across peeling wallpaper and a worn-out carpet that hadn’t seen a proper vacuum in weeks. It didn’t smell bad, just... lived-in. Dust, soap, someone cooking rice down the hall.

She fumbled with the lock, muttering under her breath about the door sticking sometimes. He waited without comment.

When it finally opened, the apartment greeted him all at once — warm and cramped and loud, even when no one was talking. A shoe rack overflowed near the entryway, barely holding up under the weight of mismatched sneakers and tiny snow boots. Crayons rolled under a table leg. The living room doubled as a dining area, the couch covered in a faded knit throw and several pillows that didn’t match. Everything was soft. Nothing sharp. Lived-in, like the building — but in a different way.

Everything in the manor was staged — polished wood, ornate frames, museum-level lighting that never changed. It was curated. This place was cluttered. Cluttered, but human.

“Hi!” one of the boys called from another room. The youngest, he guessed, judging by the size of the voice.

“It’s not clean,” she said again, dropping her keys in a bowl by the door and kicking off her shoes. “And don’t touch the heater — it makes this horrible clanking sound if you bump it too hard. Sorry about the smell, someone left the rice cooker on too long and now everything’s kind of... steamy.”

Damian stepped inside, scanning the space. “It smells like food.”

She winced, like that was something to be embarrassed about.

One of her brothers peeked out from the hallway, wide-eyed and covered in marker scribbles. “Is that your friend?”

She turned, her voice dropping into a sharp-but-sweet warning. “Go do your homework.”

“I did!”

“Then go double-check it.”

The boy vanished.

Damian raised an eyebrow. “Efficient.”

She groaned. “That was Arthur. The other one’s James. He’s probably in the kitchen eating butter straight from the stick. Just — don’t sit on anything too fast. There’s usually Legos.”

He nodded once and toed off his boots, stepping carefully into the living room. His foot brushed against a cracked action figure. Its left arm was missing. She chuckled nervously and bent down to pick it up, then shoved it into a shelf full of mismatched bins.

None of it bothered him. He was used to sharp edges and curated furniture. This was... chaos. But not in a threatening way. The opposite, almost. It felt like a place people existed in — freely, messily, without performance.

He followed her toward what might’ve once been a dining table, now half-covered in homework, tangled charging cords, a cracked mug filled with pens, and an open music notebook.

She cleared a chair for him. “Sorry. It’s not exactly the manor.”

He sat anyway. “Good.”

She blinked. “What?”

“I’ve spent my entire life being reminded of what I have. You didn’t try to hide any of this.” His voice didn’t change much, but his gaze stayed steady on her. “That’s not a weakness.”

She hesitated — then, for the first time since they’d walked in, exhaled like she meant it.

“I guess I just didn’t want you to think less of me,” she said, pulling her sleeves over her hands. “Or that this made me... less.”

“I don’t.”

He meant it. Quietly. Without flourish. Then, without ceremony, he reached into his coat pocket and held something out — her scarf. Folded once, still holding a faint scent of snow and thyme.

“You left this.”

Her face softened. She took it like it was something fragile. “Thanks.”

She hesitated, then added — almost proudly this time, like it tasted less like shame: “I meant what I said. When I told you I don’t always fit in at that school.”

He didn’t interrupt.

“They’ve got new shoes every few months. Backpacks that match their coats. Laptops that aren’t missing keys.” She gave a thin smile. “Most of them don’t have to walk home. Or count what’s in the fridge before they say yes to plans.”

She glanced at him, searching his face. “You live in a literal manor. You’ve got a library with a fireplace.”

“It’s not warm,” he said simply.

That caught her off guard. “What?”

“The manor,” he clarified. “It’s not warm. It’s large. It’s silent. It echoes when you’re alone. And everything is always cold before Alfred gets to it.”

She stared at him a beat longer, then gave a small, slightly sad smile.

“Guess we’re both pretending a little, huh?”

“Most people are,” he said.

She smiled — barely — and reached for her backpack. “Alright. We should study. Before my brothers start a war in the hallway.”

There were scratchy crayons in the carpet. The heater clanked. Something boiled over on the stove. And yet, for all its noise, this was the calmest he’d felt all week.

She took a seat at the kitchen table tucked in the corner and pulled out a worn spiral notebook, a couple of bent worksheets, and a pencil that had been sharpened unevenly at least four times. Damian set down his own things with more precision — a pen, a crisp folder, his handwriting already too neat on the first page.

They sat across from each other, and for a second, it felt almost normal.

Then—

Crash.

A clatter echoed from the hallway, followed by a panicked, guilty silence. She winced.

“I swear to God—” she muttered, already standing. “Arthur!”

“It wasn’t me!” came the automatic reply.

She disappeared into the hall. Damian heard a brief scuffle, then the sound of something being righted. Her voice was low, quick — a mix of reprimand and negotiation. When she came back, she looked mildly frazzled but unsurprised.

“Sorry. Someone tried to climb the bookshelf again.”

He blinked. “...Again?”

She sighed, tugging her hair behind her ear. “It’s a weekly experiment.”

Her phone buzzed with the rhythm of a song he couldn’t name. She groaned and answered. A short back-and-forth with who he assumed was her mother — something about the stove. The call ended quickly.

A pause. Then a long-suffering, “Great.”

She pressed her hands to her face for a second, then dropped them with a tired little laugh.

“This is what studying here looks like,” she said, glancing at Damian. “Still want to stay?”

He tilted his head. “You haven’t thrown me out yet.”

She snorted and dropped back into her chair. “Give it time.”

They settled in again. The heater rattled in the corner like it was trying to join the conversation.

“This pencil barely works,” she mumbled, trying to scribble something out. “I think it’s cursed.”

Damian held out a clean mechanical pencil. “Here.”

She blinked. “...Is this one of those fancy ones that costs, like, eight dollars?”

“It’s a pencil.”

“Yeah. A pencil that could survive nuclear fallout.”

He didn’t reply, just pushed it gently closer.

She took it. “Thanks,” she said, quieter this time.

And they began to work.

Even with the noise, the clutter, the chaos humming around them — or maybe because of it — the silence between them started to feel less like something awkward and more like something chosen.

They studied as long as they could before her brothers broke into another argument about who got the last juice box. She sighed, marked her place with the corner of her sleeve, and gave Damian a sheepish glance.

“Do you... wanna see my room?” she asked, hesitant. “I mean, it’s nothing like yours. Obviously. But... it’s mine.”

She threaded through the hallway, stepping over a Nerf dart and an abandoned sock, and nudged open the door to the smallest bedroom in the apartment. It wasn’t big. Barely fit the bed, dresser, and narrow desk. The carpet had a worn patch in the center, the blinds didn’t quite hang right, and the overhead light buzzed if you didn’t twist it just right.

But it was hers.

String lights were tacked in a loose zigzag across one wall, their bulbs a warm gold. The bed was made haphazardly, with a soft quilt pulled crooked across the top — not matching anything else, but clearly loved. Posters above the headboard, mostly of bands, some faded at the corners, one held up with a safety pin. A row of paperbacks leaned against each other on a wall shelf, spines creased and bent. Crumpled receipts peeked out of a mug filled with pens. A cracked lava lamp pulsed orange-red in the corner.

It was cluttered. It was bright. It was unmistakably her.

And there, in the corner on its stand — his guitar.

The one he’d given her. It sat carefully in the light, angled gently out, like she’d left it on display on purpose. Draped over the neck was a faded denim jacket with enamel pins across the collar — a flower, a ghost, a tiny plastic bat with one wing chipped.

Damian stepped closer, gaze trailing over the strings and the way the frets had already picked up wear. Around one tuning peg was a small silver charm shaped like a guitar pick.

He tilted his head. “That yours?”

“Oh,” she said, stepping next to him. “Yeah. Um. My dad gave it to me when I first started playing. Said it was for luck.” She didn’t look at him, just stared at the strings, brushing her fingers along the pickguard. “He’s kind of... figuring himself out still. Somewhere else, I guess.”

Her tone was light. Not dismissive — just practiced.

“He used to play,” she added. “He taught me the basics, before I really knew what I was doing. I mostly learned the rest by ear.”

Damian nodded. “He gave you the melody. You made the music.”

That earned the tiniest smile from her — sideways, but real. “Something like that.”

Her eyes flicked to the corner of the desk, where a small frame sat tilted between two music books. She noticed him looking just before he said anything and instantly turned pink.

“Oh god — okay, don’t laugh.” She darted across the room and grabbed it like she might hide it behind her back. “I swear I was gonna toss it, like, the next morning. It was just — I don’t know. I didn’t.”

He reached for it before she could squirrel it away.

The boutonniere from the dance. Pressed gently in the frame — not perfect, but careful. Ivory petals slightly browned at the edges, bound with the same ribbon he remembered. A little lopsided.

“You framed it,” he said.

“I know, I know,” she said quickly. “It’s dumb, right? I thought maybe I’d put something else in there later — a sticker, a ticket stub, a lyric or something. But I just... never did. I mean, it was just a dance, not like—” she trailed off. “Okay, you can mock me now.”

“I’m not going to mock you.”

“You’re not?”

“I was going to throw it out,” he said. “Didn’t think anyone would keep something like that.”

“Well, you weren’t supposed to,” she muttered. “But I didn’t want to forget it either. It wasn’t... bad. That night.”

“It wasn’t,” he agreed, quietly.

She slowly set the frame back down. The silence between them stretched — not heavy, just... held.

He took in more of the room — the scuffed nightstand with its tangled earbuds, the corkboard with a few Polaroids tacked in the corners, a comic book folded open on the bed. One wall had taped-up lyrics and hand-scrawled chord progressions. The mirror was rimmed with cheap beads and stickers, one corner of the glass chipped but still functional.

No silk. No marble. No hidden vaults.

But it felt warmer than anywhere he’d been in weeks.

She glanced at him and tugged at her sleeve. “It’s not swords and silk sheets, I know. But…”

“It’s real,” he said. “And it’s yours.”

She paused — then looked at him fully. The buzz of the apartment still hummed in the background — muffled voices, a chair scraping, a pot lid rattling somewhere in the kitchen.

“That’s kinda the point,” she said.

He nodded once.

In a room too small for both of them to pace, where everything was too honest to fake, it felt like something steadier was taking root.

Quiet. But growing all the same.

She hovered for a second, shifting her weight, like there was something else she wanted to show him but wasn’t sure if it would be too much.

Then she padded over to the bottom drawer of her dresser and pulled out a small, scratched-up CD player — the portable kind, with a foggy plastic lid and a bit of duct tape holding the battery cover in place. She fiddled with the headphone jack, then set it on the edge of her bed, where it gave a little wheeze of static before settling into silence.

“You’re not allowed to laugh,” she warned, glancing at him from beneath her lashes. “It skips if you bump it.”

“I won’t touch it,” Damian said, entirely serious.

She crouched next to it, flipping through a stack of burned CDs in slim jewel cases. Most were marked in Sharpie: Late Bus Blues , Only Good on Rainy Days . She picked one labeled Dad’s Stuff – Mostly Guitars and slid it in carefully, like she’d done it a thousand times before.

The CD spun. A soft click. Then, after a second, music filtered out of the small speakers — a guitar riff like sunlight through a dusty window, warm and unhurried.

Fleetwood Mac. Landslide.

She didn’t look at him right away. Just folded her knees to her chest and sat back on her bed, chin resting on one arm.

“This one always reminds me of him,” she murmured. “Even though it’s not his, not really. Just something he liked to play when he thought no one was listening.”

She didn’t explain who she meant. She didn’t have to.

The melody hummed low around them. The player clicked once, skipped a beat, then caught up again.

Damian stood a moment longer, then crossed the room and sat beside her — careful, precise, like he didn’t want to risk skipping the song.

They listened for a while in silence.

Then he said, “Alfred used to say this band sounded like they were always about to fall apart.”

She blinked. “What?”

“Fleetwood Mac. He said they played like people who couldn’t stand each other half the time but still needed to make something beautiful out of the mess.” Damian tilted his head slightly. “Said it was the most human thing he’d ever heard.”

She stared at him for a beat. Then snorted softly. “Alfred said that?”

“He has opinions.” Damian’s lips quirked — not quite a smile, but close. “Most of them are sharp.”

“I like that. About the mess.”

She leaned her head back against the wall, letting the lyrics wash over her. Something in her posture relaxed — like she didn’t have to explain anymore. Like he understood what she meant just by sitting there.

The CD wheezed slightly in the player as the song drifted through the room — warbled in places, but still steady. She leaned against the wall beside him, fingers absently picking at a thread on her sleeve, eyes fixed somewhere in the middle distance.

He sat with his hands folded in his lap, still and composed as always. But there was a quiet furrow in his brow. Not discomfort. Just... thought.

She glanced at him. “You okay?”

He didn’t answer right away.

Instead, after a beat, he said, “There’s a room in the manor no one uses. Third floor. Full of instruments.” His voice was soft — not distant, just deliberate. “I didn’t know how to play any of them. Not really. But I used to sit there sometimes. When it was too loud everywhere else.”

She blinked, surprised. “Too loud?”

“In my head,” he clarified. “Not the house.”

Her heart tugged in a way she didn’t expect.

He glanced at the CD player, where the chorus wobbled slightly as it hit another scratch. “Eventually, I figured out the piano. Not well. Just enough to understand how it works.”

She smiled faintly. “You taught yourself?”

“No one was going to teach me.” A pause. “Not the way I needed.”

Her breath caught, just slightly. The way he said that — not bitter. Not sad. Just true.

She looked at him again, really looked — the sharp lines, the careful stillness, the edges always too polished for someone their age. And now — just for a moment — she saw the seams underneath.

“You could’ve picked a better first band than Fleetwood Mac,” he added after a moment, almost like a deflection. “Their harmonies are mathematically imbalanced.”

She grinned. “That’s the point.”

His mouth twitched. “Controlled chaos.”

“Told you,” she said, gently bumping her shoulder against his. “You like it.”

He didn’t deny it.

The track faded out, slow and soft. The CD player made a tiny click. Then silence.

She let it sit for a second, warm and quiet.

“You can use my guitar whenever,” she offered. “If you ever wanna try again. I won’t, like, hover or anything.”

Damian nodded once. “Noted.”

But he didn’t get up.

And neither did she.

Chapter Text

They were still mid-laugh when the front door opened.

It wasn’t loud. Just the soft click of the latch and the shuffle of heavy boots across the entryway. But it stole the air from the room.

Her shoulders stiffened before the sound even registered. She was already halfway to standing when he appeared in the hallway — work jacket slung over one shoulder, boots still dusted with slush. His face was blank, like always. Not angry. Not anything, really. But that was somehow worse.

“Hey,” she said quickly, brushing past Damian as she stepped into the narrow hall. “You’re home early.”

“Didn’t get the hours,” he replied, voice flat. He didn’t look at her — not really. Just gave a brief glance at Damian still seated in her room, then back at her. “You didn’t say anyone was coming over.”

Her pulse ticked up. “I thought Mom might’ve mentioned—”

“She didn’t.”

A pause. Not long, but thick.

Damian stood, measured but unflinching. He didn’t offer a greeting. Just observed — the way the man’s hand flexed on the strap of his coat, the slight twitch in his jaw, the narrowed flick of his eyes toward the bag in the corner. A quiet catalog of threat.

“We were just studying,” she said, clearing her throat. “It’s not a big— We’re done now.”

The man shrugged. “Up to you.”

But it wasn’t. Not really.

She turned quickly back toward her room. “Um. Let me just—” Her eyes caught Damian’s, and the look was unmistakable. Not panic. Not pleading. Just a quiet, practiced message: Please don’t make this worse.

He nodded once, collecting his things with silent efficiency.

She followed him to the front door in a blur. Not rushed. Not hesitant. Just… efficient. Like she'd done it before.

“Thanks for coming over,” she said softly as she opened the door.

Damian paused. “You don’t need to apologize.”

“I’m not,” she said too fast. Then softened. “Okay, maybe a little.”

His gaze flicked past her shoulder again, then back to her. “He doesn’t speak to you like someone who sees you.”

She blinked. “He doesn’t hit us, if that’s what you’re—”

“I didn’t say he did.”

The cold from outside brushed her ankle. She didn’t meet his eyes.

“I liked your room,” he said at last.

She smiled — barely, but real. “I’m glad.”

Then he was gone. The stairwell creaked behind him.

She shut the door carefully. Locked it. Rested her forehead against the wood for a beat.

“Who was that?” her stepfather asked from the couch.

She didn’t answer right away.

Just stared at the door and tried to remember what her laugh sounded like before it got swallowed by the sound of his boots.

“I asked you a question.”

She turned. He was sprawled across the couch now, one boot kicked off, remote in hand though the TV wasn’t even on. He still wasn’t looking at her — just through her.

“Just someone from school,” she said, voice steady by force of habit.

“Didn’t look like just someone.”

Her jaw tightened. “We had a project.”

He scoffed. “Project. Right.”

She didn’t flinch. She just curled her hands in her sleeves.

“Your mom know about this?”

“She said it was fine.”

“That right?” He finally looked at her now, eyes sharp and small. “Funny. She tells me everything, and I didn’t hear a word about some boy hanging around.”

She took a breath. Measured. “He came over once. It’s not a big deal.”

He leaned back like he was settling in. “You keep thinking that, you’ll end up knocked up like your mother.”

It hit like a slap. Not in volume, but precision. Her brows twitched — breath stuck in her chest.

“That’s not fair.”

“Life’s not fair, sweetheart.”

She turned back toward the hallway, jaw tight.

“Don’t start slamming doors,” he added, like a reminder he owned the hinges. “I’ll tell your mother you had an attitude.”

The door didn’t slam. It closed soft. Too soft.

Back in her room, the heater hummed too loud. The scarf Damian gave back still sat on her desk, neatly folded. The boutonnière stayed where it always was. Nothing was out of place. But the air felt heavier. Dimmer. Like light had pulled back into the corners.

She sat on the edge of her bed, staring at the guitar — charm still looped around the peg, catching a glint of light. Her fingers moved before she thought. A single pluck.

A note, low and clean.

Still in tune.

She pulled it onto her lap. Her hands settled over the frets without asking permission. The one thing she could control.

She strummed once. A chord. Slow. Even.

Then the door burst open.

James stood there, panting like he’d run from something invisible. A bent drawing of a spaceship crumpled in one hand. His shirt slipped off one shoulder. His voice was a whisper.

“Can I stay in here?”

He didn’t wait for permission — just climbed into bed fast, like he could outrun the dark in the hallway. She blinked, then nodded gently.

“Yeah, of course. Shut the door, okay?”

He fumbled with the knob, then dove beneath the blanket, curling into her side. The drawing stayed clenched in his fist.

Seconds later, Arthur appeared in the doorway, unsure.

She patted the other side of the bed. “Come on. Scoot in.”

He nodded and slid in beside James. No questions. They’d done this before. The way survivors do.

The room was cramped with them packed in. But it was safer now. Quieter in the right ways.

She didn’t ask if they wanted a song. She just played.

Fleetwood Mac. Gentle chords. Warm and slow. Her voice hummed low with the strings — not loud, not lyrical, just steady.

James stopped fidgeting. Arthur let out a breath like he’d been holding it for hours. Their bodies settled inch by inch, shoulders sinking into the mattress.

She kept playing. Not to fix it. Just to make space.

And when she glanced down and saw James asleep, his head tucked into Arthur’s arm, his drawing still clutched tight —
She kept playing.

Quiet, careful chords. The kind that didn’t erase pain.
But made it smaller.

And that was enough.

✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦

The Batcomputer’s glow flickered across the cave walls.

Damian sat forward in the chair, green eyes sharp and focused. Onscreen, the profile glowed: Michael R. Dalton, 38. No priors. A modest accounting job. Clean record. Too clean.

The cursor blinked.

Minimal digital footprint. Socials locked. Financials neat. Almost too neat.

Titus padded over and rested his head on Damian’s knee. Damian absently scratched behind his ear, eyes locked on the screen.

Pharmacy receipt. Dog food. Ibuprofen. Something about it itched. Too ordinary. Curated.

He hadn’t asked her. She wouldn’t have wanted this. But her look at the door — the one that said don’t draw attention, just go — had stuck in his chest.

She shouldn’t have to look like that in her own home.

Bruce’s voice crackled through the comms. “That’s not a case we’re on.”

Damian didn’t look up. “It’s personal.”

A pause. The quiet kind where judgment simmers beneath concern.

“Tread carefully.”

“I always do.”

His tone stayed neutral, but his jaw was set.

She hummed when she walked. Argued over pencils. Smelled like cedar and warmth. And still wouldn’t ask for help, even when the roof was caving in.

She didn’t need saving.

But if that man ever gave her a reason to be afraid—

He wouldn’t get the chance to do it twice.

Chapter Text

She’d been carrying the thought around for three days.

Not heavy, exactly. But fragile. Like a piece of paper folded too many times — corners soft, edges starting to wear. She kept tucking it into the back of her mind, telling herself now wasn’t the right moment. That he probably wouldn’t care. That it wasn’t a big enough deal to mention. That she could ask later. Or not at all.

It was just a choir thing. Not even a real concert — more like a glorified school assembly with better lighting and slightly more expensive folding chairs.

But still.

They were walking to the back exit after eighth period, boots squeaking faintly on the old linoleum. She shifted the strap of her backpack higher on her shoulder, heart tapping louder than it needed to. Just ask. Just ask. But what if he says no? Not in a mean way. Just that quiet way that means he has better things to do. And he would. Obviously. He was Damian. He had, like, a thousand more important—

“I, um—there’s a thing this weekend,” she said before she could stop herself. Too sudden. Too casual.

He glanced at her, waiting. That unreadable look he always wore when he was giving someone his full attention without making it feel like pressure.

She looked away. “It’s stupid. Kind of.”

Still no response. Just steady silence.

“It’s this honor choir thing. Friday night. In the auditorium.” She tried to keep her voice even. “It’s not fancy or anything. Just a few songs with some kids from other schools. No solo. Nothing major.”

She felt him watching her. It made the words tangle more.

“I wasn’t even going to do it. My music teacher signed me up behind my back, basically. Said it’d be good for my ‘vocal growth,’ whatever that means.” She gave a weak laugh. “I think it’s just teacher code for ‘stop hiding in the back row.’”

Still calm. Still no judgment in his face. Just listening.

Her palms were sweating inside her sleeves.

“You don’t have to come,” she added quickly. “I mean, really. I wasn’t even sure I was going to invite anyone. I don’t even think my mom can make it.” A beat. “Which is fine. It’s just—yeah. Never mind.”

She stopped walking. So did he.

The silence between them held for a second. Not awkward. Just… uncertain.

Then Damian said, “Do you want me there?”

The question shouldn’t have knocked the wind out of her. But it did, a little.

She blinked. Her throat felt tight. “Yeah,” she said finally, voice smaller than she meant. “I think I do.”

His answer came without pause. “Then I’ll be there.”

She blinked again, trying to make sure she’d heard that right. “Really?”

“I don’t say things I don’t mean.”

And just like that, the knot in her chest loosened. Not entirely. But enough.

A slow smile pulled at the corners of her mouth, soft and a little shy. “Okay. Cool.”

They started walking again. She didn’t say anything more. Didn’t need to. But as they stepped outside and the cold hit her cheeks, she realized she wasn’t shivering quite as hard anymore.

And tucked into her chest, under the layers of worry and noise and every reason not to ask — the paper didn’t feel so fragile now.

All that confidence unraveled Friday night, when it was actually time for the performance. The auditorium smelled like old paint and nervous sweat.

She hadn’t eaten since lunch — and even then, just half a granola bar she immediately regretted. Her choir dress itched, her curls wouldn’t sit right no matter how many times she checked the mirror, and the sleeves dress kept riding up weirdly at the elbows. She never liked it anyway, it always felt like attending a funeral.

Every part of her felt too visible and not enough at the same time.

Somewhere backstage, someone was practicing their scales too loud. A soprano cracked on a high note and swore under her breath. The choir director clapped twice, calling for everyone to line up by section.

Her stomach twisted.

What if he didn’t come?

She didn’t expect him to. Not really. But she’d let herself hope, just a little. Enough to count the empty seats when they filed in. Enough to keep checking the side door, even when she tried to pretend she wasn’t.

The lights dimmed. The audience hushed. She swallowed hard and lifted her folder.

They began.

It wasn’t a solo. She was one face among dozens. One voice in a carefully stacked chord. It wasn’t even her favorite song — too floaty, too safe. But she hit every note. Let herself disappear into the blend of sound. Let the nerves drain into the music, where no one could see.

And when the last measure ended and the applause started, she bowed with the rest and let herself exhale.

She hadn’t seen him.

Maybe that was better.

Maybe it meant she wouldn’t have to explain why her hands shook or why her voice caught halfway through warmups or why she kept imagining all the ways it could go wrong. She could just walk offstage, wash off the nerves, and forget she’d ever cared so much.

It was over before she even knew it. Her head felt lighter but her stomach felt like it had stones in it. 

She didn’t head toward the crowd. There wasn’t anyone waiting. Just the low swell of voices — laughter and congratulations that didn’t have her name in them. She adjusted her grip on the folder. Michael had the boys tonight, not that she’d asked him to come. Her mom was on call at the hospital. “Every nurse has an excuse on New Year’s,” she’d said, half-apologetic, half-distracted. Then another quick promise — she’d make it to the next one. 

“Nice job,” said a voice beside her, low and warm.

She turned. Ryan. Tenor section. Decent enough voice. Too much cologne. Always trying to catch her attention.

“Thanks,” she said automatically, shifting her folder.

“You sounded good. I mean, not that I could hear you specifically, but still.” He smiled like it was supposed to be charming.

She gave a tight nod. “You too.”

He chuckled. “You got family out there? I was trying to see who came for who.”

She hesitated, trying not to sound too disappointed. “Uh. Not really.”

“Oh.” He paused. “Well, if you want—”

Then her eyes caught on the crowd near the edge of the lobby. Not center. Not flashy. Just off to the side.

Damian.

He stood slightly apart, black coat buttoned up, hair still damp from the drizzle outside. In his hands — a small bouquet. Not loud or glittery. Just a few winter flowers, wrapped in brown paper. Simple. Thoughtful. Real.

Her heart stuttered.

Ryan was still talking. Something abou everyone going to get milkshakes. But she couldn’t hear it over the way the world had shifted. Brightened at the edges.

She excused herself as politely as possible shuffling towards Damian, ignoring the way Ryan's eyes followed her. 

“You came,” she said, slightly breathless.

“I said I would.”

She looked down at the bouquet. White freesia. A bit of eucalyptus. A thistle tucked off to the side.

“You brought me flowers?”

Her heart stuttered. No one had ever brought her flowers before — not like this. Not simple. Not sincere

“That’s the tradition, isn’t it?” he said, like it wasn’t a big deal. “You performed. You deserve to be acknowledged.”

Her throat tightened. “They’re beautiful.”

“You’re not the only one who can be thoughtful,” he added, quieter.

She laughed once — not loud. But real.

He cleared his throat. “How are you getting home?”

She tilted her head. “I was just gonna walk.”

Damian raised an eyebrow like she’d said she was going to swim across the bay in winter.

“It’s six blocks,” she defended. “I’ve done it before.”

“That’s not the point.”

The murmurs of everyone else grew quieter, families shuffling away through the isles.

“Is that you offering to walk with me?”

He didn’t say yes. Just turned toward the doors and waited.

Outside, the drizzle had settled into mist. Her breath fogged in the air as she stepped onto the sidewalk beside him.

She hesitated — then gently looped her arm through his.

It lasted half a second.

Damian stiffened. Not overtly. But enough. She felt the subtle twitch of his shoulder, the way his fingers tensed against his coat.

She let go.

Didn’t say anything about it. Just folded her arms over her chest and kept a polite distance the rest of the walk. Close enough to hear him breathe. Not close enough to reach.

Her thoughts spun. God, why did She do that? Stupid. So stupid. He didn’t ask to come. He probably felt obligated. He brought flowers, that’s just something people do, it doesn’t mean anything. And now She’d made it weird.

She focused on the sound of her steps, counting them like it might quiet the noise in her head.

Why had she done that? Her stomach twisted. Just one awkward reach, and the whole walk home felt like it was lined with eggshells.

They reached the end of the block. She moved to turn left — the usual shortcut home.

But Damian’s hand shot out gently, fingers brushing her elbow as he redirected her.

“This way’s better,” he said.

She blinked. “It’s longer.”

“It’s safer.”

The words were simple. Unemotional. Like a fact, not a warning.

She didn’t argue. Just followed.

But something about the way he said it made her glance sideways again. There was nothing remarkable about the street they were on — old brickwork, a row of shuttered shops. But it was lit better. Fewer alley mouths. Fewer places someone could disappear into.

How did he even know that?

She didn’t ask. Not because she didn’t want to — but because something about the question felt like it might pull loose a thread she wasn’t ready to tug yet.

So they walked.

Quiet again.

When they reached her building, she turned to him under the low awning, rain making soft tapping sounds on the mailbox lids.

She looked down at the flowers again. “They’re really beautiful.”

He nodded once. “I’m glad.”

She hesitated, then smiled — soft, genuine. “I think I’m gonna press them.”

He blinked. “Press them?”

“In a book. Like the boutonniere.” She shrugged, looking down. “They’re from tonight. I don’t wanna forget.”

Something in his face shifted. Not quite surprised. Not quite vulnerable. Just—unspoken.

She didn’t say anything else. Just stepped back to the door, her key already between her fingers.

Before she turned the knob, she looked back at him.

“Thanks,” she said again. “For coming. And walking me home.”

His voice was quieter this time. ““I didn’t want you to be alone.”

A breath passed. She looked up at him again — his posture still straight, expression unreadable. The same boy who’d watched her sing like it meant something. Who’d pulled her away from a shadowed path without blinking. Who’d flinched when she touched him like maybe kindness was the scar that hurt the most.

She smiled — small, real. “Goodnight, Damian.”

He nodded once. “Goodnight.”

Then she stepped inside, the door clicking softly behind her. Leaving him under the awning, with the echo of her voice and the shadow of a nearly-touched arm.

She shut the door behind her with care — not because anyone was asleep, but because the quiet felt sacred. Like if she breathed too loudly, it might chase off the last trace of him.

The flowers still crinkled slightly in her hands, even through the paper. She hadn’t realized how crinkled the paper was, like someone was squeezing it too hard. Had she done that?

She carried them like something breakable.

In her room, she cleared a space on her desk. Moved her lamp. Swept up the scattered guitar picks and pen caps. Then pulled open the bottom drawer where she kept her old spiral sketchbook — the one too bent to close properly, full of lyrics that didn’t rhyme and half-doodles of hands she could never get right.

The spine cracked when she opened it. A paperclip fell out.

She pressed the bouquet gently between two pages — between a smudged song about rain and a note she'd once written to herself and never sent. She paused. Then uncapped a pen and started to write.

flowers don’t mean anything
(except when they do)

i said i’d press them.
i meant:
please don’t forget i was here.

he didn’t hold my arm.
but he walked me home.
picked a safer street.

(he knew it wasn’t safe.
how did he know that?)

i think i smiled too much.
i think i said thank you three times.
i think i wanted to ask why he came at all.

ryan talks like everything’s easy.
damian talks like everything matters.

maybe that’s why
it hurts
in the nice kind of way.

She capped the pen and shut the book slowly, tucking the edge of the bouquet in like a secret. Like something sacred. She scoffs at herself. She scoffed at herself. It was on the nose — maybe too much. But it was just for her

The heater rattled. A car drove past. Somewhere in the building, a baby cried and a dog barked and someone coughed through the wall.

But for a minute, none of it touched her.

Just her, her scribbled words, and the quiet ache of maybe.

She exhaled. Folded the sketchbook shut.

Around midnight, she crept into the kitchen barefoot. The apartment was quiet except for the soft tick of the stove clock and the faint rattle of the old radiator in the hallway. Dim strings of leftover Christmas lights still looped around the pass-through between kitchen and living room, casting a warm orange-pink glow that felt more like candlelight than electricity.

She filled the kettle without flipping on the overhead. Not wanting to wake Micheal, or her brothers. The hum of the water heating was gentle, familiar. She reached for her favorite chipped mug — the one with the faded constellation print — and dropped in a peppermint tea bag. Something for the nerves. Something to settle the ache that hadn’t quite gone away since she stepped off that stage.

As the kettle whistled, she passed by the boys' room. The door was cracked just enough to see them — curled together on the bottom bunk, tangled in blankets, a worn storybook still spread open beside them. One of them had drooled on the pillow. A page fluttered in the draft.

She smiled, then shut the door softly.

Back in the kitchen, her mother sat at the small table, cardigan draped around her shoulders, still in scrubs from a double shift. She looked like she hadn’t moved in hours — elbows resting on the table, hands wrapped around a mug of her own. The air between them held the quiet of late-night truths.

“You looked beautiful tonight,” her mother said, voice low and even. “Your teacher sent me a video. You sounded good.”

She didn’t meet her mother’s eyes at first. “Thanks, Mom.”

A pause passed like breath through gauze.

“You don’t want to talk about it?” her mom asked gently.

She shook her head, watching the steam curl from her mug. “It was good. Weird, but good.”

Her mother raised an eyebrow. “Weird?”

She hesitated, chewing on the corner of her thumbnail. “Damian walked me home.”

Something flickered in her mother’s face — not surprise, exactly. Just curiosity, softened by something knowing.

A longer pause stretched between them, filled only by the faint hum of the fridge.

“He was sweet,” she said at last. “And then… he wasn’t. I think I got too close.”

Her mom tilted her head, listening without interruption.

“Emotionally or physically?” she asked quietly.

“Both.” The word caught in her throat, like it was embarrassed to be spoken. “I didn’t even do anything, really. Just… linked my arm through his. For, like, a second. And he flinched. Like I burned him.”

Her mom was quiet for a long beat. Then she leaned forward and reached across the table, brushing her thumb over the back of her daughter’s hand — soft and slow, the way she used to when she was little and couldn’t sleep.

“You think it’s about you?”

She shrugged one shoulder, still watching the steam swirl. “I don’t want it to be. But yeah. Kinda stings.”

Her mom exhaled softly. The kind of sound that wasn’t quite disappointment. Not quite sympathy either. Just… history.

“Men like him,” she said finally, “they carry the world on their shoulders. Even when they’re just kids. Doesn’t matter how small they are — the weight’s always there. Sometimes it settles in their bones before they even realize it. Before anyone gets the chance to tell them they can set it down.”

She blinked hard. Looked up.

“Was it like that with you and Dad?”

The question hovered in the air.

For a moment, her mother didn’t speak. She looked toward the window above the sink, where the mist still clung to the glass, streaked faintly from the rain. Her fingers tapped gently against her mug.

“I don’t know,” she said finally. “Your dad… he had this way of disappearing without ever leaving the room. Like his mind was always somewhere else. Somewhere harder.” She paused. “I spent a lot of time trying to follow him there. But some people… they won’t let you. Not because they don’t care. But because they don’t think they’re allowed to be seen.”

She rubbed her eyes with the heel of her palm.

“Damian’s different. He is . But that doesn’t mean he’s easy. He’s got something heavy in him. Something he hasn’t named yet. And until he does, you just have to be… patient.”

She nodded slowly. “So I give him space.”

Her mom’s gaze was steady. “Yes. But not so much he forgets someone’s waiting for him.”

That hit harder than she expected.

“I just wanted him to know he’s not alone.”

“And he will,” her mom said, smiling softly. “But you don’t have to bleed to prove it.”

She didn’t say anything at first. Just looked down at her mug, turning it once in her hands.

Then, in a smaller voice: “I don’t think he’s ever had anyone look at him like he’s safe . Like he doesn’t have to be something for someone else.”

Her mom reached over and tucked a loose curl behind her ear. “Then maybe the kindest thing you can do… is let him figure out who he is when no one’s asking anything from him.”

The radiator clanked softly behind them. Somewhere above, a neighbor flushed a toilet. Life carried on.

But at the kitchen table, with lukewarm tea and late-night truths between them, something deeper settled in.

Something honest. Something tender.

She nodded once, then let the silence take over again — not because she had nothing left to say, but because she trusted it would wait until she was ready.

And her mom didn’t push. Just stayed there a while longer, sipping her tea.

Chapter Text

He didn’t walk home right away.

After she stepped inside and the door clicked shut behind her, Damian stayed still under the awning, letting the mist settle in his hair and on the shoulders of his coat. A car passed. Somewhere, a dog barked. He could hear a siren in the distance.

But mostly, he could hear the silence.

Her voice still echoed in his head. “I think I’m gonna press them.” The way she smiled — soft, uncertain, like it meant more than it should’ve. Like it mattered.

He hadn’t meant to flinch when she touched him. He really hadn’t.

It hadn’t been rejection. Not really. It was reflex, trained bone-deep. The kind you don’t think about until it’s already done. But it still mattered. He’d seen the way her eyes dropped. The inch she stepped back. The quiet she wore for the rest of the walk.

And he hated that he’d been the one to put it there.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want her to. The opposite, maybe. That was the problem.

The way she’d linked her arm through his like it was nothing — like softness was normal. Like he could be normal. Not something trained into tight corners and knife reflexes. Not someone who catalogued exits every five feet. Just… a boy walking a girl home. The League didn’t allow it. Being Robin barely did

It was unfamiliar. It was dangerous. 

No one had ever trusted him like that.

She just followed. Didn’t question the change in route. Didn’t blink when he redirected her from the shortcut. She let him steer — not because she didn’t notice, but because she trusted .

And trust like that… it wasn’t weakness. It was something else. Something he hadn’t been taught.

She wasn’t just anyone.

And maybe — just maybe — he wasn’t either, when he was with her.

He turned, finally, hands in his pockets, and walked.

Every corner they’d passed, he’d scanned without thinking. Every shadow, every stranger, every blind spot. She hadn’t even noticed him change their route. She just followed.

That trust — it shouldn’t have meant anything. But it did.

Damian didn’t believe in softness for the sake of softness. But she made it seem like maybe it could have weight. Like maybe kindness wasn’t just a weakness, but a kind of bravery he hadn’t been taught.

And yet, despite all of it, he’d still pulled away. A single twitch, but enough to hurt her. He saw it in her face. He felt it in the quiet between them after. And maybe she didn’t say anything because she didn’t want to make it worse. Or maybe because she didn’t know if he’d let her in again.

He didn’t know how to fix that.

But he wanted to.

He walked three more blocks before he reached the roof he’d stashed his gear on. By the time he suited up, the city was quieter, darker. The mist turned to drizzle again. He moved silently across the rooftops, but his mind didn’t follow the same discipline.

Patrol was a welcome rhythm. Familiar. Predictable. The city was quieter tonight, save for the occasional echo of distant music or the sharp slap of tires in puddles.

But even as he moved — swift, silent — his mind didn’t settle. It kept circling the same thoughts.

The way her hair curled around her collar in the mist. The look on her face when she saw him in the crowd. The flowers — stupid, simple — that had made her eyes light up like someone had offered her the sky.

The way she said “thank you,” like it was a question she didn’t know she was allowed to ask.

He hadn’t meant to make her feel like she needed permission.

He didn’t sleep well.

Not that he usually did. But it was worse this time. His body ached with leftover adrenaline. His mind itched with things unsaid.

By morning, he was already back on campus — earlier than usual, though he’d never admit that to himself. He spotted her instantly. He always did — not consciously, not in a way he could control. His eyes just found her.  Like gravity.

She was standing by the lockers near the choir room, arms crossed over her stomach like she didn’t know what to do with them. Her hair pulled half-up in a messy twist, and she was talking to someone — half-listening, half somewhere else entirely.

He didn’t know what he expected. Maybe that things would be normal. Or maybe that they wouldn’t be.

Either way, she glanced up when he passed, and for a moment — just a moment — her shoulders pulled tight like she was bracing for something. Then she offered a small wave. Not sheepish. Just… careful.

He gave a nod in return. The hallway was too loud. Everything else felt too quiet.

Later, he arrived early to the library — too early. He told himself it was to review molecular biology before they looked at math notes. But that was only half true.

He didn’t like not knowing where he stood.
He liked even less how much that bothered him.

His pencil tapped absently against the corner of his notebook as he watched the door.

When it creaked open, his back straightened instinctively.

She stepped in, nodding at the librarian with a polite smile. She always smiled at people.

But when her eyes found him — the real smile faded. Not in a cold way. Just cautious.

She walked to their usual table, backpack slung over one shoulder. Instead of taking the seat beside him like she used to, she slipped into the one across from him, carefully placing her bag at her feet.

“Hi,” she said quietly, tucking a loose strand behind her ear.

She smelled faintly of something warm — cinnamon and vanilla. The same woodsy note still lingered too. He couldn’t name it, but it made his throat feel tight.

He nodded. “Hi.”

They had math to go over. Graphing polynomials. She’d already told him she hated it — “like numbers and graph paper had a baby and forgot how to be fun.” But she didn’t joke about it today. No dramatics. No eye rolls.

Just silence. A pencil moving. A breath held too long.

He watched her from the corner of his eye.

She wasn’t cold. Just… quieter. Like she was holding her breath emotionally, not sure if he’d flinch again.

Eventually, she glanced up. “Hey.”

He looked up, alert. “What is it?”

A small pause.

“About yesterday,” she said. “When we walked home.”

Her voice was steady, but soft. Careful.

“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

He blinked. “You didn’t.”

She smiled — or tried to — but it didn’t reach. “It’s okay. I get it. It was dumb.”

“It wasn’t dumb,” he said, sharper than intended. Then softer: “I just… wasn’t expecting it.”

Her fingers skimmed the edge of her notebook. “You can sit across from me too. If you want.”

He tilted his head. “What?”

She didn’t quite meet his eyes. “If you’re still scared of being too close.”

That landed harder than it should have.

He stood slowly. Walked around the table. Sat beside her again — closer than before.

She didn’t move away.

There was more he could’ve said. Should have. About touch, and training, and how kindness sometimes scared him more than knives. About how warmth made him forget to breathe.

But he didn’t say any of that.

Instead, he nudged his notes toward her. “This part’s wrong.”

She blinked. Then leaned in, her hair brushing the paper. Close enough to smell her shampoo again. Something clean. Grounding.

They didn’t talk about the walk home again. But she didn’t move away anymore.

Progress, maybe.

Still, her voice stayed soft that day. And not the usual kind of soft — not the kind she used with her brothers when they were sick, or with her guitar when she tuned it like it might shatter. This was different.

Cracked-ice kind of soft.

Like she didn’t want to scare him off.

By lunch, she was humming again. Barely audible, but there. She passed him her notebook, and this time her fingers brushed his. He didn’t pull away.

Gym passed in a blur. He changed quickly, pulling on the uniform with practiced, mechanical ease. He stepped into the corridor just in time to hear it.

Ryan. Loud enough to hear. Not loud enough to be obvious.

“…I dunno, man. I thought she might say yes, you know? Just milkshakes. It’s not like I asked her to marry me.”

A laugh from another guy.

“You’re just mad she didn’t want to go with you.”

Ryan shrugged. “Guess I should’ve figured. She’s got a thing for the broody ones. Flowers. Silent treatment. Whatever.”

Damian didn’t stop walking. Didn’t say anything.

But he did glance sideways.

Their eyes met — just for a second.

Whatever else Ryan was about to say never made it out.

Damian didn’t glare. Didn’t flex. Just looked.

It was enough.

He didn’t tell her about it. Didn’t need to.

By late afternoon, campus was mostly empty.

A few stray students lingered beneath the spring trees, their voices muffled by distance and the damp hush in the air. The breeze smelled like rain-soaked pavement and something faintly sweet — budding leaves, damp earth, the first shy petals of whatever bloomed this time of year.

She sat cross-legged on the edge of a stone bench near the memorial garden, her worn notebook open across her lap. Her pencil moved in fits and starts — a line here, then a pause. A furrow of her brow. Her thoughts seemed to outrun her edits, too fast to catch on the first try.

Damian paused a few feet away.

She hadn’t seen him yet.

Her lips moved — barely — in a whisper that didn’t carry, like she was reading something under her breath. Then she smiled. Just a flicker. Small. Private. Not the kind she wore for teachers or classmates or even him.

Just a soft, fleeting sort of peace. Like the kind you don’t know you’re allowed to have.

It made something tighten in his chest.

He stepped forward before he thought better of it.

“Writing something?” His voice was quiet, low enough not to startle — but she still jumped.

“God—Damian.” Her hand flew to her chest. “You scared me.”

He tilted his head. “Didn’t mean to.”

She let out a breath, half-laughing now, pressing a hand to her heart. “You seriously walk like an assassin. It’s not normal. You should come with a bell or something.”

His lips twitched. “Noted.”

She shut the notebook quickly, a little too quickly. “It’s nothing. Just... nothing.”

He didn’t press. Just sank down beside her on the bench. Not too close. But not far.

Silence settled, broken only by the distant sound of gravel under bike tires, the rattle of a skateboard somewhere across the lot.

He stared straight ahead for a beat.

Then—slowly, deliberately—he shifted his hand across the space between them. Not all at once. Just enough to close the distance inch by inch.

And then his pinky brushed hers.

Barely a touch. The lightest contact. A whisper of warmth where skin met skin.

She didn’t move.

He let it stay.

His pulse ticked sharp and fast at the base of his throat, but he didn’t show it. Just kept his eyes forward, muscles still, hand anchored there like he might scare her off if he breathed too loud.

It was stupid, maybe — how small the gesture was. How much it felt like a cliff.

He hadn’t meant to touch her, not exactly. Not like this. But the space between them had felt too quiet. Too wide. And maybe he just… didn’t want her to feel that anymore.

Not because of him.

“You can sit closer if you want,” she said softly, not looking at him.

He glanced sideways. She wasn’t teasing. She wasn’t coaxing him, either. Just offering. Gently. The way she always did — like she wasn’t asking for anything, but still hoping he might give it.

After a second, she shifted. Just a little. Just enough for their shoulders to brush — faint, steady contact.

It felt… grounding.

He kept his eyes on the horizon. On the edge of the path winding past the trees. But his voice, when it came, was low.

“I didn’t mind,” he said. “When you held onto me.”

She didn’t say anything at first.

Then, quietly, “Then what were you scared of?”

He didn’t answer.

He didn’t have one that would make sense. Not one he was ready to say.

But he curled his pinky, slow and deliberate, and gently hooked it around hers.

Not a full handhold. Not a statement.

But something.

And she didn’t pull away.

The warmth of her skin lingered against his like a quiet promise — a tether he hadn’t known he’d wanted to keep.

They sat like that for a long moment. Not speaking. Not needing to.

Then she stood — slowly — her backpack slipping off one shoulder as she glanced back at him with a small, uncertain smile.

“You, uh… want to walk home again?”

He nodded.

Quiet. Steady.

Like he’d already made the decision hours ago.

Of course he did.

They walked side by side, not touching — but closer than they’d been before. Like the space between them didn’t need filling now. Just holding.

“You ever think about how weird sidewalks are?” she asked suddenly, toeing the edge of a crack in the pavement.

Damian gave her a sidelong glance. “Is this a metaphor?”

She shrugged. “Maybe. Or maybe my brain’s just loud tonight.”

He considered her for a second, then said — honestly — “Someone did have to plan them. Every square. Every seam.”

She looked at him, eyes wide with delighted surprise. “Exactly! And now we just walk around like they showed up by accident.”

He huffed — not quite a laugh, but almost. “You notice strange things.”

“I’m very observant,” she replied, mock-serious. “Didn’t you know that?”

“I’m starting to.”

The rest of the walk passed quietly, the kind of silence that didn’t feel heavy anymore.

And when they reached her stoop, she turned to him, pulling one strap of her bag higher.

“Thanks for walking me.”

“You shouldn’t walk alone.”

“I know.” She looked down at her boots, then added, quieter, “But it’s nicer with you anyway.”

He didn’t answer with words.

Just a soft nod. The kind that meant I heard you. Even if I can’t say it back yet.

She smiled, that small, secret smile again.

And slipped inside.

Chapter Text

Damian stood by the tall manor window, a mug of still-steaming black tea cradled in one hand. He hadn’t taken a sip in minutes. Instead, he watched the spring light shift across the grounds—long shadows stretching over the damp grass, gilding the tops of the hedges. His reflection stared back faintly in the glass, blurred by the afternoon haze.

It wasn’t unusual for him to be quiet after patrol or study sessions or even family dinners. But today’s silence had a different texture. It was less armor, more pause. Less tension, more thought.

Tim passed through the kitchen, clocking Damian’s expression—or lack of one—and arched an eyebrow. “Someone’s in a good mood. Did you get a new katana or something?”

“Shut up, Drake.”

Dick leaned his elbows on the counter, chin in his hand like a bored cat. “Let me guess. Your little study buddy?”

Damian’s ears turned the barest shade pink.

“I didn’t say anything,” Dick added, hands raised in mock surrender. “Just… noticing a shift in the air. You used to ‘tolerate’ her. Now you’re walking her home and bringing her flowers. That’s a pretty big leap from mild disdain.”

“I will break your fingers.”

“No, you won’t,” Jason called as he wandered through the hall, lazily tossing an apple in the air. “You’re too far gone, little brother. She’s got you. It’s disgusting. But also… kinda sweet. Like watching a knife learn how to love.”

“I do not—”

“You got her flowers?” Tim interrupted, wide-eyed. “That’s it. He’s doomed.”

“I hate all of you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Jason grinned. “Go brood about it in your room, Romeo.” 

“I think it’s cute,” Dick added, ignoring Damian’s death glare. “She’s good for you. Sunshine girl. Makes you a little less… murder-y.”

Damian didn’t rise to the bait. Just sipped his tea at last—this time actually tasting it—and turned without another word, heading upstairs as his brothers snickered behind him.

He ignored them.

Mostly.

Her birthday was Saturday.

He wouldn’t have known if he hadn’t run a background check after their first study session. A precaution. Standard procedure. She had nothing to hide.

But now he did.

March 18th. He remembered the date. Memorized it, actually.

And he’d been sitting on this question for a week.

He had the envelope tucked inside his textbook—two tickets to a musical at the Gotham Center for the Performing Arts. Front balcony. Not a showy spectacle, but a meaningful one. A story with music. Characters who sang about things they didn’t know how to say.

He wasn’t good at this part.

He could scale buildings, outfight trained assassins, sneak across rooftops in pitch-black rain—but he didn’t know how to give a girl a birthday present without looking like he was going into battle.

Still, he brought the envelope with him the next afternoon.

They were reviewing chemistry formulas, bent over the same table in their usual quiet corner of the library. She smelled faintly like lavender and pencil shavings, her sleeve just brushing his every now and then when she shifted.

He didn’t look at her.

He hadn’t looked at her in the last ten minutes, actually. Not directly. It made it harder to focus. The envelope tucked inside his book felt heavier than it should’ve. Every few pages, his hand brushed it, like some part of him needed to be sure it was still there.

Just give it to her, he told himself. Say it. Ask her.

He could disarm explosives. He could speak six languages. He could lie to a room full of killers and walk out alive.

But this felt different.

Vulnerable. Like placing something sharp and delicate into her hands and hoping she wouldn’t flinch.

“There’s something I wanted to ask you,” he said, finally.

His voice was lower than usual. Not unsure. Just… careful. Contained.

She glanced up. “Okay.”

“Saturday,” he said. “I’d like to take you somewhere.”

She blinked. “Somewhere?”

He slid the envelope across the table, his fingers brushing the edge of it a second too long before letting go.

“This.”

He kept his expression neutral, calm, unreadable—but his pulse flickered at the base of his throat.

She opened it slowly. Her eyes widened. Her fingers hovered like she was afraid to smudge the ink.

“Wait. This is… are these real?”

“Yes.”

She looked at him, eyes wide with a kind of wonder that made his stomach twist. Like she didn’t quite believe it.

“Damian, this is… this is a musical. At the Gotham Center.”

“I know.”

“That’s so not your kind of thing.”

“I know.”

He didn’t elaborate. Couldn’t. His throat was suddenly too tight.

“Why?”

“It’s your birthday,” he said, simply.

Her eyes widened again, just a flicker. And he felt it like a hit to the ribs.

“You remembered my birthday?”

“I’m not an idiot,” he replied quickly, flatly—deflecting, because the pounding in his chest was picking up again.

But she smiled—soft, startled, like he’d said something unexpected and kind. She bit the inside of her cheek, trying to hide it, but it showed anyway.

“You really didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to.”

And he meant it. Even if saying it out loud made him feel oddly bare.

She stared at him for a second longer, then down at the tickets again. He hated how long the pause felt. Hated that he cared so much what she’d say next.

He cleared his throat. “You don’t have to come if you don’t want to. It’s formal. You’d have to wear something… appropriate.”

“I want to.”

She said it too quickly. Then softened. “I mean—yes. I’d love to.”

Relief pulled at something in his chest, quiet and unexpected. He looked down at the formulas again, as if they might steady him.

He felt more exposed sliding that envelope across the table than he had on any rooftop

✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦

Damian stood waiting in a black button-up and pressed coat, holding a small, carefully wrapped box. Not extravagant. But chosen with care. She met him outside her building just before sunset, a nervous flutter in her smile as she stepped onto the stoop.

She opened the door just as he stepped up onto the stoop, her expression flickering between excitement and uncertainty, like she wasn’t sure this counted as a date, or if she was allowed to hope it did.

Damian held out a small box.

Nothing grand. Just wrapped in folded parchment and tied with deep green thread, neat as any field dressing. His fingers hesitated around it for a second before letting go.

“This is for you.”

She blinked. “What—? Damian, you already—”

“It’s not much,” he interrupted, tone too quick, too practiced. “But I thought it suited you.”

He hated how tight his throat felt. How aware he was of the way her eyes moved over his face. This was worse than rooftop recon. Worse than deactivating a bomb. At least those things had instructions. At least they didn’t involve handing over something delicate and saying: I thought of you.

She took the box gently, as if even the wrapping might bruise.

When she untied the thread and lifted the lid, her breath caught.

Nestled inside was a thin silver necklace. A single charm in the center—simple, small. A music note.

It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t anything loud.

But it looked like something she might tuck inside a diary. Like something she’d hum under her breath and never explain.

“Oh…”

She didn’t say anything else right away. Her fingers hovered above it like she didn’t trust herself to touch it just yet.

Damian shifted, suddenly wishing he’d brought something different. Less personal. Less telling. His palms felt too warm in his coat pockets.

She finally looked up. Her voice was quieter. “You picked this out?”

He nodded once. “I… remembered you humming. In the library. That song. You do it when you’re concentrating.”

Her face went still.

Then: “I didn’t think anyone noticed that.”

“I notice,” he said, almost without meaning to. Then flinched inwardly. Too much.

She swallowed. Her smile came slowly, but it was real. And a little wobbly around the edges. “Will you help me put it on?”

He exhaled through his nose. Nodded.

She turned around, pulling her curls aside with one hand and baring the curve of her neck to him. The gesture wasn’t flirtatious. It was trusting. Vulnerable in a way that made him forget how to move.

His fingers fumbled slightly at the clasp. Not visibly, but enough for him to feel it. Her skin was warm. His pulse ticked loudly in his ears.

The necklace settled into place just below her collarbone, the charm catching the low light.

She turned back around slowly, her hand brushing the silver like she didn’t quite believe it was real.

“Thank you,” she said at last. “This is… it’s beautiful.”

Damian swallowed hard. Couldn’t quite meet her eyes.

She looked at him a moment longer. Like she wanted to say more. But didn’t.

So instead, she reached for the box again, smoothing the parchment carefully, like it mattered just as much.

Like the whole thing—paper, thread, charm—meant more than he’d meant to give away.

The streetlamp above caught in her hair and on the soft navy blue lace of her dress.

It was simple, but beautiful. The bodice hugged close, ruched just beneath the bust, with delicate lace straps that framed her shoulders like something out of a painting. The skirt flared slightly, catching the breeze with a whisper, short but not showy. Her hair was twisted back in a half-up knot, loose curls framing her face, and she clutched a scuffed bag at her side like it was armor.

The neckline dipped in a way that made Damian’s breath catch—but not because it was revealing. Because it was hers . Because she wore it like she wasn’t used to being looked at like that. Because she kept adjusting the strap on her shoulder like she wasn’t sure if she belonged in something this nice.

But she did.

He couldn't stop staring.

“You look…” He faltered. Then settled for, “Nice.”

“Thank you,” she said, eyes lowering, one thumb skimming the edge of the strap. “I, um… I don’t have anything fancy. I know it’s probably not like what other girls wear to these kinds of things—”

“You don’t need to keep up with anyone,” he said quietly, and there was something in his voice that made her glance up again. “Just come with me.”

She swallowed. Nodded once.

The walk downtown was quiet. Gotham glimmered in layers around them—smokestacks and spires rising behind old brick buildings, the streets glossy with fresh rain. They didn’t talk much, but the space between them didn’t feel tense. It felt expectant. Waiting.

The Center rose ahead like something out of a forgotten novel: ornate and glowing, all marble arches and golden lanterns. Inside, the world transformed—plush velvet, gilded trim, ceilings painted with stories she couldn’t name.

Her breath caught. “I’ve never been anywhere like this.”

Damian’s lips twitched, just barely. “I thought you might like it.”

She clutched his arm without thinking, just a brief press, her eyes sweeping across the chandeliers above. “It’s beautiful.”

He blinked. That touch again—casual for her, jarring for him. But he didn’t flinch. Not this time.

The lights dimmed. The curtain rose. And her expression lit up brighter than the stage.

She was radiant through the entire show—leaning forward slightly, fingers curled around the edge of her seat, humming quietly under her breath when the melody swelled. It wasn’t loud, but Damian heard it. He always heard her.

It was his favorite part.

More than the set design. More than the costumes or the finale or the encore. It was her.

Afterward, beneath the warm sweep of the lobby lights, she looked dazed—in a good way. Dreamy. Lit from the inside out.

“Did you like it?” he asked, his voice unusually gentle.

She turned to him with a look so sincere it made his chest ache. “I loved it.”

Outside, the night had settled into that hush between spring and full bloom. Warm wind, rain-slick pavement, the buzz of streetlights high above. She walked closer now—not touching, but close enough to feel her presence in every step.

Her hand brushed his once. She didn’t take it. Just let it rest there for a moment before drawing back again.

He let her.

She glanced at him sidelong. “You didn’t have to do all this.”

“I know,” he said. “I wanted to.”

Her fingers brushed the necklace he’d given her—a tiny silver note on a delicate chain, as if the tickets hadn’t been enough. She hadn’t taken it off.

They walked in silence again. But this one was full, not awkward, not hesitant. Just full of unsaid things. Potential. A rhythm neither of them was quite ready to name.

By the time they reached her building, the city had quieted. Only the hum of traffic and the faint buzz of neon signs filled the air.

She stopped by the stairwell, rocking slightly on her heels. Her fingers curled into the fabric of her dress for a moment, like she didn’t know what to do with her hands.

“Thank you,” she said again, softer this time. “This was… the best birthday I’ve ever had.”

Damian looked at her. Really looked.

Not just the way her hair curled from the breeze, or the way her dress shimmered faintly in the light, or even the way her voice wavered when she meant something. But her . The whole of her. This girl who laughed too easily, worried about sidewalk cracks and noticed things no one else did.

This girl who had taken up more space in his mind than he ever meant to give.

He didn’t smile—not quite. But his eyes softened. The tension in his shoulders eased. “You’re welcome,” he said, quiet but steady.

A pause.

She stepped forward, slow and uncertain, like she didn’t know if she was allowed. Her heart was hammering. And for one dizzy second, she thought maybe he’d meet her halfway.

But he didn’t move.

So she did.

She wrapped her arms around him, light, quick, almost unsure of herself. Her chin tucked near his collarbone. Not tight. Not long. Just a soft, brief squeeze. Like she was testing the space between them, and hoping it wouldn’t break.

Damian froze.

Completely, at first.

His arms stayed stiff at his sides for half a beat too long. She could feel how unpracticed he was in this—how still, how stunned. Her stomach twisted with doubt. Almost ready to pull back again.

But then, quietly, he exhaled.

And his hands—careful, deliberate—lifted to rest against her back. Not pulling her close. Just resting there. One palm between her shoulder blades, the other just barely touching the curve of her spine. Gentle. Awkward. Real.

It wasn’t a perfect hug.

But it mattered.

When she stepped back, she was smiling. Her eyes shimmered in the light from something . Whatever lived in the quiet space between too much and not enough.

She ducked her head, voice barely above a whisper. “Goodnight, Damian.”

He held her gaze for a moment longer than necessary.

Then nodded once, slowly. “Goodnight.”

The chain caught in the light again, a soft glint between them.

His gift. Her heartbeat . Tangled.

She turned and slipped inside. The old door clicked softly shut behind her.

Damian stood there a while, staring after the spot where she’d been. The ghost of her arms still clung faintly to the edges of his jacket. He didn’t quite know what to do with the feeling. But he didn’t want to lose it, either.

When he finally turned and started walking, his steps felt different.

Lighter.

And somewhere between the shadows and the spring breeze, he realized—

He was smiling.

Just barely.

But it stayed