The manor was quieter than usual, the kind of hush that came after a long day of patrols and lectures from Bruce. You found Damian in the library, curled in one of the high-backed chairs with a book balanced neatly on his knees, his posture sharp and precise even at rest.

He didn’t look up at first when you entered, though you could feel the way his attention shifted, like he’d catalogued your footsteps before you even spoke.

You hovered near the door for a moment, the words you’d been carrying for days pressing heavy on your chest. Telling anyone else felt… impossible. Alfred, maybe, would’ve been gentle. Dick would’ve smiled and wrapped you in one of his suffocating hugs. But Damian, Damian was different. He didn’t tolerate nonsense, but he never let you face things alone either.

So you crossed the room and dropped onto the chair across from him, heart pounding.

“Damian.” you began, the word catching in your throat.

That was enough to make him glance up. His green eyes flicked over you, narrowing ever so slightly at your uncharacteristic hesitation. He set his book down, fingers marking the page.

Damian: “You look like you’ve swallowed a knife.” he said dryly. “Im busy, so out with it.”