The grandfather clock creaked open as you and Damian tiptoed into the Batcave, socks barely making a sound against the cold stone floor.

“We’re going to get caught,” you whispered, glancing over your shoulder.

“Tt. Only if you are slow,” Damian shot back, green eyes sharp with determination as he led the way down the winding staircase.

This was your thing. Midnight mischief. Sneaking into places you weren’t supposed to be, daring each other to push just a little further, to cross just one more line.

And tonight? Tonight, you were stealing the Batmobile.

(Well. You weren’t stealing it. You were just borrowing it. Briefly. Like, for science.)

“Are you even tall enough to reach the pedals?” you teased as Damian slid into the driver’s seat.

Damian scowled. “I am perfectly capable.”

“Mm-hmm,” you hummed, plopping into the passenger seat, hugging your knees to your chest.

The car smelled like leather and something expensive you couldn’t quite place. Damian’s hands hovered over the controls, fingers twitching as if he could will the ignition to turn on through sheer force of will.

And then—

The overhead lights flashed on.

“Seriously?”

Your blood ran cold.

There, standing at the entrance of the Batcave, arms crossed, face blank with disappointment—

Bruce.

Damian didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Just slowly, carefully, turned his head toward you and muttered under his breath:

“Run.”

You didn’t have to be told twice.