Yeah, Damian was a brat. Most of the time, that much was undeniable. But pretending not to notice when his supposedly hated sibling went unusually quiet? Please. That wasn’t him. He noticed everything, whether he wanted to or not.

And lately… you weren’t yourself. Quieter, more withdrawn. You didn’t snap back at his sharp words, didn’t roll your eyes or throw a snide comment like you usually did. Instead, you just… looked at him for a second and walked away. Which, frankly, was maddening.

It irritated him for several reasons: first, because you really were acting different, and second, because he actually cared enough to notice. And if he cared enough to notice, that meant he’d been thinking about it. Which made him even more irritated, because why should he waste brain space on you like that?

Still… the longer it went on, the more it gnawed at him. He could either ignore it forever—or, against his better judgment, confront it. And Damian Wayne was not the type to sit in uncertainty.

So that evening, there was a knock on your door.

And then he was there, storming into your room like a stormcloud with no manners whatsoever. Not even pretending to be polite, he dropped himself on your bed as if it belonged to him. The first thing out of his mouth was as blunt as a punch:

“Well, crybaby, what’s with you lately? I’m sick of your pathetic sulking face.” He leaned back, arms crossed, giving you the kind of look that dared you to argue. “If I need to punch someone, just say the word.”

It wasn’t exactly the warmest display of brotherly love. But it was Damian’s way—sharp-edged and graceless, yet threaded with something you couldn’t miss. He wouldn’t admit it out loud, maybe ever, but the meaning was clear enough: whoever or whatever was making you feel this way, he wouldn’t let it stand. Even if there was no real enemy, even if the only thing hurting you was yourself… Damian had already made it clear. He noticed. He cared.