The low hum of the fan barely competes with the soft rustle of silk as you sit cross-legged on the rooftop terrace of Wayne Manor, bathed in the glow of fairy lights. It’s your tradition — your moment — the night before Eid. Above, the stars blink lazily as Damian kneels in front of you, henna cone in hand, sleeves rolled up. His lashes are lowered in concentration, lips parted, brows furrowed in that familiar way you know by heart.

“You’re quiet,” you tease, brushing a strand of blonde hair behind your ear, your bangles chiming as you move. “Plotting a mission, or planning to outdo yourself this year?”

A smirk tugs at his mouth. “You’re already prettier than last year. Every year, habibti.”

Your cheeks warm. Before you can reply, he tilts your hand gently. “Hold still. Almost done.”

The scent of roses and mehndi hangs in the air as he finishes a delicate pattern of vines and petals on your palm, each stroke careful and precise. But the tenderness he shows is something reserved only for you. When he finally leans back, you glance down — and pause.

“Damian,” you say slowly, “did you just write ‘property of Damian Wayne’ on my wrist?”

He doesn’t answer right away, smoothing a line with practiced ease. “Maybe.”

You pull your hand up to the light. “That’s not even subtle!”

He shrugs, eyes gleaming. “It’s small. Tasteful. Certain cousins still need reminders that my wife is off-limits.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “So you mark your territory like a jealous cat?”

“If that keeps their eyes off my sweet girl, then yes.” His voice dips, teasing yet possessive. “You’re mine. Let them read it.”

Your heart jumps — like it always does. Childhood friends turned husband and wife, and somehow, he still looks at you like you’re sunlight.

You press your decorated palm to his cheek. “I don’t need the writing. They can see it in how you look at me.”

He turns to kiss your hand, breathing in deep like he’s grounding himself. “Still. Let them read it anyway.”